Taking the hint, the receptionist peeked over the counter and addressed the impatient patient. “I’m sorry about the delay. Wednesdays are always bad for some reason, and he had an emergency this morning.”

“I suppose my coming late didn’t help,” she said.

“Well … no,” he said hesitantly. “But I’m sure you had a good reason.”

He was trying to be nice. She’d screwed herself. “Enough rope,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” Leaning over, she picked through the other periodicals littering the table. The only magazines that were current were the ones about golf.

Bored, she glanced through the window framing the man. He had his head down now and was pecking at a computer. Dressed in a polo shirt with a subtle designer logo embroidered on the sleeve, he appeared to be the type who would read golf magazines cover to cover. He looked like a younger version of that famous golf pro. What was his name? Jack something. Her eyes went to the cover of one of the golf magazines. No help. Everything was about Tiger Woods. She missed the grandmotherly receptionist who used to greet her with a sympathetic smile and offers of hot tea with sugar. This guy offered bad black coffee. At least he tried. He had a nice smile. A golf pro smile. Bright white.

He glanced up from his typing and caught her staring at him. “You could reschedule, Kyra,” he offered.

She dropped her eyes and picked up a decorating magazine. “I wouldn’t get to see him for weeks, and I need to talk now. You know what I mean?”

The golf pro head bobbed up and down in affirmation. “I understand completely. It shouldn’t be that much longer. He just got your file and took it back with him.”

Her file. Her masterpiece. Her version of Enough Rope. It was cleverly titled Klein, Kyra A., and it started something like this:

Patient’s biological mother, diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder in early adulthood, committed suicide when the patient was ten years of age, leaving the juvenile in the care of her biological father … Father died of acute alcoholic hepatitis when the patient was twenty … Shortly afterward, the patient was diagnosed with depression, and was prescribed antidepressants.

That diagnosis turned out to be dead wrong and led to a really juicy plot twist in her opus.

On the patient’s twenty-first birthday, she was hospitalized after ingesting a full bottle of an over-the-counter pain reliever/sleep aid … During hospitalization, her mental status was reassessed and she was diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder.

She had to credit her current psychiatrist with that bull’s-eye. The chapters that followed were downright mundane, thank God.

Patient has one sibling, a married older brother employed as a software designer in Seattle … Brother is assisting the patient financially so she can complete her studies. He communicates with her sporadically via phone and e-mail … Patient is currently taking undergraduate courses at the University of Minnesota–Twin Cities; she has not yet declared a field of study, but enjoys reading the American classics and writing poetry.

She was just another unemployed English major in the making, she thought as she flipped through the pages of an article giving tips on easy bathroom makeovers.

Patient is single and reports no steady “boyfriend,” but has engaged in unprotected sex with multiple partners since the onset of puberty … Sexual activity increases during her manic episodes, as does her reckless driving and her excessive clothing purchases.

She’d once blown an entire paycheck on a pair of Manolo Blahniks and defiantly worn the stilettos to one of her appointments. Her psychiatrist had trouble taking his eyes off those heels, and she didn’t blame him: black satin with crystal-studded ankle straps. Very expensive come-fuck-me shoes.

Patient works during the week as a part-time cashier at a grocery store near the Minneapolis campus and on weekends is employed selling hand lotion at kiosk located in the Mall of America … Has stated that she enjoys her jobs and has twice received raises in her hourly pay as a cashier.

Patient is seeing a therapist, but reports that she is unhappy with this particular health professional … On more than one occasion, she has referred to the therapist as “the bullshit artist.”

Patient states that the therapist “talks to hear himself talk” and “doesn’t listen to a damn thing anyone else has to say.” Patient has requested a list of recommended therapists/psychologists practicing in the university area.

Lithium has proven an effective maintenance treatment, although patient has complained about the “flat feeling” it causes.

That flat feeling seemed to be intensifying with every second she spent in that cell-like waiting room. Dropping “Breezy Bathrooms for Less” on the table, she looked at the clock again and double-checked its accuracy against her watch. Yup. Already noon. If she didn’t get in soon, she was going to be late for her next class. She rested her elbows on her knees and dropped her chin in her palms.

She wasn’t a new patient, nor was she very different from the hundreds of other cases this doctor had handled over the years, she suspected. She was just another nut job. He hated when she called herself that. Nut job. She told him it helped to laugh.

He didn’t have a sense of humor, this doctor. He’d drum an eraser head on his desk while he reviewed the highlights of her masterpiece. He had high cheekbones and a prominent jawline, and when he read something that piqued his interest or disturbed his sensibilities, both facial features tensed almost indiscernibly. She could always tell when he got to the dirty parts of her little book: his face reddened. She loved it when that happened. At least she could tell he was human.

The blond head levitated from behind the counter and the receptionist cracked open the door leading to the bowels of the office. “The doctor will see you now.”

“Great,” said Klein, Kyra A. She got up with her purse and her books and followed the receptionist down the hall to the doctor’s exam room. She scrutinized his bottom half as they went. Jack Something had a nice butt for a guy who sat at a computer all day. Why was she not surprised that he was wearing boring khaki slacks and geeky brown walking shoes?

“Miss Klein,” he announced, pushing the door open for her.

“Thank you,” she said, offering the receptionist a smile.

“You’re quite welcome,” he said, smiling back. He looked over at the man behind the desk. “Do you need anything, Doctor?”

“I’m good, Charles,” the man said without looking up from his paperwork.

“Would you like some coffee, Miss Klein?” Charles asked her.

“No, thanks. I’m not a coffee drinker,” she said.

Charles nodded and left. Klein stared at the closed door, feeling guilty about not accepting the damn drink.

The doctor looked up and nodded toward a chair parked across from his desk. “Please have a seat.”

She headed to the leather couch planted against the wall. She tossed her purse and her books onto it and dropped down next to them. “I’m breaking in a new pair of boots, and my feet are killing me.”

“Please make yourself comfortable,” he said, pushing his chair back and standing up.

“I will.” She started unzipping the knee-high boots, which were pulled over skintight jeans.

He pulled down on the sleeves of his blazer—his idea of making himself comfortable—and took the patient chair over to the couch. Sitting down across from her with his right ankle propped across his left knee, he opened the file up on his legs. He scrutinized her clothing—a fur vest over a cashmere sweater—and shot a look at her boots and Coach purse. “Did you go on another spending spree?” he asked in that judgmental tone of his. That assistant principal’s voice.