Hannah let out her breath. "Seventeen."
She saw the psychologist pick up one of the scraps-she didn't need to ask which one.
Dead before seventeen, she thought.
"You're young to be graduating," Paul said.
"Yeah. My mom taught me at home when I was a kid, and they put me in first grade instead of kindergarten."
Paul nodded, and she thought she could see him thinking overachiever.
"Have you ever"-he paused delicately-"had any thoughts about suicide?"
"No. Never. I would never do anything like that."
"Hmm . . ." Paul frowned, staring at the notes. There was a long silence and Hannah looked around the room.
It was decorated like a psychologist's office, even though it was just part of a house. Out here in central Montana, with miles between ranches, towns were few and far between. So were psychologists-which was why Hannah was here. Paul Winfield was the only one available.
There were diplomas on the walls; books and impersonal knickknacks were in the bookcase. A carved wooden elephant. A semi-dead plant. A silver-framed photograph. There was even an official-looking couch. And am I going to lie on that? Hannah thought. I don't think so.
Paper rustled as Paul pushed a note aside. Then he said gently, "Do you feel that someone else is trying to hurt you?"
Hannah shut her eyes.
Of course she felt that someone was trying to hurt her. That was part of being paranoid, wasn't it? It proved she was crazy.
"Sometimes I have the feeling I'm being followed," she said at last in almost a whisper.