Page 134 of Disarm
He laughs. “House of horrors, man.”
He’s not wrong. The breaker panel on this place looks like someone closed their eyes and shoved wires wherever they fit. It’s satisfying in a way, undoing other people’s bad decisions. You can’t fix everything, but you can fix this circuit, this line, this junction.
People aren’t that simple.
By twelve-thirty,we’ve got most of the new runs in, and my shirt is sticking to my back.
“Take your lunch,” I tell Benny, rolling my shoulders. “I’m gonna bounce. Appointment.”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “Hot date?”
“Yeah,” I say dryly. “Me and my emotional baggage. Very romantic.”
He laughs like it’s a joke.
“Don’t let the wires kill you while I’m gone,” I add, grabbing my hoodie off the back of a chair.
He salutes with his lineman’s pliers. “No promises.”
Outside, the air is crisp and cool, with a little bite off the ocean. I stand on the front walk for a second, eyes closed, letting the breeze cut through the fog in my head.
I can still bail.
There’s a version of me that does. Texts the number, cancels, and says something about work running late. Easy. I have a real job. Real responsibilities. No one could argue with that.
I picture Caleb’s face if I told him.
The way his voice went soft when he said, I don’t want to break you.
I get in the truck.
The counseling center Dr. Kaur’s referral was for is on the edge of downtown, in a squat building wedged between a yoga studio and a laundromat. It looks like every other office I’ve ever seen—neutral, like it’s trying not to offend anyone.
I park and just… Sit there for a second, forehead against the steering wheel, hands resting at ten and two.
I fix things for a living. I walk into places with faulty wiring and figure out what’s wrong. This is the first time I’m walking into a room where I’m the one who might blow a breaker.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, and climb out.
Inside, the lobby smells like coffee and lemon cleaner. There are chairs lined up along the wall, a table with magazines no one reads, and a little plant that’s either thriving or dying.
The woman at the front desk glances up when the door chimes. “Hi there,” she says, professionally bright. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Uh. I’m Miguel Veracruz. I have a one-thirty?”
She types something and nods. “First-time intake. Got you.” She slides a clipboard toward me. “If you can fill this out, your counselor will be right with you.”
The form is exactly what I expect and worse.
Name. Date of birth. Emergency contact.
I pause at that, pen hovering.
I write Mom’s name, then scratch it out and add Caleb’s under it, because that’s the number they should call if everything goes sideways. Then I add Mom again because if they call him and something’s wrong with me, he’ll self-destruct.
The next section is a checklist.
Have you experienced any of the following in the last month?
