On the sixth day of my PTSD, my true love sent to me twelve pink pills in a box, and a partridge in a pear tree.

The psychiatrist says these are very light drugs.

I ask her for a few more days to handle my shit myself before I take them.

She gives me a piece of good advice, too. To carry on with my life, as if nothing happened. It's something I like.

My first step towards reaching said goal is to march into Mr. Warren's office, and to declare to him that I'm able to be effective at my job, so I don't need to be treated like a nutcase. Okay, my march resembles more a slow stagger, bordering on fainting, but still. And my so-called declaration a weak, but very angry murmur. My effectiveness, the heyday of a general strike. And I don't even want to go into details regarding the nutcase part.

Still, he doesn't object. When I demand to be allowed to accompany him to the court, like I usually do, he also agrees without a single word.

I wasn't expecting this. I came prepared, knowing that this time he'd have the upper hand by default, thanks to my sorry state. But, at second glance, he doesn't even look much better than I do. The dark circles around his eyes are nearly as alarming as mine.

We depart in time. A whole hour before the trial starts.

"Where are you going?" asks Bill, seeing us making our way to the exit. With the speed of a sloth. A very old one. Close to dying of old age.

"She prepared the case, weeks ago," Mr. Warren explains to him. "So nothing out of the ordinary. We're out."

"She's going to faint," Bill says.

"No, I'm not," I retort.

"No, she's not," Mr. Warren agrees, not as sure as he sounds, propping me up with a quick, hidden move from the back.

"The case is fucking complicated," Bill goes on, "so you might need—"

"I can handle it," Mr. Warren cuts in, with an unmistakable edge in his tone. Bill shuts up immediately.

"I'm prepared," I assure him, crawling in the elevator's direction.

"No doubt." He nods.

So everything's fine. Just a usual day at work. Going on with my life as if nothing happened. Doing my job and stuff. Like a pro.

In the courtroom, I do nothing. Like, literally. I just sit there, like a bundle of misery, trying to keep my face from hitting the table. If Mr. Warren asked me any questions, I failed to hear them. There is a constant buzzing inside my head, which makes it hard to concentrate on other voices. Like humans, for example.

When the trial is over, he touches my shoulder. He also tells me something, but the meaning eludes me. By the time we arrive back at the car, I can only walk if I hold on to his arm. I'm too disorientated to follow him otherwise.

My next snippet of memory is us, standing in an elevator. With me in the corner, and him, shielding me from everyone else. He definitely does a better job than Thelma. It's good that he's so big. He can hold back the whole crowd just by standing in their way.

He takes his job seriously. Just like everything else. He doesn't let anyone close, no matter how hard people are pushing him. It's such a relief. The other thing that makes my mood lighter, is that everyone seems to think that he's simply rude, refusing to move away. It fills me with some satisfaction. No one knows that he can't let them in because of me. And my demanding old friend, who's also traveling with us, called claustrophobia.

But even the magical Mr. Warren can't make a ballroom out of an elevator. Other people are kept away, at a safe distance, but he's very close. Too close, if I ask my old friend Claus. I expect my panic to kick in, so I close my eyes for a second, and start to count the floors, praying to arrive up there without a breakdown.

Next time I open my eyes, it's dark. Both outside and inside the room. Not pitch dark, there's a faint light, coming from behind a door.

It's a dreamy feeling, to wake up there. I don't know where I am. For a moment, I also consider the possibility of being dead. Because it's so peaceful. Nothing like the terror of the last few nights.

I come to my senses very slowly. It's a different kind of awakening than the ones I've got used to lately. Not the abrupt, panic-induced split between dream and reality. It's as gentle as a caress. A safe transition between good and better, guided by a feeling of being protected. Kind of like before being born.

I register my surroundings slowly. I'm lying on a couch. It's pulled out, so it's more like a bed now. The cover is strangely familiar.

The first surge of panic arrives when I realize that I'm in Mr. Warren's office. But even this can't snap me out of my relaxed mood. When I notice that he's also lying by my side, with his arms around me, it's a close call, but I still can't panic properly. I feel too good for it. Better than ever in the last few days.

I sigh and stretch my legs. I'm a little numb. I wonder how long I've been sleeping.

Mr. Warren clears his throat and answers my unspoken question.

