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or two.” I shrug.
                  Doctor Eddington chuckles. “What career paths are you considering?”
                  “I’m considering taking after my dad. Maybe starting my own meth-cooking business and migrating to Mexico.”
                  She cocks a thin eyebrow. “Would you like to talk about your father?”
                  I exhale. “No.” I squint at the far wall. “How about we talk about a girl I saw today at school.”
                  My therapist leans forward intently. “Yes?”
                  “She was with this surfer dude, dressed in the kind of rags I used to wear. And she had this bruise along her jaw,” I indicate the spot with my finger on my own face. “Looked like she had been punched pretty hard.”
                  Eddington purses her red-stained lips and asks, “Surfer dude?”
                  “Yeah. I grew up in San Diego. I saw his type every day. Sun-bleached, wavy hair, orange tan year round…”
                  “Ah, I see.” She smiles and writes something else down. “What about this girl drew your attention? Was it the bruise, or something she did?”
                  “Well, I almost ran into the surfer before I noticed her. The bruise is what initially drew my attention. But as I was walking down the hall I heard her crying, and when I turned, she was sobbing in a fetal position on the floor. The guy with her didn’t seem to know what to do. I heard him talk to someone on the phone about ‘medication’ and a ‘breakdown,’ or something, before my aides dragged me away.”
                  “How did you feel when you saw this? Angry? Sympathetic? Confused?”
                  “I felt anger for whoever traumatized her. I still want to do… unspeakable things to the man responsible.” Why did I admit that out loud?
                  “Why is that? You don’t even know the girl. The bruise could have resulted from an accident. She could have been crying about something completely unrelated.”
                  I roll my eyes. “No, no, no. I saw the bruise up close. I saw the knuckle marks. No way was that an accident. Her home life probably isn’t perfect. Her dad likely gave her that bruise.” Just the thought of someone hurting that poor girl, stranger or not, is making my blood boil.
                  “Juan, you’re projecting your past situation onto a girl you know nothing about.”
                  I glower at the therapist. “Right. Ignore the evidence. This is all about me , now.”
                  She clucks her tongue. “During these sessions, everything is about you.” She glances at her wristwatch. “How are you feeling physically? Any back pain? Joint pain? Headaches? Nausea?”
                  “No.” I sit up and slide off the couch. “We’re done here.”
    ***

CHAPTER 3 – Kandi
    The Gift
     
                  Dec. 23, 2016
                                Cleaning is one of the most effective methods I use to keep my mind occupied. When I am scrubbing every nook and cranny in the kitchen, all I think about is what type of chemical to use in the particular spot I am scouring. It's nice – therapeutic. I wish I was able to do this more often without interruptions.
                  The dishes are clean and put away, the walls no longer stink of burnt tar and sweat, and the floor is swept and mopped. Despite its inevitably dumpy appearance, at least it looks like I put some effort into making it look nice. There is nothing I can do about the peeling wallpaper and the cracked, yellowed tiles on the floor and counter top.
                  My uncle is stressed because a man from Youth Services is doing his semiannual visit to our house this afternoon to make sure I am