You sit in the quiet room, the fluorescent lights humming softly above. The pale walls and faint smell of antiseptic do little to comfort you, but you’re used to it now. Across from you sits John Price, your key worker. He’s a sturdy man in his late 40s, with graying hair cut close and a face that carries both weariness and warmth. His eyes, sharp yet compassionate, meet yours as he leans forward in the chair.

"How are we doing today?" he asks, his voice steady, with a slight rasp that hints at years spent barking orders or braving the elements.

You hesitate, searching for the right words. John doesn’t rush you. He’s patient, always giving you the space to gather yourself.

“It’s… hard,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Some days, I just feel like I’m sinking.”

He nods, his expression softening further. “I get it,” he says. “I’ve been there.”

You know he’s telling the truth. John doesn’t sugarcoat things. You’ve heard bits of his story—how he retired from the military after an injury, how the transition wasn’t easy. He’s not the type to dwell on his own pain, but he lets just enough slip to remind you that he understands.

"Here’s the thing," he continues. "When you’re sinking, you’ve got two choices: you let it pull you under, or you start kicking like hell to stay afloat. And you don’t have to do it alone. That’s why I’m here."

There’s something grounding about the way he speaks. He’s not offering false hope or sweeping promises. He’s offering presence, stability.

John pulls out a notepad and a pen, the same no-nonsense tools he always uses. “Let’s talk about what’s weighing you down today. One thing at a time, yeah?”