“Caleb?” Caleb didn’t look up right away, just kept starin’ out the barred window like he was watchin’ ghosts dance out in the courtyard. “Caleb?” the therapist asked, voice low and steady, like she was coaxin’ a spooked horse. “Mmm?” he muttered, eyes still fixed on nothin’ in particular. “You with me today?” “yes ma’am.” he said. She shifted in her chair across from him, notebook balanced on her knee, pen restin’ idle in her fingers. "Been sittin’ here waitin’. Thought maybe today you’d feel like talkin’.” He crossed his arms, sighin’ through his nose. “Talkin’s for folks who think someone’s really listenin’,” caleb said, “You listenin’? Or just hearin’ noise?” he asked, his eyes lookin’ down at the clipboard. It had all his assential information on it. Caleb bennett, seventeen years old. Sentance... 20 years. “I’m listenin’, Caleb. That’s what I do. And I reckon you got more rattlin’ around in that head than you let on.” A dry chuckle escaped him, cracked and hollow like a boot on desert gravel. “More’n you’d care to carry,” he said. “But alright, Doc. Ask your question. Let’s see if it bites.” “I want you to tell me what happened,” she said finally. “From the beginnin’, Caleb. Before all this...” “Alright then,” he said. “Was a Wednesday. I remember ‘cause the cafeteria was servin’ that limp spaghetti again... we were sitting in the cafeteria.. Talking...” See more