The fourth therapist asked her to start from the beginning.
Dana had gotten good at it—the summary version, three minutes, hitting the beats that moved intake forms forward. The car accident. The nerve damage. The marriage, then the end of it. She could tell it like a weather report now, which her second therapist had called a coping mechanism and her third had called progress.
She started from the beginning.
But the beginning kept moving. The first time, it had been the accident. Then the surgeon suggested it was the anxiety she’d had before the accident, which the accident merely uncovered. The second therapist suggested the anxiety was about the marriage, which was about her mother. So the beginning migrated backward through her life like a cursor someone kept dragging left, and each new office meant a new starting point, chosen by someone who hadn’t heard the story yet and needed it to fit their particular form.
The fourth therapist listened well. Took notes. Asked the right follow-up questions. Dana could tell she was good—the kind who would have helped, if helping didn’t require the first four sessions to be excavation.
By session five, they’d be ready to begin.
By session five, the insurance would be under review.