Her eyes left mine and stared at the carpet.

“Well,” I said, backtracking, “Dr. Wagner was right. About the shots. I never give shots. Don’t even know how to give shots.”

Unimpressed, she looked at her shoes. Sticking her legs straight out, she began bobbling her feet.

“Still,” I said, “even going to a doctor who doesn’t give shots can be scary. It’s a new situation. You don’t know what’s going to happen.”

Her head shot up, the green eyes defiant. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Good.” I smiled. “And I’m not scared of you either.”

She gave me a look that was part bafflement, mostly scorn. So much for the old Delaware wit.

“Not only don’t I give shots,” I said, “but I don’t do anything to the children who come here. I work with them. As a team. They tell me about themselves and when I know enough about them, I show them how not to be scared. Because being scared is something we learn. So we can unlearn it.”

Spark of interest in the eyes. Her legs relaxed. But more kneading, faster.

She said, “How many other kids come here?”

“Lots.”

“How many?”

“Between four and eight a day.”

“What are their names?”

“I can’t tell you that, Melissa.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a secret- just like I couldn’t tell anyone that you came here today unless you gave me permission.”

“Why?”

“Because kids who come here talk about things that are private. They want privacy- do you know what that means?”

“Privacy,” she said, “is going to the bathroom like a young lady, all by yourself, with the door closed.”

“Exactly. When kids talk about themselves, they sometimes tell me things they’ve never told anyone. Part of my job is knowing how to keep a secret. So everything that goes on in this room is a secret. Even the names of the people who come here are secret. That’s why there’s that second door.” I pointed. “It goes out to the hall. So people can leave the office without going into the waiting room and seeing other people. Would you like to see?”