I know this one is a bit short, but the next chapters will definitely make up for it (the angst is strong with those ones). I just really wanted to get this finished so we can get to the chapter I've really been looking forward to. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed!

Also, I just want to add that you are now reading something written by a college graduate.

"Nothing is working. We've tried four different medications and none of them have fixed it. I'm already on the highest dosage so we can't make it higher. None of the breathing exercises are working. I can't sleep for more than an hour before I have a nightmare. Nothing is making it any better."

Charlotte wrote something down on her notepad and looked up at Will. "Sometimes people just don't respond to medications that others thrive on. However, that doesn't mean that we're out of options."

Will had his face buried in his hands but looked up when he heard what she said. "What else is there?"

"Well," Charlotte said, "there's more intense types of therapy that you could do. Those could be beneficial but they're really not for everyone so it's entirely up to you. There's also something else, but I've always considered it to be more of a last resort because of the work involved."

"If there's even the slightest possibility that it'll help, I'll do it."

Charlotte nodded. "Have you looked into service dogs at all?"

"Jem mentioned them when we were looking through all those pamphlets but that's it. I thought they were only for mobility things."

"Not necessarily," Charlotte said. "There's so many different types of service dogs out there and they can be very beneficial for PTSD. Even just training them can help. It kind of helps to distract from all of the symptoms. You also said that you had some days where you just didn't get out of bed, right?"

Will shrugged. "Sometimes."

"Well, the dog has to be let out to go to the bathroom so it forces you to get out of bed. Of course, there's also the different tasks they can do to help PTSD. They take a lot of time and effort, but they're worth it."

Will thought about it for a moment, then said, "What if I get one and do all the training and then by the time its fully trained I'm all better and don't need it anymore?"

"PTSD can last for a very long time so I guarantee that won't happen. If you are worried about that, though, there are some organizations that train the dog and you just have to work with them for a few weeks and then you have a fully trained dog. However, I've noticed that service dogs who are owner-trained from day one have a better relationship with their handler."

Will just nodded. He'd realized a while ago that this was something he was going to be dealing with for a long time, but he was having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that he might need something with that much of a commitment just to try to live a normal life. It was a lot to take in. He'd come to his first therapy appointment two months ago thinking that he'd just go to a few appointments and then be done, but now…

"You don't have to decide right now," Charlotte said. "There's other things we can try. You should look into it, though. Just in case you decide that you want to go that route later on. I can even give you some recommendations for breeders and trainers."

"I'll think about it," Will said.

. .

Will kept his promise. As soon as they got home, Jem went into his office to look over some new music and Will went to his laptop to look up service dogs. Just as Charlotte said, there were many more types of service dogs than he had originally thought. There were some that could detect blood sugar changes in people with diabetes, some to help people walk or stay balanced, some to help children with autism… and, of course, ones to help people with PTSD. Half an hour later, he had about 15 tabs open, all of which were about psychiatric service dogs and half of which were YouTube videos of service dogs. He barely even noticed Jem putting a cup of tea down in front of him until it was in his hand and halfway to his mouth.

"What have you been doing since we got home?" Jem asked as he sat down with his own tea.

"Just something Charlotte mentioned," Will said.

"And what was that?"

"Service dogs."

"I see," Jem said. "And are you going to get one?"

Will looked at the multitude of tabs he had open on service dogs and said, "Probably not."

Jem leaned over to look at the screen of Will's laptop. "That's an awful lot of research for someone who isn't going to get a service dog."

"They're a lot of work," Will said. "Getting one from an organization is expensive and owner training is a huge commitment. I don't even think I need one anyway. It's not that bad."

"Sure," Jem said, but the look he was giving Will made it clear that he did not believe him. "Well, if you do decide to get one, don't forget that I'm right here and I can help if you need me to. Besides, I think you'd look cute training a puppy."

Will glared at him. "I am not cute, I am handsome. There's a difference, you know."

"Of course I know that," Jem said, then added, "Cutie."

. .

As much as he tried, Will just couldn't stop thinking about service dogs. Every time they were out and he saw one, he couldn't stop staring until they were out of sight or the person noticed. He wasn't trying to be creepy. Instead, he was trying to imagine himself with one and he just found it amazing that dogs could be trained to do all those different things he'd read about online.

Every panic attack or flashback just cemented the idea more. There had been a particularly bad panic attack while Jem was out and he'd somehow managed to wedge himself between the toilet and the wall and had stayed there until Jem got home and found him. As Jem sat in front of him and tried to get him to just breathe and relax, the thought popped into his head: Would this have been over faster with a service dog?

