A sallow cigarette hangs limply out of her lips as she fishes for a lighter.
“Rebecca,” begins Doctor Harrow, “I’m ready whenever you are.”
Almost complete silence answers Doctor Harrow. Short breaths of nicotine and shame are all that are heard.
Doctor Harrow clears his throat. “Rebecca…”
She pulls the cigarette out of her mouth and looks up. “Where do I start?” Her voice comes out raspy and abrasive.
“Wherever you think it began.”
Her face contorts into a mask of anguish; every wrinkle seemingly filled with regret. A minute passes without talk before she clears her throat.
“It began in Bridgeport.”