He arrived at five past nine.
Dr. Kim heard him before she saw him—the specific quality of footsteps in the corridor outside her office that she had learned, over three years of Friday therapy sessions, to read the way you read weather. Some days the footsteps were heavy, the specific weight of a man carrying something that had accumulated since the last session. Some days they were careful, measured, the particular caution of someone managing themselves through a difficult transit.
Today they were different.
She looked up from her notes when the door opened.
