(A/N: Once upon a time, like two years ago, I wrote an over-7,000-word-fanfiction in a single day, working for several hours straight. Then I set it aside and didn't touch it for months on end. Then I tried editing it like a billion times. Then I decided, screw it, it's just sitting doing nothing and I actually really like it, so I proofread it one more time and decided to post it even though it was years old by that point.

Enjoy!)

Most moms worry about their children's rebellious stages taking the form of hair dye, rap music, and edgy clothing.

Mrs. Bennett? Her son stole ice bags from the freezer.

"Not again…" The brunette woman sighed nervously to herself as she opened the freezer for a pint of ice cream, only to find a very large ice-bag shaped hole glaring back at her. She walked out onto the porch, where, as she feared, her 14-year-old son sat on a wooden swing, clutching the pilfered bag to his chest.

Now, it should be noted that the ice-bag stealing wasn't exactly a rebellion. Although to be honest, Mrs. Bennett often wished that it was. Teenagers that wanted to grow up and make their own decisions would eventually get their wish. But what did you do with a growing boy who was still a kid at heart? Mrs. Bennett struggled to find the right tone of voice to address him in.

"Sweetie, are you alright?"

No response. She tried again, this time with a firmer tone.

"Jamie, we've talked about this before. Hand it over."

The boy turned around slowly and quietly handed over the bag of ice. His face was red and swollen. Mrs. Bennett's heart sunk— he'd been crying again. She sat down next to him, wrapping her arm around him for comfort, and tried to coax him into talking.

"You'll feel better when you go to Pippa's house later." She looked at him hopefully, but Jamie only shook his head in silence.

"Sweetheart…" She sighed. "Look, I've been thinking about Tuesday."

The brown-eyed boy grimaced and clenched his fists, though he tried to hide it from his mother. He hated Tuesdays. And Fridays. And any other day where he had to see his therapist. He knew it was good for him, but he still hated it. And he knew his mother was going to tell him to act his age and stop giving her the silent treatment, but he hated that, too.

However, her reaction was calm and concerned. "Look, sweetie… every time you've come back from your therapist, you've been in tears. Mr. Young means well, but…" she sighed. "A therapist is supposed to make you feel better, not worse. Perhaps we should try another alternative."

Jamie kicked the snow. He didn't care what therapist he had. They'd all tell him the same thing. Any reasonable adult would. And the worst part was, they would be right. And he hated that.

It had been six months since people had stopped pretending. Six months ago, it was finally decided that Jamie's childhood fantasies had gone a bit too far. Six months ago, it was time to grow up. Six months ago, winter had ended, and the optimistic dreamer had stopped seeing shapes in the snow clouds and patterns in the ice and pictures in the frost on store windows.

Six months ago, Jamie Bennett had stopped believing.

Mrs. Bennett cleared her throat. "I had a thought… on Tuesday, how would you like to see a psychiatrist, instead of attending your normal therapy?"

Jamie raised his eyebrows in surprise. He wasn't exactly sure how to react to her statement.

"Aren't psychiatrists for crazy people?" he asked, a bit defensively.

Well, at least he'd finally said something. The mother fidgeted nervously in her seat. "Not exactly… a psychiatrist is someone who diagnoses medical conditions. For instance, somebody who couldn't sit still for a very long time might be diagnosed with ADHD," she added. She hoped her answer was reassuring enough for her son.

Jamie pondered the proposal for a moment, and then decided that anything was worth getting out of therapy for a day.

"Okay," he said, trying to keep his voice as monotone as possible. The less emotion he showed, the less chance he had to seem like a crazy person, right? Better to keep himself totally apathetic than to risk displaying some sort of abnormal sadness that needed treatment.

"Well, then," his mother replied awkwardly, unsure how to respond. "I'm going to go put this in the freezer before it melts." She paused and fanned her face with her hand. "This June heat, am I right?" She tried to give an awkward smile. Her son simply lowered his head in response. She quickly headed back into the house.

