We Are All Completely Fine Read Free Page A

conversation of people tiptoeing around each other. Martin had stopped talking, Greta had never started, and Stan wouldn’t stop. Harrison was entertaining fantasies about turning down his oxygen supply.
    Jan said, “We’re almost out of time. I’m wondering if people want to share their impressions. How’s it going for you? What do you think of the others?”
    The others? Harrison wasn’t about to touch that one. Jan had said that they were all trauma survivors, with similar experiences. If they’d gone through a fraction of the shit that Harrison had, that had to be Very Special Trauma indeed. It was pretty obvious why Stan was here; he was an old-school victim who’d never gotten tired of showing off his stumps. Barbara had said little about what had happened to her, only that she’d been attacked, and she’d been seeing Dr. Sayer since the ’90s. She seemed to have come to terms with it. She was calm, soothing, a natural nurse. Greta, however, was in no shape to help anyone. She was shell shocked, probably less than a year from whatever supernatural shit went down. And the black kid with the glasses—Martin—Harrison had no idea what to make of him.
    And how about the good doctor? He’d only had two sessions with her, after she’d contacted him about joining the group. She’d said she believed his story, which made him think she was lying. He wouldn’t believe his story.
    “I think it’s going about like I expected,” Harrison said. Meaning: nowhere.
    Barbara said, “I was wondering about Martin. He never seems to look at Greta.”
    “Who can tell?” Stan asked. “He’s wearing those damn shades.”
    “You do seem to be hiding behind them,” Barbara said gently to the young man. “I’d like to know what you’re thinking, but I can’t tell.”
    Harrison suddenly realized what was going on with the glasses. He leaned forward. “Hey. Martin.” The boy didn’t move. “Martin.”
    Martin hesitated, then swiveled his bug-eyed face in Harrison’s direction.
    Harrison said, “Are you recording this?”
    Martin sucked in his lip but did not turn away.
    Harrison said, “You’re wearing some new kind of Google glasses.”
    “It’s singular,” Martin said.
    “What?”
    “Google Glass, ” Martin said. “And no, these aren’t them. They’re actually made by a startup company called—”
    “Take them the fuck off.”
    That fuck went off like a little bomb. They’d been so polite so far.
    Martin didn’t move. No one spoke for a long moment, and then Stan said, “What is he talking about? Who’s recording this?”
    “I’m not recording anything,” Martin said.
    Harrison had put his hands on his knees, shifting his weight. Everyone in the circle tensed. Greta, next to Harrison, made a small sound too quiet for anyone but him to hear. Dr. Sayer watched him, but made no move to stop him.
    Harrison was annoyed. What? Leaning forward was not an act of violence. It signified, if anything, the mere willingness to take action. Or perhaps the first move in a sequence: one, Harrison jumping to his feet; two, reaching for doughy, defenseless Martin; three, ripping the glasses from his fucking face.
    Harrison leaned back, closed his eyes, and breathed deep. “I would appreciate it if you took off the glasses, Martin.”
    No one spoke. Harrison finally opened his eyes.
    Martin was gazing at the floor now. “Dr. Sayer said I could leave them on,” he said in a small voice.
    Barbara frowned. “Is that true, Jan?”
    “I said that he didn’t have to take them off to attend the group,” Jan said. “He promised me he would not make any recordings, or share what happens here—the same agreement I made with all of you.”
    “I gave my word,” Martin said.
    “And I took him at his word,” Jan said. “However, I did tell him that the group might want to discuss his wearing of them.”
    “I don’t want a camera in here,” Stan said.
    Martin made no move to remove the glasses.
    Jan said,