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He laughs. “House of horrors, man.”

He’s not wrong. The breaker panel on this place looks like someone closed their eyes and shoved wires wherever they fit. It’s satisfying in a way, undoing other people’s bad decisions. You can’t fix everything, but you can fix this circuit, this line, this junction.

People aren’t that simple.

By twelve-thirty,we’ve got most of the new runs in, and my shirt is sticking to my back.

“Take your lunch,” I tell Benny, rolling my shoulders. “I’m gonna bounce. Appointment.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “Hot date?”

“Yeah,” I say dryly. “Me and my emotional baggage. Very romantic.”

He laughs like it’s a joke.

“Don’t let the wires kill you while I’m gone,” I add, grabbing my hoodie off the back of a chair.

He salutes with his lineman’s pliers. “No promises.”

Outside, the air is crisp and cool, with a little bite off the ocean. I stand on the front walk for a second, eyes closed, letting the breeze cut through the fog in my head.

I can still bail.

There’s a version of me that does. Texts the number, cancels, and says something about work running late. Easy. I have a real job. Real responsibilities. No one could argue with that.

I picture Caleb’s face if I told him.

The way his voice went soft when he said, I don’t want to break you.

I get in the truck.

The counseling center Dr. Kaur’s referral was for is on the edge of downtown, in a squat building wedged between a yoga studio and a laundromat. It looks like every other office I’ve ever seen—neutral, like it’s trying not to offend anyone.

I park and just… Sit there for a second, forehead against the steering wheel, hands resting at ten and two.

I fix things for a living. I walk into places with faulty wiring and figure out what’s wrong. This is the first time I’m walking into a room where I’m the one who might blow a breaker.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, and climb out.

Inside, the lobby smells like coffee and lemon cleaner. There are chairs lined up along the wall, a table with magazines no one reads, and a little plant that’s either thriving or dying.

The woman at the front desk glances up when the door chimes. “Hi there,” she says, professionally bright. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Uh. I’m Miguel Veracruz. I have a one-thirty?”

She types something and nods. “First-time intake. Got you.” She slides a clipboard toward me. “If you can fill this out, your counselor will be right with you.”

The form is exactly what I expect and worse.

Name. Date of birth. Emergency contact.

I pause at that, pen hovering.

I write Mom’s name, then scratch it out and add Caleb’s under it, because that’s the number they should call if everything goes sideways. Then I add Mom again because if they call him and something’s wrong with me, he’ll self-destruct.

The next section is a checklist.

Have you experienced any of the following in the last month?