Jamie watched his mother leave out of the corner of his eye, frustrated that she hadn't let him keep the ice. He knew it was stupid and childish of him, but recently, hugging the ice bag was the only thing that made him feel better. Not just from the summer heat, but from the burning memories that consumed his mind. Not that the memories themselves were bad— the painful part was having to remind himself that they weren't real. The cold hugs that emanated chills which seeped through his sweater regardless of the weather outside. The frosty patterns on the school windows that left notes or pictures for Jamie to look at, while the teacher unsuccessfully attempted to get him to pay attention. The flurries of snow in the winter that paved a path to Jamie's school, and only to Jamie's school, that let the young boy know that someone was looking out for him and protecting him. None of that had been real— it was all just a product of an overactive imagination and sometimes random coincidence.

Jamie closed his eyes and curled up on the swing. He knew he should stop thinking about his problems. But then again, he got no pleasure from anything else, either. And sometimes— when he was deep in his memories— he would forget about the fact that nothing was real, and go back to a time when magic was real and dreams were attainable. Back when he had something to look forward to every day. Back when he felt he had something to live for. It only made the pain worse to come back to reality each time, but it was the only escape Jamie had.

The young teen allowed himself to drift off into an unconscious slumber. He figured he may as well take a nap before going over to Pippa's— he wasn't looking forward to seeing her. He wasn't looking forward to seeing anyone anymore.

"Come on, hun. Aren't you excited to meet Ms. Kenna? She might be able to help you." Mrs. Bennett was smiling hopefully, but her eyes boasted small, dark circles: proof of the sleep she's lost in anticipation over the psychiatrist visit.

Jamie, on the other hand, had slept just fine, but he showed no semblance of a smile like his mother's. He stared out the car window as they passed a group of children playing some sort of game with a bright red ball. Oddly enough, they evoked no emotion from Jamie. He did consider the possibility that he'd rather be playing with them than going to be checked out for "mental problems," but after the initial consideration he changed his mind. He hadn't enjoyed spending time with anyone his age lately. All their games seemed… boring. Lifeless. Like there was no point.

Not that it was any better with younger kids or adults. Little kids made him jealous, and adults made him feel ashamed for being jealous of the little kids. There wasn't anybody Jamie wanted to spend time with. But he didn't really want to be alone, either. He sighed heavily. Maybe he could convince his mom to buy another dog. He missed Abby.

"We're here!" Mrs. Bennett stretched as she got out of the car and adjusted her purse. "Now, sweetie, I know you've been having trouble talking to people lately, but try to keep an open mind."

Jamie rolled his eyes and followed his mother into the building.

The lobby looked a lot like the lobby of the place where Jamie attended therapy sessions, which was neither reassuring nor frightening. It was pretty much exactly as he'd expected. A slight but not overwhelming must lingered in the air, and there were a mix of informational and motivational posters hung about the room, but none of them were particularly interesting.

"…down the hall, and to your left," the receptionist was saying to Mrs. Bennett. He lowered his voice slightly (which only achieved Jamie, who was otherwise uninterested, looking over to see why the hush), and added, "Just so you know, she's a little… different than our other psychiatrists. But she's never misdiagnosed so far, and we've never had a single customer complaint."

"Thank you for letting us know," replied Mrs. Bennett. Then she took her son's hand and led him through several halls, all of which were bland-colored and uninteresting. They reached their destination, which was a brown door painted to look just like all the others. However, creaking the door open, the sight inside was… not exactly what Jamie had expected.

A young lady with blond hair sat on a couch reading a book, which was surprising for two reasons. The first was that she was lounging comfortably on the couch, which Jamie had been told not to do in the presence of company. The other was that the book she was reading looked like a fantasy from the cover, instead of some science-y book about the brain or crazy people.

Due to the overly relaxed position she was in, Jamie expected the woman to look surprised and perhaps embarrassed when he and his mother walked in. (In fact, his mother expected the same thing.) Instead, she looked up leisurely and smiled.

"Hi," she said. "Mrs. Bennett and Jamie, correct?"

Mrs. Bennett nodded politely. "Should I stay for the session or come back to pick him up in a few hours?"

"It's Jamie's choice, actually," the lady said in an even tone. This surprised Jamie more than her easygoing demeanor or the book with dragons on it. "So? What do you think?" she asked him. "Your mother will attend a session with us eventually, of course, but some people find it hard to express their feelings in front of their family. I know I have trouble trying to explain anything to my mom." She chuckled good-naturedly.

Jamie decided that he liked this woman more than his therapist, even though his mother seemed to like her, too. She was nice, but she didn't come across as patronizing. And she had yet to refer to him as a "child" or a "patient—" so far, she'd only called him by his name. Like he was just another normal human being.

