Reaching out

You duck behind the post office and swap the ballet flats for the white leather trainers from your cloth tote, tucking the flats inside. The relief is immediate—your arches unknot, your toes spread. The trainers feel almost indecent after a day of pointed toes and delicate balance.

The walk home takes forty-seven minutes this time. You count. The country road is empty, the late afternoon sun dropping toward the tree line, casting long shadows across the asphalt. You practice your voice as you walk—murmuring observations about the scenery, narrating the journey in that husky alto you've been cultivating.

"The hedgerow on the left is coming into bloom. Blackberries, I think. Or maybe wild roses."

The pitch wavers on "roses." You try again, slower, letting the words sit lower in your throat.

"Wild roses."

Better. Not perfect, but the consonants soften naturally when you slow down. You spend the next twenty minutes experimenting with cadence—shorter sentences, more musical inflection, the way women tend to let questions rise at the end rather than drop.

The estate comes into view at five to five. HAVEN recognizes you immediately—the front door unlatching as you approach the porch.

"Welcome home, Miss Chloe. How was your day?"

You step inside, dropping the tote by the door. "HAVEN, is there a bicycle on the property? Or any kind of personal transportation—scooter, golf cart, anything?"

A pause. The house AI processes.

"The estate maintains one bicycle in the garden shed adjacent to the pool house. A Bianchi road model, last serviced fourteen months ago. Additionally, there is an electric golf cart stored in the garage annex, though its battery requires charging. Shall I initiate a charge cycle?"

"Yes, please. And the bicycle—is it functional?"

"Tire pressure and chain lubrication would require attention before safe use. Shall I add these to the maintenance queue?"

"Please."

You head upstairs, shower, and let LUXE dress you for the evening—the Cozy Lounge look again: silk pajama shorts in blush pink, a matching camisole with delicate lace trim at the neckline. The breast forms come off with their adhesive, and you feel the strange lightness of your chest returning to flat. You catch yourself in the mirror—face still made up from the day, mascara slightly smudged at the corners, and beneath it, the features that have always been yours. Softer than most men's. Sharper than most women's. Somewhere beautifully in between.

Dinner is leftover pasta from the fridge, reheated by HAVEN's kitchen system. You eat at the kitchen island, scrolling through your phone.

You need to talk to someone. A professional.

The thought has been building since Thursday. You have a psychology degree—you know the value of guided reflection, of having someone trained to help you untangle the knots. You can't afford a therapist on $28.37, but you know people.

You pull up your contacts and scroll to the faculty section from college. Dr. Iris Navarro taught your abnormal psychology seminar junior year. She'd been approachable, warm, genuinely invested in her students' wellbeing. You'd exchanged emails a few times after graduation—she'd written a reference for your grad school application that you never ended up using.

You draft a message, delete it, draft again.

Dr. Navarro, I hope you're doing well. I know this is out of the blue, but I'm going through some significant personal changes and I was wondering if you might know of any low-cost counseling resources, or if you'd be willing to have a brief phone call sometime to point me in the right direction? I trust your judgment more than anyone else's.

You stare at it. It's honest without being specific. She'd understand the subtext—she taught you to recognize the language of someone reaching out.

You hit send and set the phone face-down on the counter.

The evening stretches ahead. Quiet. The house hums around you—HAVEN's ambient systems, the distant whir of cleaning drones beginning their nightly patrol. You curl up on the living room sofa with Margot's book, but your mind keeps drifting.

A job. Friends. A voice that sounds like mine. A body that's starting to feel like mine.

The phone buzzes at 8:47pm. Dr. Navarro.

Riley! So good to hear from you. Of course I'd be happy to talk—I'm actually free tomorrow afternoon if you want to call? And yes, I know several excellent sliding-scale therapists in the state. Let's figure out what you need. Sending you a hug.

You type back—Tomorrow afternoon works. Thank you, Dr. Navarro.

Call me Iris. You graduated. We're colleagues now.

You set the phone down and breathe.