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Scout on Life and Death Part 2- Lyra is still shaken up from the previous night's proceedings, only to find an interesting client at her psychiatry office

        Mercy wasn’t an emotion I enjoyed feeling. Why did others deserve something that was never given to me? But alas, I found myself making the same mistake as I had done years ago, allowing someone to live past the time they deserve. The morning rain came and washed the houses and the windows that I had stood in. New York’s showers gave me a sense that the blood spilled was gone, dripping away into the sewers, even for only a day. Yet this rainy day wouldn’t be bright as the others, and I would be as sour as all the other pedestrians trudging to their offices. Pools of contaminated water reflected my dry demeanor, the sidewalks questioning the shift of my attitude. I owe you nothing, I thought, as the cold puddles soaked my socks. Maybe they needed at least one person to appreciate their efforts, missing the gratitude of the forests and plants they shed sustenance on far away. The rain was the only thing that reminded city-dwellers of nature’s strength, and possibly God’s existence. It would only be for our quarter-hour commute, and it was forgotten by even me as I closed the red oak door of the townhouse on East 71st.

“Lousy weather we’re having,” I said as I dropped my umbrella into the bin. For the first time, I was telling the truth, and the thunder of the clouds replied in anger.

“Yes, indeed,” Chet replied automatically, adjusting his glasses as he shuffled through papers strewn across his desk. He had been my boss for almost five years and was average in most ways. His short stumpy build and warm demeanor made him seem aloof, and he was often more pink than he was pale. He peered up at me suddenly, and I was reminded of his greatest talent. Never had I seen a person understand others as much as him. Chet was the sole reason that our psychiatry office was so successful, bringing in the wealthiest of bachelors in all five boroughs.

“What’s the matter, Lyra?” he asked quietly.

We played this game often. He had even offered to take me up as a client without compensation many times, but I would always insist that I was fine. Chet could sense a lie from a mile away, yet it didn’t change reality. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want it.

“Your client’s running a bit late, but he’ll be in in a few minutes. You do remember who it is, correct?”

I nodded my head and entered the last door at the end of the hall. It was a small office, but it was cozier than any place I had ever been. Part of its comfort came from the honesty that sprouted there. I had never stayed somewhere where the truth came unsolicited, unwinding out of everyone that entered it. Maybe it was the warm lights that shined on them, or the soft worn couch that could relieve any soreness, or the orange paint on the walls. But it couldn’t be me; I nor anyone else had ever seemed comforted by my presence. It was a stroke of luck that made me so successful in psychiatry, and I didn’t mind that reality. I ran my fingers through his documents, a task I had been postponing for as long as possible. Something was too familiar-his address.

Apartment 3A at the Ritz.

The door creaked open slowly. The drunken man from the previous night cleaned up well.

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