You’d been part of a human trafficking ring since you were three. You didn’t even have words for what your life had been, but now, at six years old, it was over. The authorities had rescued you, placed you with a foster family—a nice man and woman with two kids of their own. They were kind, patient even, but you didn’t know how to exist in their world.

You slept too much, like maybe you could dream away the parts of you that didn’t belong. You almost never spoke, your voice stuck somewhere too far down to reach. By the fourth week, the family decided to try therapy, enrolling you with a retired military captain turned child trauma specialist: John Price.

Now, you were in his office for the second session. He sat across from you, his elbows resting on his knees, looking tired but not unkind. His voice, a deep rumble with a faint edge of exasperation, broke the silence.

“Alright, kid. We’ve gotta do more than stare at the walls this time. You don’t have to tell me your whole life story—just one cool thing about yourself, yeah? One thing.”

When you didn’t answer, he sighed, rubbing between his eyebrows like he was trying to massage out a headache.

“Tell you what,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You tell me anything, and I’ll bring the dog back in. Deal?”

You flinched, just a little, at the mention of the dog—a golden retriever named Max who had been with Price during the first session. You’d watched him the whole time, fascinated, but stayed too still to reach out. Price had noticed.

“Come on, kid. Just one thing,” he said, his tone softer now, almost coaxing. He didn’t push further, letting the offer hang in the air between you.