"Remember," Helga addressed the small team gathered in Arnold's office, "these are preliminary tests. We're looking for engagement patterns, usability issues, and emotional responses." She glanced at her notes. "The children have been told this is a storytelling app. They don't know about the therapeutic elements."
Arnold watched her from his position by the testing stations they'd set up. She was fully in her element—confident, focused, and authoritative. Her doctor's coat was draped over a chair, replaced by a casual blazer that somehow made her look both approachable and stern.
"Dr. Pataki has briefed the parents," Phoebe added, adjusting one of the tablets. "They understand this is a prototype phase."
Rhonda surveyed her interface designs on the screens. "The color transitions should help track emotional engagement. I've added subtle shifts in the background tones—"
A knock at the door interrupted her. "They're here," Archer called up.
Helga straightened. "Remember, we're observing only. Let them explore naturally." Her eyes met Arnold's. "Ready?"
He nodded, trying to ignore how his heart rate picked up when she looked at him that way—focused, intense, completely in sync with his vision for the project.
The first group of kids filed in—three nine-year-olds looking around curiously at the office setup. Arnold had cleared away his development chaos, replacing sticky note clouds with comfortable beanbag chairs and well-placed testing stations.
"Hi, everyone," Helga said, her voice shifting to what Arnold thought of as her 'doctor tone'—warm but professional. "We're making a special kind of story game, and we need expert kid opinions. Want to help?"
A small girl with glasses too big for her face raised her hand. "Do we have to share our stories?"
"Not unless you want to," Arnold found himself saying. He caught Helga's approving glance.
The kids settled into the testing stations. Arnold moved to observe the small girl with glasses while Helga positioned herself near a quiet boy who reminded him painfully of a young Stoop Kid.
"The volcano is big," the girl commented, navigating through the anger landscape.
"Too big?" Arnold asked.
She shook her head. "No. Big feelings need big spaces."
Across the room, he heard Helga's soft "Hmm" as she made notes. The quiet boy had found the poetry caves and was typing slowly, his face intent.
"Can I make the bow bigger?" the girl asked Arnold, working on her avatar. "Pink is my power color."
His eyes flew to Helga, who was very deliberately not looking his way.
"Of course, you can make it bigger," Arnold told the girl. "It's your avatar."
The girl beamed, adjusting her own glasses in a way that reminded him of young Phoebe. "I'm going to call her Fierce."
Across the room, the quiet boy had written his first poem in the volcano cave. Helga leaned in slightly, maintaining a careful neutral tone as she read:
Sometimes, I feel like a locked door. Nobody has the key. But maybe in this volcano, I can just be me.
Arnold saw her hand tighten on her tablet and saw the flash of recognition cross her face. She caught him watching and quickly looked away, making notes with forced casualness.
The third child, an energetic boy who'd been bouncing between features, suddenly called out, "Hey, can we share our stories with each other?"
"Only if you want to," Helga said, her therapist's voice gentle but firm. "This is your private space."
"But I want to!" He looked at the quiet boy. "I liked your poem about the door. I wrote one about feeling like a thunderstorm."
The quiet boy looked up, surprise and tentative hope on his face. "Really?"
Arnold moved closer to Helga as the two boys began comparing their poems. "That wasn't in the sharing protocols," he whispered.
"Sometimes the best therapy happens organically," she whispered back. Their shoulders brushed briefly before they both stepped away.
Phoebe, monitoring the interface analytics, raised an eyebrow at their interaction but kept typing.
"Ms. Rhonda," the girl with glasses called out, "can we have more colors for the feelings? Sometimes I feel purple but not blue."
Rhonda looked delighted. "Finally, someone who understands color psychology! Tell me more about purple feelings."
The testing session flew by. The kids explored every feature, wrote stories and poems, and—most surprisingly—began collaborating independently. The quiet boy emerged from his shell, sharing metaphors with the others. The energetic boy filled three volcano caves with poems. The girl with glasses created a whole series of color-coded emotion spaces that had Rhonda frantically taking notes.
"That went well," Phoebe said as they wrapped up, the kids heading out with their parents. "The engagement metrics are impressive."
"The sharing feature needs adjustment," Arnold said, pulling up his notes. "They wanted more interaction than we planned for."
"But safely," Helga added. "Did you see how they naturally created their own boundaries? We could add—" She reached past him to point at his screen, then froze, suddenly aware of how close they were standing.
"User-controlled sharing settings," Arnold finished, trying to ignore the familiar scent of her shampoo. "With creative prompts for feedback."
"Exactly." She stepped back, therapist mask slipping back into place. "We should review the session data..."
"Over lunch?" The words were out before Arnold could stop them. "I mean, the team could... Harold's son mentioned his dad's making pastrami..."
"I have patient notes to review," Helga said quickly. Too quickly.
"Of course." Arnold turned to his laptop, cheeks warm.
"But..." She gathered her things, not quite meeting his eyes. "Tomorrow? The team should discuss the sharing protocols. Professionally."
"Right. Professional lunch meeting."
"With the team," she emphasized, but her lips twitched slightly.
After everyone left, Arnold sat in his office, reviewing the session recordings. He paused on a frame of Helga kneeling beside the quiet boy's station, her expression soft as she listened to him explain his poem. In the background, his own figure was visible, watching her with a look that blurred formal lines.
His phone buzzed—another text from Gerald: "Phoebe says the testing went well. Really well. Like, 'you two finishing each other's sentences' well."
Arnold looked at the message, then at the frame frozen on his screen. They were helping kids. The app was working. That's what mattered.
But he couldn't help wondering if purple feelings were anything like pink ones.