to keep it however she likes, as long as she’s not endangering herself or others. If she were breeding cockroaches in the pantry or conducting mold experiments in the bathroom, confusion and even disgust would be warranted. She’s never done either of those things. She’s just kept everything clean enough to live up to its full potential. Shouldn’t that be rewarded?
The door slams behind her as she makes her way to the kitchen. Some of the groceries need to be put away before they start to defrost. Others need to be put away because groceries don’t belong on the counter. Once that’s done, she can get back to work, secure in the knowledge that she’s done her errands and interacted with humanity today. Her psychologist wants her to interact with humanity every day if she possibly can; he says her tendency to self-isolate isn’t healthy and will only improve if she makes an effort.
Dodger Cheswich, self-help guru of the modern nerd, seeking help with her own self. It would be comic, if it weren’t so frustrating.
She’s expecting stillness, calm, and cleanness when she reaches the kitchen. She’s also expecting darkness: the house stays cooler if she keeps the shades drawn when she’s not home. Opening the shades would be too difficult with the groceries she’s carrying, and so she goes for the easier, more ecologically wasteful option, flicking on the kitchen lights. The energy-efficient bulbs spring to life, illuminating the kitchen and dining area. Which is clean, yes, clean enough that virtually every surface is safe to eat off of, and still, yes. But it isn’t empty.
Her psychologist, Dr. Peters, is sitting at her dining room table. He has a gun in his hand. The gun is pointed at her.
The strangeness of this tableau causes Dodger to freeze, expression shifting to one of profound puzzlement. Dr. Peters says nothing. For a long moment, neither does she. Then, in a politely baffled voice, she asks, “Is this a new therapy technique? Did I approve this when I signed the new insurance paperwork last week? Because I don’t think I like it.” She didn’t approve this, she knows that much. Dodger may not be a recreational reader, but she’s never signed anything she didn’t understand. For someone in her line of work, that would be tantamount to career suicide.
“Put the bags down, Miss Cheswich,” says Dr. Peters. “I don’t want to upset you any more than I have to.”
“I don’t see the connection between those two statements,” says Dodger, setting the bags on the counter. She keeps her purse. It’s a big brown leather bag, bought with the advance from her first book. It cost more than she liked to consider at the time, but she’d run the numbers, and knew this was the sort of purse she’d only need to purchase once: it would last her entire life, classic enough never to go out of style, sturdy enough to tolerate the abuse she heaped on her possessions. She’s had it for five years, and so far, it’s managed to keep its side of the unspoken bargain just fine.
“You don’t like making messes,” says Dr. Peters. He stands. The gun is still pointed at her. “I’m afraid we’re going to make a mess. That can’t be helped. At least this way you’ll know that your corpse was the only thing leaking on the floor.”
“Ah,” says Dodger. Inwardly, she’s raging and frozen at the same time, fear warring with fury for control. How dare he come into her home, her space, and threaten her this way? He’s her therapist, for God’s sake. He’s supposed to be one of the people she can trust. There are few enough of those in this world. How dare he? “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you planning to kill me? I don’t keep all my money in a lockbox under the mattress. There’s nothing here to steal. You’d make a lot more if you just kept being my therapist.”
“I’m afraid that’s none of your concern,” says Dr. Peters, and takes a step forward.
Dodger tilts her head.
The room is fifteen feet long and eleven feet wide, with eight-foot ceilings. Dr. Peters is six foot three inches tall, giving him a base stride of thirty-one inches. Momentum plus velocity plus kinetic absorption rate equals—
Dr. Peters steadies his gun. His hand tenses. Dodger moves. This is her space, her place, and all she needs to know is in the numbers. She grabs a can of chicken noodle soup