"You've been asleep for eight hours straight. Good morning. Or night. Whatever."

Now, this is a little alarming. I might have died, after all. If we communicate telepathically, we might as well be on the other side of the veil. And it only gets scarier when he goes on.

"I know what you're about to ask. So, in order of significance. One, Ollie fetched Ben, he's sleeping at her place. Two, you did not faint, you only fell asleep. Three, I'm not trying anything funny, but you are screaming and kicking when I leave your side."

I sigh, and I rub my face against his arm. The drowsy feeling remains, but the happy, quiet buzzing in my body is gone. I'm grateful to him and Ollie. But it's alarming that I just fell asleep while standing. It's not just my problem anymore. It's something dangerous. I can't stay in denial any longer.

"I need help," I sigh. Not to him, in particular, rather to the darkness surrounding us.

He sighs too. Then he makes me turn over to face him. He moves me as easily as if I was made of paper.

"You've got help," he says, looking me deep in the eyes. Our foreheads are almost touching. Then he pulls me even closer, into a tight embrace.

I wait for my friend Claus to come and put up a resistance, but he must still be asleep. For another two minutes. Then he wakes up and orders me to stop breathing.

I slowly pull away from Mr. Warren. He seems to know what's up without me telling him. I turn around, facing the wall again. It's better this way. Claus slowly bids farewell and walks out of the room.

"Are you okay?" Mr. Warren asks, lightly massaging my back.

"I am," I answer. "Are you?"

"Of course, I am," he says, sounding clueless.

"Of course," I repeat. "At midnight, stuck at work, with me and Claus. What else can a man dream of?"

"I didn't have any other plans."

"Still," I groan, "this was a normal place until I showed up. And now you all revolve around my problems. It's supposed to be an office, not a support group."

"It's never been normal," he says, moving a bit closer. "We have Bill, remember? And Andy. And... okay, everybody has problems sometimes."

I let out a long, hopeless sigh.

"Look at the good part," he suggests.

"What do you mean?" I snort. "We came up with a whole new, revolutionary take on the old sleeping with your boss trope?"

His laugh is a deep rumble against my back.

"No," he says. "I mean the mere fact that you've slept. Finally."

"And I feel like I was born anew," I admit. "On the other hand, the fact that I fell asleep in a standing position, sounds less plausible."

"Nothing bad happened," he explains. "You didn't even fall. You just leaned against me, put your head on my chest, and that's it, you were asleep. It took less than a second."

"But still. It's not very safe."

"I think it is," he says. "And your body knows it."

"So the problem is with my brain, again," I sigh.

"Always," he agrees. "It should listen to your body more frequently."

"My body offers a limitless source of anxiety and pain at the moment."

"Not at all," he points out. "Not at the moment."

He's right. Which leads me to my next thought without skipping a beat.

"I have to go home."

"No," he says, again, sounding just like he's just indicating a very simple truth. "You don't have to. You can, though. But you can also stay here, where you are."

"For how long?" I ask him. Because the last thing I need is to get used to a method that works, just to face its unavailability later.

"As long as you want."

"Here, on your couch?"

He just sighs.

"I hope you're joking. But you're not, are you?"

"It's an important question, because—"

"Just sleep," he instructs me.

"Okay," I answer, sounding unusually obedient.

We're spooning. With Claus's approval. It's very comfortable and relaxing. For me, at least. I highly doubt the same goes for Mr. Warren's limbs.

But something's still missing. Something I decided not to indulge in. Now, though, with special regard to the extraordinary circumstances, I can be more lenient with myself. I tell my brain to shut up and allow my body to enjoy it as long as I can. Something that's certainly more pleasant than the memories of dead people, that my senses have been entertaining themselves with lately.

I clear my throat.

"I was wondering..."

"What?" he asks, sounding a bit irritated.

"Could you please just, you know, lie there? Without doing anything, I mean. Just like a log."

"A log?"

"Yeah. Not moving. As if you were dead. Okay, not like that. Definitely not like that. I've had enough of dead people, thank you. More like an object."

"Okay," he sighs. "I can do that."

He goes so quiet, he barely breathes.

I turn around, and with a surprise move, I bury my nose in his chest.

I fall asleep one minute later. With a shamelessly contented sigh.