In Dr. Sanderson’s office, the one lamp cast a soft glow on our faces as the three of us sat in a circle on leather easy chairs. Between sobs, I stammered out the story of my twenty-four hours on the run. As I talked, I read terror in Marv’s eyes. What had I done to him? What could I do to fix it? What could I do to fix me? After an eternity-long pause, I said, “I know I can’t go home. Not yet.” I leaned over my lap, put my head in my hands, and wept again. I looked up. “I don’t know where to go… we have no family around. My friends would never understand…. ”
There was a long silence.
“Do you think you should go to a hospital?” Dr. Sanderson asked in that caring tone he’d used often.
Hospital! Why would I go to the hospital just because I was feeling hemmed in at home? Hospitals were for sick people. I was not sick.