After three days of drafts, Arnold finally had an email he could live with. He'd kept it professional, focused on her research, and managed to write it without sounding like either a nervous teenager or an overly formal stranger:

Dr. Pataki,

I'm reaching out regarding your work on creative arts therapy and emotional expression in children. I've been particularly impressed by your research on structured creative writing as a therapeutic tool, especially your findings on digital storytelling applications in clinical settings.

I'm developing an educational app focused on helping children process emotions through guided creative expression, and your expertise would be invaluable. I'd appreciate the opportunity to discuss potential collaboration, particularly regarding the therapeutic framework for the app.

For context, I recently completed my Master's in Educational Technology at Berkeley, focusing on digital tools for emotional development in children. I'm now based in Hillwood, where I'm developing this project.

Would you be open to meeting to discuss the possibility of consulting on this project?

Best regards, Arnold Shortman

His cursor hovered over the send button. Simple, diplomatic, and direct. No mention of their shared history. No hint of how many times he'd rewritten each sentence.

He pressed send before he could second-guess himself again.

The reply came faster than he expected. His phone buzzed during his morning coffee at Bigal Café, barely twenty minutes after he'd sent the email.

Mr. Shortman,

Thank you for your interest in my research. Your project sounds intriguing, and I've actually been following developments in educational technology applications for therapy. I would be interested in learning more.

I have availability this Thursday at 2 PM at my office in the Hillwood Medical Arts Building. Would that work for your schedule?

Best, Dr. Helga G. Pataki, PhD Child Psychology DepartmentHillwood University

Arnold nearly knocked over his coffee. Thursday. Two days away. His hands felt suddenly clumsy as he typed his response:

Thursday at 2 PM works perfectly. Thank you for your quick response.

He'd expected more resistance, maybe a series of emails back and forth. Instead, he had forty-eight hours to prepare for seeing Helga Pataki face to face for the first time in seven years.

The rest of Tuesday passed in a blur of preparation. Arnold refined his pitch deck, reviewed his prototype sketches, and read through Helga's papers again, making notes of specific points to discuss. By evening, his office walls were covered in sticky notes and flow charts.

His phone buzzed again—Gerald.

"Man, you're not going to believe who I just ran into at the university," Gerald's voice came through the speaker. "Phoebe and I were having lunch at the faculty café, and guess who walks in?"

Arnold's stomach dropped. "Helga?"

"Got it in one. And you'll never guess what Pataki asked Phoebe about."

Arnold sat down heavily in his office chair. "What?"

"You, man. Very casually, very calmly. 'So, Arnold's back in town? Working on some kind of app?' Playing it cool, you know? But Phoebe said she had that look."

"What look?"

"The one that means she's trying not to look interested. You know what I mean."

Arnold did know, and this revelation made his carefully constructed façade suddenly fragile.

Wednesday was worse. Arnold changed his shirt three times before remembering the meeting wasn't until Thursday. He rehearsed his pitch to his bathroom mirror, to the boarding house pets, and finally to Grandpa Phil, who listened while fixing a leaky pipe under the kitchen sink.

"Sounds fancy, Shortman," Phil said, his voice echoing in the pipe. "But isn't this the same girl who used to torment you in grade school?"

"She's a respected child psychologist now, Grandpa."

"Uhhuh. And you're just interested in picking her brain for your app thing, am I right?"

Arnold didn't answer, focusing instead on holding the flashlight steady.

Thursday morning dawned clear and warm. Arnold arrived at his office early, intending to review his presentation one last time. Instead, he found himself Googling Helga again, finding new articles he'd missed and videos of her speaking at conferences. In one, she answered questions about her therapeutic approach, her hands expressively moving as she talked about creating safe spaces for emotional expression.

At 1:30, he packed up his laptop and presentation materials. The Hillwood Medical Arts Building was a fifteen-minute walk away, but he wanted time to compose himself.

The building lobby was all glass and modern furniture, nothing like the warm disorganization of his small office above the butcher shop—a directory listed "Dr. H. Pataki - Child Psychology" on the fourth floor.

In the elevator, Arnold caught his reflection in the mirrored wall. His hair was behaving for once, and his blue button-down looked 'white-collar' enough. He had index cards with talking points in his pocket, backup slides on his laptop, and seven years of life experience between him and their last meeting at high school graduation.

The elevator doors opened to a cozily lit waiting room. A receptionist looked up from her computer. "Can I help you?"

"Arnold Shortman, here to see Dr. Pataki."

The words felt strange in his mouth, formal and distant. But before he could dwell on it, a familiar voice came from the hallway behind the reception desk.

"I'll take it from here, Jenny."

And there she was.

Helga stood in the doorway of her office, tall and professional in a charcoal blazer. Her blonde hair was pulled back neatly, her wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. But her eyes were the same—sharp, intense, and fixed directly on him.

"Hello, Arnold," she said, and he heard both Dr. Pataki and the girl who used to call him 'Football Head' in that voice. "Why don't you come in and tell me about this app of yours?"

Arnold followed her into the office, where children's artwork covered one wall and academic certificates lined another. A familiar pink bow sat framed among her degrees, looking like both a victory flag and a reminder.

"Thank you for meeting with me," he said, his prepared opening suddenly inadequate for the complexity of this moment. "Dr. Pataki."

A slight smile crossed her face. "Helga is fine. At least in private consultation meetings." She gestured to a chair. "Now, show me what you've been working on."

Arnold opened his laptop, acutely aware that whatever happened next would change everything—again.