A soft knock echoes through my office. I lean back in my desk chair and rub a hand over my jaw, my trimmed beard bristling under my palm.
Gardenia's been coming to me for several weeks now, and though I quickly learned to recognize her knock, I still find it jarring. She's so vibrant, so bright and bubbly and alive, and yet her knock is downright timid.
It's yet another unanswered question about her. No other patient has ever driven to distraction with wondering like she does.
"Come in, Gardenia."
She nudges the door open and pokes her head through the gap. Her green eyes are mischievous as she scans my small office, surveying the couch and chair, the bookcase, the potted plant on the windowsill.
This is another part of her routine. I'm not sure what she thinks might be different each
