“Need a light?” a woman’s voice called from behind.

“Yeah.” Mark turned and froze, as the woman approached.

Dr. Helga Chapman had always been tall and lithe, and the years hadn’t changed that. Her figure swam down the stairs, bright red pigtails swinging, her unbuttoned coat flowing behind her. Beneath it, one of her many signature pantsuits with silk ribbon bow for a tie. She clicked her lighter in front of his face, and he dragged on the cigarette, his eyes never leaving her face. She hadn’t changed one bit. The light traveled to her own cigarette next - a thin menthol thing he’s not seen in years.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” Mark said.

“I’ve always known you did,” she said with a sly smile. “Rough day?”

Mark went over the events of the last days, then months, then years, restraining himself not to go into full-on vent mode. Dr. Chapman nodded along, with an expression of a curious but sympathetic bird, her hand floating to and fro her lips in a thin cloud of smoke. Chapman’s doctorate was in psychology, and she was always “on.”

“I’m sorry about your mother. How are you holding up?”

He smirked, “I’m here, Mrs. Chapman, aren’t I? That should tell you something.”

“I see.” She nodded, her eyes never leaving him, seemingly never blinking. “Call me Helga.”

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