"I'd rather we talked alone," he said. Ms. Kenna nodded to his mother.

"I'll see you in a couple of hours, then," Mrs. Bennett said, kissing the top of her son's head. "I'm going to do some grocery shopping at the store. Call me if you need anything." Then she left the room, car keys jingling as she went.

Ms. Kenna waited until she was gone, then got up and closed the door gently. "Hello, Jamie," she said. "I'm Ms. Kenna, in case you haven't been told yet."

"I was told," he said, though he suddenly felt a twinge of guilt for having judged her before knowing anything other than her name. Still, she wasn't going to be able to help him. Nobody could.

"Well then, you can call me Ms. Kenna if you want, or Clarice, if you prefer. You know, since I'm using your first name." She went to a desk in the corner, where Jamie expected her to start typing information into a computer. Instead, she opened a drawer and pulled out a bag of chips.

"Do you mind if I eat while we talk?" she asked. Jamie shook his head, a little surprised.

"Thanks," she said. "I forgot to bring my lunch today and I don't think I can wait until work gets out to eat something." She went back to the couch and patted a seat next to her. "You wanna sit down?"

Jamie nodded, still a little wary, and sat down next to her. He was used to sitting or even lying down on a couch at his therapy sessions, but he'd never had the adult in the room sitting with him. Much less eating chips while doing so.

"You want one?" She offered. He shook his head and she shrugged.

"Ok. More for me. So, Jamie: your mother brought you in here because your therapist suggested it, correct?" She studied his body language as she talked. He was clearly uncomfortable with her, as most kids were in the beginning: he was sitting up a bit too straight and his legs were stiff. And— yeesh— his hands were folded mechanically in his lap, like he was in a business meeting. Her goal for the day, Ms. Kenna decided, was to have Jamie completely relaxed on the couch by the end of the session. (Her goal for the previous day had been to put her lunch by the door where she wouldn't forget it, which she hadn't succeeded at; but, as she figured, you can't win them all.)

"Uh… Mom never told me that," he said, a bit offended. "But it's probably true. My therapist hates me." He crossed his arms in a huff.

"I doubt that. Anyway, I'm glad you ended up here." She decided that her goal for the next ten seconds was to catch a chip in her mouth. She threw one up in the air. Yes! Goal accomplished.

"Why? You think you can help me?" Jamie asked. Every adult he met thought they could help him, and, spoiler alert, none had.

"Well, yea, I think I can help you. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. But we'll see if I'm right by the end of today's session." She ate another two chips at once.

"Doesn't stuff like this usually take longer than a day?" he asked, his voice flat. "I mean, I've been going to my therapist for four months now, at least twice a week. And he hasn't helped at all." Somewhat impulsively, Jamie threw a pillow on the floor in anger. Partially because he was mad, and partially because he was curious as to how Ms. Kenna would react.

To his surprise, she smiled.

"Ooh, an inquisitor," she said. "It's been a while since I had one of those. I was an inquisitor as a kid. It got me in a lot of trouble with my teachers. Actually, scratch that— I'm still an inquisitor, and it still gets me in trouble. Hm, well, I'm pretty still a kid, too, so same thing, I guess." She laughed.

Not really the response Jamie had been expecting. He looked around awkwardly. "So…" he said, trying to change the subject. "What's your book about?"

"Oh, it's about a group of dragons that steal gold from evil kings to make them pay for their actions," she said. Her tone was easy and conversational. "It's really good. But we should probably talk about why you're here— that is what I'm getting paid for."

Seeing that he wasn't going to be able to avoid the subject, Jamie huffed, "I'm here because they think that something's wrong with me."

"Who's 'they?'" Ms. Kenna asked.

"Everyone. My parents. My teachers. My friends. Even my little sister, for crying out loud." He choked to stop a sudden onslaught of tears welling up, and made a mental note not to think about Sophie if he could help it.

"Hmm. Are you sure everybody thinks this?" she asked. She silently made a note of the nearest box of tissues in case Jamie had to start crying— she noticed that he'd blinked hard once or twice, but she didn't say anything yet. An inquisitor she'd diagnosed with anxiety three years ago had taught her that pointing out a near-cry could end up making someone feel worse, because they may fear they haven't been hiding their feelings well in public.

