(AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN…) GETTING HELP II

Taylor hadn’t expected the PRT to move quickly. Government agencies were not known for speed or flexibility, at least not in her experience, but the moment her dad informed them she was willing to meet with their psychologist, everything began moving at a pace that left her slightly unnerved. By Monday evening they had already called with an appointment time, and by Tuesday morning she found herself walking through the spotless lobby of the PRT Headquarters Downtown, gripping the strap of her backpack as though the familiar pressure might keep her calm.

Her dad had dropped her off at the curb and promised to be back in an hour. She hadn’t missed the relief in his voice, or the fragile hope that had accompanied it. He wanted her to do this, perhaps even needed her to, and the knowledge left her feeling guilt at the back of her mind for not agreeing sooner.

A uniformed PRT officer met her in the lobby and guided her through a secured hallway. The floor beneath her shoes was so polished it reflected the overhead lights, and the doors they passed bore plaques with titles she barely registered. Eventually the officer stopped beside a small meeting room and opened the door for her. Taylor stepped inside, already bracing for more polish, only to find something entirely different.

Warm lighting filled the space, softening the corners and chasing away the institutional chill she had expected. Two cushioned chairs faced each other near a wide window that overlooked the bay, and a small table between them held a pitcher of water, a neatly stacked row of paper cups, and some files. It felt more like the office of a school counselor than the interior of a government facility.

Jessica Yamada was already standing near one of the chairs. Her presence was calm in a way Taylor couldn’t quite describe, as though she carried a piece of tranquility with her and shared it freely with anyone who approached.

“Taylor Hebert?” she asked, offering a gentle smile as she extended her hand.

“Yes,” Taylor replied, shaking it. Jessica’s grip was warm, grounding, and entirely nonthreatening. “Um. Hi.”

“Thank you for coming in today,” Jessica said, motioning toward the seats. “I know it isn’t always easy to start something like this, so please take your time. There is no pressure here.”

Taylor sat down and set her backpack at her feet. She clasped her hands in her lap, trying not to let her nervous fidgeting show. She didn’t know what she expected walking in—maybe someone stern or analytical, someone who scrutinized every word that left her mouth—but Jessica did not seem like that. The woman held herself with a kind of patient openness that made it surprisingly easy to be in her presence.

They began with simpler things. Jessica asked about school, whether Taylor felt safe there, and how she was adjusting after everything that had happened with Sophia. The questions were ones Taylor could answer without tripping over the truth, and she spoke slowly, unsure at first, but gradually finding her voice as Jessica listened without interruption. She nodded at the right moments, her expression reflecting understanding rather than judgment, and when she asked follow-up questions they felt more like gentle encouragement than interrogation.

As the conversation continued, Taylor found herself revealing more than she had expected to. She talked about the uneasy feeling that followed her through the day, the sense that something terrible was just around the corner. She admitted she woke each morning bracing for disaster. And then she spoke about death, about how she no longer reacted to the idea of death the way she should, how it had begun to feel distant, almost insubstantial.

That admission drew a shift in Jessica’s expression. It wasn’t an alarmed one, nor anything close to it, but a focused attention, as though she was listening more carefully now.

“Can you tell me more about that?” Jessica asked. “What makes death feel less significant to you?”

Taylor swallowed, the room suddenly feeling a little too small. She dropped her gaze to her hands and rubbed her thumb over the seam of her sleeve.

“I just… don’t think about it the same way,” she said, choosing each word with painful care. “It doesn’t scare me. Not like it should.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Taylor hesitated, mouth going dry. She couldn’t talk about the locker, or the fall from the bridge, or the dozens of other moments where her life had ended only to begin again. She didn’t know what saying those things aloud might trigger, whether the loop would punish her, or whether the PRT would hear those words and see her as something unstable and potentially dangerous.

So she shook her head slowly.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on the window. “I just… don’t.”

Jessica didn’t push. She eased back in her chair, allowing the tension in the room to settle before guiding them in another direction entirely.

“Your father mentioned you’ve been making some positive changes lately,” she said. “Would you like to talk about those?”

The sudden shift caught Taylor off guard, but in a gentle way, like someone opening a window and letting fresh air inside. She nodded, almost without realizing she had, and began to talk about the shopping trip, the new clothes, the makeup, and the desire to take better care of herself and feel more in control of her life. Jessica’s interest felt genuine, her questions supportive rather than intrusive, encouraging Taylor to recognize her own progress rather than brushing it aside.

Before Taylor realized it, the hour had slipped by.

“Well,” Jessica said eventually, glancing at the clock with a look of mild regret, “our time today is almost up. You did very well, Taylor. Thank you for being so open with me. I hope this was helpful.”

It had been. Far more than Taylor had anticipated.

“Yeah,” she said softly, rising to her feet. “It… it was good. Thank you.”

“My door is always open,” Jessica replied, walking her toward the door. “You are not alone in this, Taylor. We will go at whatever pace feels right for you.”

Taylor stepped out into the hallway and offered her a small, genuine smile, one of the first she had managed since her panic the day before. Then she started down the corridor, her backpack slung over one shoulder.

She had not said anything about the loop, or even at it. The core of her problem in her life remained unspoken and untouched. Yet somehow, despite that silence, something inside her had begun to ease. A knot she had barely been aware of, one that had grown tighter with each passing day, had started to loosen, if only a little.

It felt good.