Free A Mighty Fortress by S.D. Thames Page B

8:30 A.M. I liked getting the appointment out of the way early and setting the tone for the rest of the week.
    A minor fender bender had jammed northbound traffic on I-275, so I ended up being about five minutes late. For some reason, I still had to sit in the waiting room another five minutes before she poked her head out the door, smiled, and said my name.  
    Her eyes widened at the sight of my face, but she didn’t inquire until we were behind closed doors. And when she did so, it was in her usual blunt way: “Good morning, Milo. Tell me about your face.” She slipped her shoes off and curled her legs under her tiny rump as she settled into the plastic Art Deco chair she always sat in.
    I got comfortable on my dais facing her. “I had a job last night that got complicated.”
    She nodded. “Complicated?”
    I nodded back.
    “How many men did it take to do this to you?”
    “Good question, Doc. Only three this time, and only two of them were armed. My skills are slipping.”
    She looked down at the notes in her lap. I was pretty sure she did that from time to time just so she could articulate what to say next.  
    “Don’t you want to know how it made me feel?” I asked.
    She tilted her head to aim her glasses at me. “I was hoping to lead up to that, Milo. I guess I need more coffee.”
    “I could go for some, too.”
    She nodded at the carafe and told me to help myself. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell me the answer to that question you just posed.”
    I grabbed us each a Styrofoam cup and filled them with java. The pot was hot to the touch. I opened the small refrigerator under her cabinet. There was half-and-half for me and sweetened vanilla almond milk for her. “I’ll be straight with you,” I said, while stirring our drinks. “I liked it. I felt calm. Calmer than I’ve felt in a while, especially last night when I was hanging out with my neighbor and talking about everything that went down. It was like I’d just had a really good massage or something.”
    I handed her coffee over and returned to my dais. She sipped hers and gestured for me to continue.
    “So, I guess you’re right, Doc.”
    “Right about what?”
    “I know what you’re going to say. It’s just like you said before, I’m addicted to danger and adrenaline. I was calm because I finally had my fix.”
    She took another sip and cleared her throat. In all honesty, she looked like she’d had her own bruiser the night before. He hair was usually tied up in a clean ponytail, her makeup done in the most understated way, and her simple clothes usually pressed to perfection. All of that was missing today. It made me wonder if we’d had a full moon the night before.  
    “Milo, I’d never want my diagnosis or any of my comments about your recovery to form some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy for you, if that’s even the right phrase. I take no pleasure in the fact that you think your experience lends credence to what we’ve talked about.”
    “I don’t think there’s any doubt about it, Doc. I moved down here to the sunshine, the easy work. But I’ve known there’s been something missing. And this is what it is. I need things like what happened last night or I go nuts.”
    She set her coffee on the table next to her and went about adding to the notes scribbled on her pad. Then she set the pad down in her lap and smiled in the way she usually did when it was time to change topics. “I have some news for you, Milo. I’m writing a paper. About you.”
    “Really?”
    She nodded. “About your recovery, really. It’s titled, ‘Pilsner, Powerlifting and Prayer: A Case Study in PTSD’.”
    “I guess we have talked about those things a lot.”
    She smiled and nodded in agreement. Then, she tilted her head with a hint of concern. “You look like you have your reservations.”
    I shrugged. “Well, if we’re going to be honest, I don’t brew pilsners. That’s a lager. I only brew ales.”
    “Ah, yes, in