Jo’s office smelled like peppermint tea and second chances.

She had one of those quiet waiting rooms with soft chairs and an aquarium in the corner, bubbling water, and lazy fish drifting through plastic seaweed. I sat there for ten minutes, staring at a fake coral reef and pretending I wasn’t about to throw up.

When she called my name, I followed her like a kid heading to the principal’s office. Every step felt heavier than it should’ve.

Jo looked like someone’s favorite aunt. Wearing a flowy cardigan, silver streaks in her hair, sharp eyes, and she didn’t smile too much. I liked that.

She gestured to the couch. Not a therapist couch, just a normal one. As I sat, it made a small squeak.

She settled into a chair across from me, no clipboard or laptop, just a mug of tea and a not-too-interested tilt of her head.

"So," she said. "Why are you here, Mara?"

It wasn’t a trap, but it felt like one.

I could’ve said a hundred things. Could’ve blamed the job, the burnout, the system. I could’ve said I was tired of wanting to disappear, or that I didn’t trust myself anymore.

Instead, I said, "I think I’m broken."

Jo didn’t flinch. Just nodded. "Okay. Want to tell me how?"

So I did.

Not everything, not yet, but enough to keep my mind semi-clear. 

I told her about the clinic, the long shifts. About the pets we couldn’t save, the owners who screamed, and the ones who didn’t care. I spoke about the nights I couldn’t sleep, or the mornings I didn’t want to wake up, and how the guilt clung like a second skin.

Jo didn’t interrupt or fill the silence. She just let it stretch and settle.

By the end, I felt scraped raw. Like someone had reached inside and pulled out the rot I’d been pretending wasn’t there.

She leaned forward. "That sounds like too much for one person to carry."

I almost laughed. "Well, it was my job."

"No," she said gently. "It was your job to care. Not to bleed for it."

That shut me up.

**

We met once a week after that.

Sometimes I talked. Sometimes I stared at the fish tank.

Jo had a way of making silence feel less terrifying, like I didn’t have to earn my space. Like I wasn’t just taking up room I didn’t deserve.

She gave me things to think about. Not homework, just questions. Who are you when you’re not working? What do you need to feel safe? What does rest even look like?

Most days, I didn’t have answers. But I started asking myself anyway.

**

Work was still a mess. I went back two days a week, half-shifts, no surgeries. I stayed behind the desk or in the back, cleaning kennels, restocking, avoiding the bleeding ones.

Lucy gave me space, and so did most of the staff. Except Dr. Klein, she gave me side-eyes and tight-lipped judgment, but I stopped caring.

I wasn’t the good tech anymore. I wasn’t anything, really.

But I was still here, which counted for something.

**

One night, I stayed after hours, helping a nervous intern with her first solo catheter placement. Her hands shook. I guided her gently, step by step. No pressure, just presence.

When it was done, she smiled like she’d won something huge.

"Thanks," she said.

I shrugged. "You did the hard part."

"Still," she said. "I would’ve panicked without you."

Something shifted in my chest, not pain or pride, just... warmth.

Maybe healing wasn’t loud, it didn’t look like milestones or declarations or sudden joy.

Maybe it looked like this: a quiet night, a steady hand, and a tiny win.

That, I could live with.

**

I left late that night. The clinic was quiet, the kind of quiet that used to feel like peace. Now it just made me feel like I was haunting the place.

As I locked up, my phone buzzed. A missed call…Voicemail.

I didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was local.

I hit play, already bracing for someone yelling about a bill or asking for records on a euthanized pet we both wished had lived.

But it wasn’t that.

"Hey Mara, it’s Allison. Not sure if you remember me, we worked together back at County before you went to Lakeside. I heard from Lucy you were taking some time, and I just wanted to say... I get it. Really. I left ER too. Anyway, there’s a part-time tech job opening up at my new clinic. It’s slow, low-key. Private practice. Not fancy, but… kind. Thought of you. If you’re interested, call me back. No pressure."

I stood there in the parking lot, phone pressed to my ear, blinking against the sudden heat behind my eyes.

Kind.

It’d been a long time since work and kind were in the same sentence.

**

In the next session with Jo, I told her about the voicemail. Not as a plan, just as a fact.

She didn’t tell me what to do. She never did, but she nodded, slow and steady, like she was listening for the shape of something I hadn’t figured out yet.

"What does safe look like to you?" she asked again.

I still didn’t know.

But maybe I was finally ready to start looking.