Wednesday night was what Will liked to call their "Go out to a restaurant cause Charlotte says he needs to leave the flat more often" night. Charlotte had suggested it a few weeks ago because he apparently needed to get out in public more, especially because being out made him more jumpy and anxious than he already was. It was basically like exposure therapy and he was usually fine as long as Jem was right there and they weren't around any triggers, most of which weren't found in restaurants. They usually took turns picking a restaurant and this time Will had chosen some random restaurant that was both close to the flat and had a coupon online. The name looked familiar, but neither of them had been there before so they were going to try it out.

They walked to the restaurant, partly because it was so close to their flat but mainly because Will was not a fan of being in cars most of the time. The restaurant wasn't very crowded with just a few tables full, and the waitress seated them next to another table with a couple and their two kids.

Jem ordered a Coke and Will, in true Will fashion, ordered chocolate milk. He couldn't have any alcohol at all because of his meds, and he claimed that chocolate milk was superior than anything that was served at any bar. They read their menus, laughed at a typo that claimed that one dish was "smoothered in gravy" instead of "smothered," and just had a good time. For one night, it seemed as if they could forget the therapy appointments and medications and triggers and everything that came with PTSD.

As was the case with most things in the last few months, that didn't last long.

They had just ordered their food when it happened. Will was looking down at the table, where he was folding a paper napkin into an origami crane and trying to teach Jem to do the same. Jem was trying to follow along, but Will seemed to be an origami crane master and was going much too fast for Jem to keep up. Just as Jem was finally getting the hang of the wings, the father at the table next to them spoke. It would have been fine, had he not had The Accent. The same accent that sent Will straight into a flashback in the Tesco's checkout area.

Will's head immediately snapped up and if he hadn't been looking Jem straight in the eye, he would have thought he was having another flashback. He looked absolutely terrified, like he was afraid that he would end up having a flashback. "We can't stay here. Jem, we can't-"

"I know," Jem said. He grabbed Will's hand where it was clenched in a fist on the table. "It's okay, Will. You're okay. We can move."

Will nodded, but he didn't move until Jem stood up and pulled him up with him. He hadn't been able to focus on anything but the man at the other table until Jem interfered. He brought Will over to a table in the opposite corner of the restaurant, made sure that he had calmed down a bit and wasn't verging on a flashback, then went back for their drinks and silverware. He had to stop on the way to let the waitress know without too giving away too many details, but he was back at the new table as fast as possible. Will had folded his arms on the table and was hiding his face in them, not even looking up when Jem sat down.

"Feeling better?" Jem asked. He knew Will couldn't possibly get over it that fast, but he just wanted to make sure Will wasn't in the middle of a flashback.

Will shook his head and muttered, "They're staring."

Jem turned around to look at the family sitting next to the table they had just left. They were all glaring at them, even the two kids. It was only then that Jem realized how it must have looked to that family. Right after hearing the man's accent, they had relocated in a hurry to a table that was as far away as they could get. From their standpoint, it really didn't look good.

"Would it help if I went to talk to them?" Jem asked.

"If you want to, you can," Will mumbled from the dark confines of his arms.

"I'll be right back," Jem said as he got up.

Will looked up from his arms in time to watch Jem walk over to the table. He knew exactly why the family was glaring at them, and he knew it wouldn't be the last time. He probably looked unbelievably racist by getting up and moving like that. Unfortunately, it was something that was going to happen again and again. This time wasn't as bad, but that didn't mean there wouldn't be a repeat of the Tesco's incident again. He didn't know if he could handle people looking at him like that again. He didn't want to hurt anyone, but he couldn't help what his brain did or didn't react to. At this point, he was going to have to just not go out in public again if there was even the slightest chance of him offending anyone.

"They apologized," Jem said as he sat back down. Will hadn't been paying attention and jumped when Jem just appeared in front of him. "They thought it was a race thing and they weren't happy."

"What did you tell them?" Will asked.

"I just said that you had PTSD and his accent was a trigger and we didn't want to make anything worse so we moved."

Will nodded. "We should pay for their dinner. Just to show that we're extra sorry."

Jem agreed, but their food came a few minutes later and by the time they remembered to flag down the waitress, the family was already leaving. They were disappointed that they had missed their chance, until they went to pay and found out that the family had instead paid their bill.

Despite that, Will still felt horrible. He'd caused an entire family even more pain on top of the discrimination and racism they probably experienced every day, and all because of an accent. No matter how much Charlotte talked about options and service dogs and possible treatments, only one thing was certain: the PTSD was getting worse and there was nothing he could do to stop it.