Chapter 5

My steps feel more solid once I leave the cobblestone of the Culinary District for the smooth black asphalt of the Administration District. The border is demarcated with a painted red-dotted line, like on a map, and fanatically maintained by Macho Construction Workers, who seal today’s coat as I pass.

This part of town always smells sterile to me, as if it just recently emerged from factory-sealed packaging. Everything polished. Nothing out of place. Only the people give it any sort of personality.

Case in point: a group of Crotchety Old Men presently slows my progress toward the Healing Center. They weave and bob in front of me. If this were a Novel, I could be fashionably late, enter with a perfectly crafted one-liner, and everyone would laugh and forgive my tardiness as part of my charm. But here in TropeTown, I’d get a black mark in my permanent file, so I skirt the edge of the group and dash past, mumbling an apology.

“What’s that, boy?” one of them yells, cupping a hand around one ear. “Where ya off to in such a rush? Gotta learn to respect your elders.”

“Healing Center.” I turn my head and project my voice. “Council-ordered group therapy.”

The men gasp in horror and scramble away as fast as their walkers and canes will allow. One raises a gnarled fist. “Get off my lawn!”

My next obstacle is a posse of Cloyingly Cute Children who have chalked up the middle of the street with a giant hopscotch maze. The No-Nonsense Street Cleaners are no doubt on their way to hose it down, but until then, I have to play to pass. A girl in pigtails hands me a bottle cap, and I use my best wind-up pitch to get it to land on the penultimate square. The children cheer me on as I skip and hop my way through their course.

After passing Town Hall, I finally make it to the Healing Center. It’s the tallest building in West TropeTown, aka the Right Side of the Tracks, and its cream-colored outside walls gleam with the intention of making visitors feel safe and welcome.

I take a spin through the front revolving door three times just for the fun of it, emerging dizzy enough that the white and gray arrow pattern on the lobby floor seems to beckon me back to the bank of chrome elevators.

Behavioral Therapy is on the ninth floor, so I push the call button. The doors open, revealing a trifecta of animals engaged in a heated discussion. I wince, because I don’t want to get my black jeans all fuzzed up and make a bad first impression, but I don’t have time to wait for another elevator or I’ll be tardy.

I know: #fictionalworldproblems.

I step in and position myself in the corner farthest from the Talking Beast brawl. My floor button is already lit.

“And to make it worse, they called me up and told me my picture will be on the cover,” a brown and white collie in a blue windbreaker and sunglasses says.

A dashing red squirrel wearing a plaid bowtie chirps at him. “There you go again with the humblebrag. When has a Stock Squirrel ever made the cover? I wish I had your problems.”

The collie sighs and cocks his head like he wants his chin scratched. “You know that means I die at the end. Again.”

“Yeah,” a raccoon in a trench coat pipes up. “But you’ll get a noble death, and all the Developeds will cry over you and give you a funeral. My parts all end with me in a trash can facing down the barrel of a shotgun.”

“In mine, I’m skinned and eaten for cheap protein.” The squirrel jumps on the raccoon’s shoulder, as if to show solidarity for the plight of non-domesticated animals in fiction. “Or I end up as roadkill.”

I wait for the tiniest pause in their conversation to offer up some pseudo-philosophy unsolicited. “No matter how small they are in the grand scheme of things, everyone’s own issues seem big to them.”

“You don’t look wise or old enough to be a Wise Old Mentor.” The raccoon wriggles his whiskers in what seems like contempt. I could be reading into things, though. I tend to do that.

“Are you our replacement New Age Therapist?” The collie wags his tail, and tiny dog hairs are whisked in my direction.

“No.” I shuffle my feet in an attempt to dodge his fur bullets. “I’m in therapy, like you. First meeting.”

The squirrel blinks at me. “Sucks to be us. Well, at least the pie is good.”

“The pie?” I ask. I freaking love pie.

“Pie is mandatory at every session,” the squirrel explains. “The union made sure of that.”

“Back on topic! You have the attention span of a squirrel!” the collie barks. “The human does have a point about comparative suffering. You shouldn’t make me feel like my problems are unworthy of being addressed just because there are those who are worse off than I am.”

“I can do whatever I want! It’s called having agency. Look into it.” The squirrel jumps down from the raccoon’s back and makes a break for the doors as soon as the elevator dings.

The collie growls and chases after him. The raccoon shakes his head. “Eight weeks of group therapy with those two. I’d rather be trapped in an endless loop of trash dump loitering.”

“At least there’s pie,” I tell him.

He waves his paw and saunters off. I brush my hand over my pants, but the fabric and fur have a fatal attraction.

When I step out of the elevator and into the wide hallway, a speck of silver catches my attention. I bend down to pluck it out from the thick pile of the taupe carpet. It’s a round pin about a quarter of the size of my palm, and it has an “O” and an “8” printed on it—the periodic symbol for oxygen—so obviously my first thought is Zelda must have dropped it. But why would she be up on this floor?

I tuck the oxygen pin in my pants pocket and continue on.