essence of what's left, eva

She always felt late to these things. It had taken time for her to not feel like an outsider when it came to visiting schools. To be honest, maybe the feeling had only come back because of this particular phone call. Once she was told over the phone that the child had "been bad again," alarm bells were going off.

One way or another, this probably wouldn't be good. It wasn't as though Eva had gotten into this job for the sake of maintaining mood lifters, but if she found out the kid had been told outright that they were bad, oh, she'd be doing what she could to set that straight right away. For now, however, she wasn't about to say anything to the person escorting her to the boy.

The thing was, labels were destructive. Part of the reason (and only a small part) armchair psychology was counterproductive was because of this, but the possible kiss of death that is being told an amateur (or, depending on the particular, right-on) diagnosis is different than a child being told they were bad. That didn't make it any less harmful to Eva.

And even if they hadn't, what if ... what if ... they rolled in her mind, compounded by the clack of heels on tiles.

She sees him, double checks to make sure this is indeed the right room, but her smile is already there. The secretary has already left her side. When she speaks, it is with gentleness she doesn't often afford those her own age. "Falcon?" It's a curious name, perhaps a nickname or a result of eccentric parents, but she's not about to hazard a guess. "My name is Eva. Do you know why I'm here?"