I’m in high school. I’m much older than this. Why am I here?
I have a megaphone. The high school seems to be in the street. School is over. I speak into the megaphone because I can; still, I don’t have much to say; I say “time to go home; school is over.”
None of the students pay attention — I didn’t expect them to.
My therapist tells me of a specialist she’d like me to meet. He’s a tall, thin, serious man. I bike there. I go down the street without knowing the street number, then look at the street numbers, realize I passed the place, and double back.
It’s a typical 3-story professional building with a hint on psych institutional care. It’s evening now. I look at the paper for the hours he’s available: 3 A.M. to 10 A.M. Hmm, I’ll have to come back during those hours. The walk-in bit is a surprise to me.