"Everybody," he said. His voice had calmed to a normal, annoyed level again. "It's not that they're wrong, though. There is something wrong with me." He took in a deep breath. "I still believed in Santa Claus until, like, half a year ago." He forced a laugh, but even to him it sounded fake.

"Really?" Ms. Kenna asked, in a perfectly casual voice. She threw away her now-empty bag of chips and took a sip of water from a bottle on the table.

"Yea. And the Easter Bunny. And the Tooth Fairy. And the Sandman." He took in a deep, shaky breath. "And…" he couldn't make himself say it. "Some others."

"Interesting," she said. Her voice was still even, as though she were talking about the weather. "So did you know any of them personally or did you just believe they existed?"

That definitely wasn't a question he'd expected. "I knew them," he said. "Well, I met them, anyway. I only really knew one of them." He veered the subject off-course a little. "My sister was closest with the Easter Bunny," he said, laughing. "She accepted the truth about all those stories at a normal age, though. She's a normal kid. I'm the one who needs help." Jamie looked down, ashamed.

His sister? Ms. Kenna tapped her chin thoughtfully. She didn't know he had a sister. She pondered for a moment, then resolved a six-month goal to at least get a meeting with this supposed "normal kid."

"So, Jamie," she said, "who were you closest with?"

He winced. He'd hoped she wouldn't bring that up, but he supposed it was inevitable. "I, um… I was very close with Jack Frost," he said, trying to pass it off in as joking a tone as possible. "Funny, right? Of all the fairytales out there, I chose the really obscure one that hardly even had a developed character."

Ms. Kenna frowned. "Well, that's not very nice. I don't think he'd like to hear you say that."

Jamie shuddered uncomfortably at the statement. He was trying very hard not to think about how insensitive it was— he was trying to remind himself that it didn't matter.

"Um… I guess so. It's just a story," he said quickly. He scrambled to find a way to change the subject, but the psychiatrist looked deep in thought.

"Hmmm…" she said. "But you didn't used to think so, right?"

"W-well, yea, used to. I mean, when I was a little kid. But It d-doesn't matter anymore." His lip started to quiver violently, and he silently scolded himself for the emotional slip.

Ms. Kenna walked slowly and casually to the tissues she'd scanned the room for earlier, and set them down on the table in case he needed them. She kept her movements easy and didn't look Jamie in the eye, as if she were trying to approach an injured animal.

"So," she said gently, "you were closest with Jack Frost. I'd like to hear a little about his personality, if you don't mind."

Jamie opened his mouth to speak, but his breathing betrayed him, growing uneven. Despite his best efforts, tears started streaming down his face faster than he could stop them. He grabbed some tissues and dried his face off as casually as he could, then rubbed his eyes vigorously with his sleeve to try and dry them out.

"Oh, careful about rubbing your eyes too hard, you could scratch them," Ms. Kenna said. Then she smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I sound like a mom. It's a habit from taking care of my younger siblings. You can take a few minutes, if you need." That last tip she'd learned from a boy with depression towards the beginning of her career. It was always important to give people some space and time to calm down if they wanted it, but it was equally important to make sure it sounded like a choice, so they didn't feel they were being punished.

"N-no, I'm okay," Jamie said quickly, patting his eyes a little gentler. "Um, may I have a sip of water?" He watched Ms. Kenna cross the room and get a fresh bottle of water from the fridge, which she tossed to him.

"It's pretty cold; I hope that's okay," she said. "I can't stand warm water. Anyway, you can continue."

He untwisted the cap, which was surprisingly hard to do with shaking hands, and took a sip. Then, with a deep breath, he steadied his voice the best he could and began.

"He was really nice," he started. "Mischievous, but nice. And protective. He would always convince me to do dangerous stuff, like sledding down steep hills, but he'd follow me the whole time to make sure I was safe." He laughed weakly. "Sometimes I'd ask him to cool off my drinks for me."

"And did that work?" Ms. Kenna asked.

"Huh?"

"When you asked Jack to cool off your drinks for you. Did he?" she prompted.

"Well— I— Uh—" Jamie stammered. "I do remember them tasting cold, but, y'know, that was just my overactive imagination… I was a kid. I could make anything seem real."

