I was standing over him with a knife, I say, nearly crying at the fresh memory.

I need help. I need help.

What were you going to do with the knife? The man asks. His name is Castillo, and he's a doctor,

a head doctor. I don't know what I was going to do, okay? I tell him.

I don't know.

But I do know.

I just can't bring myself to say it.

Castillo looks at me as if he knows I'm lying.

Then he smiles thinly.

Why don't you tell me about it from the beginning?

He says.

You don't need to worry about me judging you. That's not what I'm here for.

But if I'm to help you, I need to hear the whole story.

I look around Castillo's office.

I've never been to a shrink before, but I've seen them in movies.

And their offices always look like this, dark, muted colors, bookshelves lined with books,

a comfortable leather chair for the patient and another chair, this one higher for some

reason, for the doctor to sit in.

I look back at Castillo, who has a calm look on his face. His black beard is

bushy, and the black hair at his temples has streaks of gray in it. His green eyes stare out of

a knowing and friendly face. He doesn't have glasses, but every time I look away, I imagine he does.

It seems like he should.

...