Finally, a month shy of two years, termination.

She left therapy a changed little girl; I allowed myself a bit of self-congratulation but knew better than to wallow in it. Because the family structure that had nurtured her problems had never been altered. Its surface hadn’t even been scratched.

Despite that, there’d been no reason to keep her in treatment against her will.

I’m nine years old, Dr. Delaware. I’m ready to handle things on my own.

I sent her out into the world, expecting to hear from her soon. Didn’t for several weeks, phoned her and was informed, in polite but firm nine-year-old tones, that she was just fine, thank you, would call me if she needed me.

Now she had.

A long time to be on hold.

Ten years would make her nineteen. Empty the memory banks and be prepared for a stranger.

I glanced at the phone number she’d left with the service.

An 818 area code. San Labrador exchange.

I went into the library, dug into my CLOSED files for a while, and finally found her chart.

Same prefix as her original home number, but the last four digits were different.

Change of number or had she left home? If she had, she hadn’t gone very far.

I checked the date of her last session. Nine years ago. A birth date in June. She’d turned eighteen a month ago.

I wondered what had changed about her. What was the same.

Wondered why I hadn’t heard from her sooner.

2

The phone was picked up after two rings.