"My name's Elijah, by the way. It's nice to meet you, window-girl."
She liked that name: Elijah.
"I doubt you're even listening, but, look, I'm not here to cause problems, you know? I'm just here to chat. It can get lonely when we segregate ourselv...
"A service dog?" Liza croaked, staring through bleary, sleep-deprived eyes at Whitney.
The therapist's lips were drawn into the slightest frown, no doubt at the sight of Liza, with her greasy, tangled hair, dark circles under her eyes, and frantic glances around her room when even the smallest of sounds occurred.
"Liza," Whitney was using that stupid, overly-kind tone, like when one approached a scared animal or nervous child. "It is clear to me that you haven't been sleeping or eating well." Yeah, she looked like some kind of demented scarecrow, what with her gaunt cheeks and cracked lips. "To me, this indicates that you do not feel safe, even in your own home. Would you agree with that assessment?"
Liza looked away from the computer, her eyes drifting over blinds that hadn't been cracked open in weeks, before her gaze jumped to the door that led out of her bedroom, which she had only opened once in the last week. She'd gone down, grabbed her groceries—all nonperishable— and water bottles, brought everything into her room, and refused to leave.
In her room, she could see everything. There was no concern about someone hiding in the kitchen, or the garage, or the half-bathroom, or behind the couch, or in the pantry. In her room, there was only one entrance, and it was locked.
"I . . ." God, she hated when Whitney was right. Blinking back tears, she nodded. "Y-yeah, that's fair."
To her credit, Whitney never bragged or used the words "I told you so," even though the woman was usually right when it came to matters surrounding Liza's mental health.
"Would you be willing to complete an application, if I were to forward one to you? I have already spoken with someone—"
"You told someone about me?!" Liza practically screeched, her fingers itching to slam the laptop's lid. She couldn't handle anyone else knowing her story—everyone seemed to know, thanks to the goddamn media.
"They are required to know such information," Whitney was quick to soothe. "All information is confidential, and no one besides myself and him will be aware of this. I had to discuss your case with him, in order to shorten the waiting time before you receive a dog. This process usually takes a year or longer, but I don't believe you have that kind of time. A dog will help by giving you a support system that you can trust entirely."
"Trust entirely . . ." Liza echoed, her mind digesting that statement. People were scary, but she'd had a friend with a dog back in high school. It had been a golden retriever named Star, and she would always remember how sweet, patient, and loving that dog had been.
Her friend, who owned Star, had always joked, "At least Star won't judge me," right after doing something embarrassing, like tripping or choking on air.
"A dog won't judge," Liza mumbled, more to herself than to Whitney, though the doctor responded, "Exactly. Furthermore, they have dogs specially trained to work with those who suffer from PTSD and agoraphobia, as well as the associated panic attacks and compulsive picking." Ah, yes, just some of the many issues that Liza faced on a daily basis.
A creak sounded from the air conditioner above her head, and Liza jumped in her spot, sucking in a sharp breath as she peered up anxiously, convinced that, at any moment, something was going to fall out of the grate and harm her.
Maybe a person, maybe fire, maybe—
"Liza?"
She shrieked at the voice, swinging her head to the laptop she'd forgotten she was holding, finding Whitney watching her with furrowed brows.
"I—what?"
Whitney pursed her lips, then asked, "Would you be willing to complete an application for a service dog?"
Liza looked down at her hands, where her fingernails were nonexistent, red lines marked where she'd peeled back skin, and scabbed-over dots from where she'd begun picking at the skin on the back of her hands stared back at her.
Maybe she could use a companion in her life. A dog, who had no hidden intentions, and would need nothing more than food, her fenced yard, and some chin scratches.
Making what would perhaps be her first good decision since the accident, Liza licked at her equally picked lips and said, "I'd be willing."
*****
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