The client is still on the line when my hands start shaking uncontrollably.
We are very close, I repeat.
No response, just the sound of sobbing. It takes a long time to get to these rural areas.
I can almost see her lying on the cupboard floor, lit by the blue of her phone, listening.
I sit on my hands and vow to stop drinking coffee. My face is hot. My heart is pounding.
I ask the client to breathe with me. She does — in, out.
I pause, wiggle one headphone away from my head and lean forward.
Something drips onto the keyboard, warm and clear. These are not my tears.