Page 23 of Into the Fire: Before

A high-pitched tone pierced my ears as a nearby demonstrator cued up a megaphone. “The Omega Census is a tool of the regressive pro-des party!” the omega shouted through the speaker. “The omegas of the State of Remington call on Corinth Wainwright to voteyeson HB25-17 and put this anti-neutrality legislation to bed at last!”

Another chant—Wainwright, make it right!—broke out. I shouted it loud enough that my throat ached.

“Wainwright, make it right!”

A sleek black car slowed to a stop, blocked from the curb by my omega siblings.

“Wainwright, make it right!”

Cops in bullet-proof vests blew whistles, clearing the path for the car to pull closer to the sidewalk.

“Wainwright, make it right!”

The crowd compressed, bodies pressed tight around me as the cops pushed and prodded us backward. Our volume never decreased.

“Wainwright, make it right!”

More cops cleared a pathway, keeping the crowd back like security at a red carpet premiere, as Corinth and his compatriots cut through the omegas toward the car.

“Wainwright, make it right!”

The driver stood outside the opened back door as Corinth approached. Before he disappeared inside, he scanned our group, face entirely neutral. Then he climbed inside, the other men followed, and the car pulled away.

The cheers down the sidewalk were earsplitting, and I shouted and whooped and cheered with the rest of my omega siblings. So much had changed, had been bettered for me. And that change had started out sixty, seventy years ago on streets like this one. Gran had stood out in crowds like this and shouted for what she deserved, for what she wanted for her children and beyond.

She’d been gone for almost three years now, but I could almost see her proud smile, could almost feel her slip her hand into mine and march beside me, calling for a better world.

Brea

IfeltlikeIwas going to puke. And not just at the memory of Saturday night’s humiliation.

My first ever client—the first person I would therapize—would be here in moments. Everything I had done, the running away and shitty apartments and candles burning from both ends constantly all the time, had all led me here.

Granted, I was only an apprentice counselor. Olinda, the kind older beta who’d been in the biz for close to two decades, was really running the show. She and the other mentors had spent Monday and Tuesday meeting with the clients assigned to us residents, obtaining appropriate signatures and consents to move forward in the program.

Today, though, the spotlight would be on me.

To ask the right questions.

To actively listen.

To make them feel comfortable enough to open up and tell not one, buttwototal strangers their deepest vulnerabilities.

Absolutely zero pressure.

I thought about all the portrayals I’d ever seen of shrinks and counselors on TV, the cliche lines and jokes.And how does that make you feel?simply wouldn’t cut it here.

The clock read three minutes until appointment time. Olinda and I sat in side-by-side green velvet armchairs, each of us with a small end table to set our notebooks and water glasses. Across from us was a rust-colored velvet loveseat. For the client. My client. Who I would counsel.

Don’t puke don’t puke don’t puke.

Two minutes to go.

I should’ve been listening to Olinda as she read out a general summary of the incoming client, but all I could think about was how quickly the seconds would fly by if the ticks on the clock were to match my pounding pulse.

My heart only raced faster at the creak and click of the outer office door opening and closing, at the heavy, hesitant footsteps approaching the smaller inner office where we sat waiting. A familiar crisp citrus and cinnamon scent cut into the room just as the door was pushed open and a large alpha with dark hair stepped in.

“Ah,” Olinda said, standing and ushering him into the room. As I was supposed to be doing. If I weren’t frozen in my chair. “Welcome in, Caine. Have a seat. This is our resident, Brea, who’ll be steering your sessions for the next four months.”

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