"I see," she said, tapping her fingers on her lap. She knew his words weren't his own— his speech pattern was informal, and wouldn't normally include diction like 'overactive imagination.'

"Jamie," she said suddenly, "you said you've been going to a therapist for four months, correct?"

"Y-yea," he said. All of the sudden he worried she'd scold him for not having made any emotional progress yet. Why had he opened up so much?

"This therapist… I assume they told you the best way to get over your 'childhood fairytales' is the embrace real life, right?" She watched his eyebrows raise a little in surprise. She had to admit to getting some satisfaction every time she correctly guessed something about someone's life that they hadn't directly told her. Their surprise always gave her more confidence in her own abilities.

"Yea, she has," Jamie said, and then added defensively, "And before you tell me I haven't tried it, I have. And it hasn't worked for me."

"Ah. I was just about to ask you that." Ms. Kenna took a swig from her water bottle. "So losing your belief in these 'characters' hasn't made you happy, has it?"

He looked up at the adult suspiciously. "No… but it'll make me happier in the long run. I'll learn how to accept disappointment better, and I won't spend my time chasing frivolous fantasies," he sighed.

A sudden, short burst of laughter broke the quiet atmosphere of the room. "I'm sorry," Ms. Kenna said quickly. "It's just that you're very good at memorizing things. I'll bet you do well in school.

"I don't get it," he said, a bit hurt that she'd laughed at him.

"Those words aren't your own, Jamie. You were quoting someone else just now— maybe multiple people. Do you actually believe what you just said?" she asked.

After hesitation, he responded, "Yea, I do. Why else would I quote them?"

"Oh, don't get me started talking about psychology," she giggled, "or I'll ramble for hours." (Jamie felt slightly better that she laughed at herself, too.) "The real point here is," she continued, "if believing in all those things made you happy, why did you stop? It sounds like the worst thing Jack ever convinced you to do was go sledding. For goodness sakes, even driving down the freeway is more dangerous than that— and a whole lot less fun, trust me." She shifted herself so she was looking at him more directly, but didn't turn him to face her— she didn't know if he'd be comfortable with her touching him. (And technically it was against the rules to touch a client, but that wasn't really important if it was what they needed.)

"Isn't your job to convince me that I'll be better off accepting the truth and not living in a fantasy?" Jamie asked, glaring at her.

A wide grin spread across her face. "Thankfully, no that's not my job. My job is to analyze people and slap a label on them so people will stop harassing us for being 'weird.'"

Jamie's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but not altogether untrustingly. He hadn't realized it at first, but Ms. Kenna was just as mischievous as Jack Frost, and now he was too curious about what she was saying to rat her out to another adult. He suddenly understood what she'd meant when she called him an "inquisitor" earlier.

"What do you mean, a label?" he asked. "Don't you mean a 'diagnosis?' But, the way you said it—" suddenly, he stopped. "Wait a second, you said us. You definitely used the word us."

Ms. Kenna grinned slyly. Jamie tried not to, but he couldn't help breaking into a slight smile himself. It was too much like when he and Jack used to start snowball fights at school in the winter. When nobody was really doing anything wrong, but there was still a sense of mischievousness and fun and nervous excitement.

"Oops, my secret's out," the psychiatrist giggled. The next part was her favorite. With a swift, practiced motion, she pulled out a "Hello, My Name Is _" label from her pocket— only, "name" had been crossed out in sharpie and replaced with "diagnosis," and "anxiety" had been written in the blank space. She peeled off the backing and stuck it to her shirt.

"Do you like it?" She beamed at the boy. "I have, like, 200 of these. I always keep one in my pocket in case I meet another inquisitor."

Jamie's grin widened. "That's a lot of work just to tell people you're diagnosed with anxiety."

"Yea, but it's fun work," she laughed back. Then her face softened into a gentle smile. "Um, if you want, I'd actually like to show you something I hardly show anyone, but you have to do me a favor in return."

He scoffed a little. He's trust her if he hadn't been told the same thing before. "Yea, you probably say that to every kid," he said.

Ms. Kenna shook her head. "I'm serious. I'll name them. I've showed a boy named Brady, a girl named Dana, an older woman named Patty… oh, and my ex." A sudden, short flash of emotions crossed her face, and Jamie was suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that although she was an adult, Ms. Kenna was a human being too, with feelings and crushed dreams and wishes for the future. It was an odd experience that he tried to shake off quickly.

