Eva Reed graduated 9 months ago. The debt was the most profound change, more than the diploma or the title. It weighs on her like a family curse. It almost seems nonsensical a night sometimes when she lies awake thinking about the things she could buy instead like skyscrapers and Van Goghs.  

Currently, she was waiting bar at a new trend spot called Skyy near downtown. Basically a scam where miserable women took pictures of $15 pre-mix sangria and pronounced it ‘to DIE for' on Instagram. Eva kept her degree a desperate secret. At these prices, the only help she could offer was more alcohol. 

 Her mother had warned her: ‘Everyone thinks psychology has all the answers. But look at us now,' he mother chuckled, taking another sip. She had her own sangria recipe that was actually quite good, through practice. ‘Unhappy as ever.' Her mother did not come to graduation. ‘A bartender!' Her mother would find that hilarious. But there was a large skill overlap. And Eva did not mind the hours. She had not slept well since her last job. (Visalia Foster Home for Girls.)

Still, she sent out resumes, however short and dubious. Alcohol was only a temporary solution. After awhile, it felt like she was serving every one of those drinks to her very own mother. 

"One Devil's Backbone"

Eva had never heard of such a drink, ordered by the kind of guy you can imagine, knew too much about whiskey and you did not have to ask. Eva retrieved her phone from her hip, like a quick draw artist, and asked the recipe. Nothing. She asked her phone again: No friendly voice, no ‘I did not hear that' just nothing. 

Any consternation was gone before the next bass kick and Eva grabbed the nearest random (but nice) whiskey, rocks, sild it across the bar, here. He did not complain. He smiled even. Her degree was psychology, Phd. There was overlap, and an extra ten dollar tip, call me. 

Tonight, an email waiting when she got home: "West Coast Therapy Center."

8am in the morning, driving to a job interview, Eva reevaluates the appeal of being a bartender. ‘Escape anxiety' she knows this is called. It does not help.

Normally, she would just tell her phone the address, but everything is going wrong this morning. Eva has resorted to printing out a map and highlighting the directions with a pen. She actually doesn't mind, if my dad could see me right now. Using a map is how ancient people have been doing it for millenia.

But is that the same Starbucks she's just passed? Another Asian fusion restaurant? Or the same one? Icy panic. She grips the steering wheel. I've made a terrible mistake. Relying on this silly printout--and then like Shangri-La from the mist a perfectly inoffensive office building in the middle of perfect anywhere suburbia. The sign, wood lacquer, easily replaceable: "West Coast Therapy Center."

Plenty of parking, few other cars, which Eva took as a good sign, the blacktop must bake in sun. The entrance was in back, away from the street. No charging station, Eva noted in passing, but an ashtray for cigarettes. Inside was beige and forgettable. Corridors disappeared into oblivion. The lobby was just a desk, functional, but elegant in its simplicity. Tracks in the carpet pile revealed it was a recent edition.

The girl behind the desk was dressed in black, as much as it was possible to be so. She eyed Eva liked humanity was last year's fashion. 

"I have an interview. Eva Reed."

"Room C," her haunting gothic eyes already exhausted by this exchange. She followed the tracks of the office chairs. The building seemed otherwise deserted.

Room C was a conference room, the same as any other. Two men sat behind a conference table. One was spinning in his chair. Clearly a doctor. They are terrible at waiting. Two cups of coffee in front of him. He looked like the one person on earth sleeping less than she was. ‘My name is Dr. Lee. My client is refusing to talking to anyone else.'

The second man had been frowning the entire time, more so after all of this. It would have seemed frowning was what he did for a living, except for his suit and tie (Burberry), and the way he held the stack of paperwork, perfectly square and level with the edges of the desk. A lawyer it turns out. He was only here for the legalese. 

‘Our client requires utmost secrecy. Do you understand what will happen to you?'

Dr. Eva Reed scoffed and signed. Who was this celebrity? She was dying.

Dr. Lee placed his phone on the table, a familiar voice, the AI Assistant: I've been feeling depressed lately.