Follen’s office was just as she remembered: safe, comfortable, small but in a way that didn’t feel [i]constrictive[/i]. In fact it was deceptively open. There were half-drawn blinds on the back wall, behind which a long, tall screen simulated daylight. He had the window partially ‘cracked,’ and from small speakers there was faint and arhythmic birdsong in the imaginary distance. Warm arm flowed in from the vents. Stepping in felt like donning a morning blanket. 

Doctor Follen looked up from his work, smiled just as warmly as the artificial sun behind him. “[color=lightblue]Ah, Quinn, what a pleasant surprise! I had a feeling you’d be by today, came to me while I was putting syrup on my waffles this morning. Come! Come, sit! We’ll get started.[/color]”

He pulled a drawer open on his side of the desk, thumbed through a row of files and produced hers. It was already a finger thick, but Follen had assured her that it was because he found her so fascinating. And he did seem intrigued every time. Everything she told him, from her grief to her worries, to the [i]stranger[/i] things, he never seemed judgmental, and he [i]never[/i] treated her like she’d made a mistake. 

[i][color=lightblue]These are great, tangled knots,[/color][/i] he had told her. [i][color=lightblue]Your complexity is not a curse, it is a gift, marvelous and beautiful. Never feel sorry for feeling, Quinnlash.[/color][/i] 

Flipping the file open, he pulled a pen tucked behind his ear and clicked it. 

“[color=lightblue]So,[/color]” he said. “[color=lightblue]First of all—tell me how you’ve been this week. How have you been sleeping? Eating? I’ve been monitoring the records from your piloting sessions—I’m very impressed. How have you felt these past couple times in the cockpit?[/color]”