He holds up like a champ, but Dr Ambrose looks worse and worse as our session wears on. By halfway, he's squeezing his armrests and a sickly flush darkens his cheeks.
"Nope," I announce, slapping my palms down on my thighs. "No, sorry. We tried to do this, Dr Ambrose, but it's like watching a man be tortured. You're not well."
"It's just a headache," he grits out, but it's not convincing when both thumbs are digging into his eye sockets. "We can finish the session, at least. You're my last appointment for today."
Appointment.
I always feel weird when he says things like that. It's a reminder that he's paid to put up with me.
"Wait there." I drag my backpack onto my lap, rummaging in the depths. Books and pens and cereal bars and tins of breath mints brush against my knuckles, but I fi