"Well… what's the favor?" he asked cautiously.

"I'll tell you afterward. Do you want to see it or not?" she retorted in a teasing manner. Apparently she knew that he was too curious to back down either way.

"Fine. What is it?" he asked.

She motioned him over to the desk where her now-empty bag of chips had come from and opened a drawer. Inside were some paper clips, a package of gummy worms, several pieces of paper (mostly printed-out documents with doodles in the margins), and a somewhat old looking stuffed cat, which she pulled out of the drawer.

"This is Mr. Tiger," she said, stroking the kitty's head with one finger.

"He looks kinda small to be a tiger. Also, not the right colors," Jamie commented. Yet she seemed pleased by his remark. (Jamie wouldn't learn until later that his use of the pronoun he instead of it was what caused her smile.)

"Yes, he is," Ms. Kenna mused, "but I named him when I was little. Anyway, when I was three or four, I slept with this guy every night. He kept me safe from the monsters under my bed. Also spiders and stuff like that." She handed the plush of Jamie, who looked at her quizzically for the rest of the story.

"He can also talk— telepathically, anyway." She smiled. "Tell me, have you seen Harry Potter?"

"I've seen it, yea," he said flatly.

"Ok. Remember when Harry was at King's Crossing after he died, and he asked Albus Dumbledore if everything was in his head or if it was reality? Do you remember what Dumbledore replied?" She looked at the boy expectantly.

He shifted in his seat. He did know which quote came next, but it still hit him hard to hear her say it. As she did, she moved the stuffed kitten in her hands, and Jamie swore he could almost hear its tiny voice mimicking the wise and sagely wisdom of Albus Dumbledore.

"He said, 'Of course this is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?'"

Jamie took a deep breath.

"What's the favor?"

Jamie stood outside behind Ms. Kenna's office and scanned the huge backyard. He thought it odd that the building even had a backyard, but then again, nothing about this visit so far had been orthodox. He glanced over at the windows to Ms. Kenna's office: she would have had a perfect view of him, but she'd closed the blinds. Jamie wondered briefly if it was legal to leave him unattended, but he decided not to ask questions.

He took a deep breath and walked further into the yard. He felt his heart start thumping hard against his chest.

"Jack?" he whispered in a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat, but his words still came out shaky.

"Look, I… I know you might hate me right now. I don't even know if you can hear me… you might not even be here." He looked down at his feet. "But, um, if you can hear me… I want you to know that I'm sorry. I'm sorry I got pressure into doubting you, a-and—" Although he tried to contain it, the 14-year old boy began to sob.

"I'm sorry I stopped believing in you, Jack! You were showing up less and less, and I thought it was because I wasn't imagining you or something—" He stopped to wipe his tears away.

"But that was stupid! And e-even if I can't ever see you again, I— I'm not gonna stop believing in you!" He gained a sudden burst of courage, though his voice trembled more violently than ever.

"My grandpa still refuses to walk under a ladder because he thinks it's bad luck. And my mom always pays for things with exact change, even though it doesn't save anybody time or money. And if they're full-grown adults and they're allowed to believe in silly superstitions like that, then I'm gonna believe in you! Because… y-you're my best friend, a-and you're like an older to brother to me, and I MISS YOU, JACK!" A heavy stream of tears started flowing down his face as the boy fell to his knees.

And then, although he didn't dare expect for it to happen,

Jamie felt someone brush away his tears.

Someone cool to the touch.

As the sensation of cold skin changed to fabric, Jamie dared to open his eyes, his breathing ragged and uneven. His face was pressed into a familiar, tangible blue sweatshirt. He pulled his head out of the cloth and looked up into a pair of baby blue eyes, on a face which— to his astonishment— had more swollen red lines on it than his did.

"Jamie," Jack whispered. His voice and hands trembled.

"Jack, I—" He was about to apologize again, but Jack pulled him back against his cold body and sunk his head into the little boy's shoulder. Jamie closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of pine trees emanating from the blue sweater. Ms. Kenna's office had been air conditioned, but out in the summer sun, the cold shivers running down Jamie's spine were a more than welcome addition to the comforting pressure of being hugged to death.

Finally, the Guardian pulled away, giving Jamie a moment to breath easy.

"I think we should go inside," Jamie said, smiling through wet eyes. It had been a long time since he'd smiled an actual, genuine smile. "There's someone I want you to meet."

Several minutes and a formal introduction later, Jamie and Jack sat on the couch listening to Ms. Kenna while she spun around in a spinny chair by her desk.

"So basically," she said, launching herself into another spin by kicking the wall, "we're going with Jack being a hallucination to fulfill the father figure in your life. Right?" She tried to maintain her casual tone of voice, but in all honesty the only way she could keep from breaking out into squeals was by getting her energy out by pushing herself in the spinny chair. Jamie was sitting on Jack's lap in the couch, his tiny hands holding Jack's pale ones against his chest. Jack was sitting cross-legged, and Jamie fit comfortably in the space he created. It was honestly the most adorable thing she'd ever seen.

Goal for the day: more than accomplished, she thought to herself, giving a small fist-pump. Maybe for tonight's goal she would try to remember to put her lunch in the right place again.

"As long as it gets the adults to leave Jack alone, I don't care what you tell them," Jamie said, beaming.

"Alright, then." Ms. Kenna stopped spinning in her chair and finally started to type something on the computer, which was the first 'official' thing she'd done all day.

"I know I've said it already, but I can't tell you how much I owe you."

The snow spirit, not the patient, was speaking. The blond laughed and waved a hand dismissively.

"Ah, don't worry about it! How often do I get to meet a Guardian? Pretty neat, if I do say so myself. Besides, I found another inquisitor, and that's always good." Suddenly, she clasped her hands to her mouth.

"OH! Jamie, I have something for you! I wanted to give them to all the inquisitors I met, but I tend to have a problem remembering to actually give them away…" she opened a different drawer of the desk— one Jamie hadn't noticed before— and pulled out a patch, like the kind that was often on girl scout uniforms. It was a white question mark, with blue stitching around the edges.

"You don't have to take it, but I thought it'd be kinda cool to give to all the other inquisitors I met," she said, presenting it to Jamie. For the first time, he actually caught onto an air of nervousness around her as she held it out to him.

"I'd love it! That's a really awesome concept," he said, grinning at her. The gap in his mouth was long gone— he had all his adult teeth by now— but there was one slightly askew in his mouth where it had grown in wrong. He rather liked it; it was a reminder of the first time Jack had gotten him into trouble, and Jamie hadn't even known it at the time.

"Here you go, then," Ms. Kenna said, handing him the badge. She beamed from his compliment. "Hey, if you ever meet another one of us, let me know, okay?" She pointed to her computer somewhat shyly, where Jamie realized she'd stuck a decal that matched the patch he now held.

"By the way, if you don't mind… could you give me some advice?" she asked. Jamie looked up in surprise.

"Sure, about what?" He wanted to help her in any way he could. Jack looked curious, too.

"About today. The way I treated you, I mean," she said. "You might've noticed I do things a little differently around here than most others in my profession. That's because whenever I meet someone I trust, I ask them what I could've done differently to make them feel more comfortable with me. People are always going to books and other professionals for advice, but common sense says the best advice would come from the people you're trying to help, right? So, that's who I go to. Now, do you have any suggestions for me?"

Jamie thought hard about what she'd said. He felt a tremendous respect growing for her as he realized he couldn't think of anything she could've done better than she did.

"Um… no, I don't," he said sheepishly. "I'll tell you if I think of something."

"Aw, well, thanks. Guess I'd better get this boring paperwork done," she sighed, and then resumed typing on her computer. "Oh, here— you deserve this." She tossed him the unopened bag of gummy worms. "Share with Jack. If he eats food."

"So… you kind of owe me for ditching me all those months," Jack said slyly. It was completely true, Jamie thought, but his tone was teasing.

"I don't trust you," he said, but he was smiling.

"Good, you shouldn't. Because as soon as you get a break to yourself, we're going sledding," he said mischievously.

"In the summer?" Jamie said, surprised. "How?"

"I'm curious about this, also," Ms. Kenna said, unable to stay focused on her document. She turned towards them with a twinkle in her eye. "Sledding in the summer? Please, do go on."

(Not gonna lie, Ms. Kenna is one of my favorite OCs I've ever created. When I made her I think she was my favorite.)