Finding Home
by Philippe de la Matraque
Sequel to Alien Us
Chapter Twelve
Dr. Perez's report was very promising. Malcolm had been, of course, more alert these last few weeks. He even answered her questions this time. He was given new, lower-dose, pain-relief patches and ordered to move more. The wheelchair was even removed and taken to the hospital. And twice a week, he needed physical and occupational therapy. Trevon amended the report with his recommendation that hydrotherapy be avoided at all costs.
Malcolm's aquaphobia hadn't abated. Given that mission logs revealed that he had performed his duties near water many times without incident and, one can only assume, he regularly showered in his quarters on the ship, either the drownings on Zheiren had exacerbated his phobia or the traumatizing incident with Stuart Reed had been the cause. It was very likely both. The most Malcolm would do with water, and without a full-on panic attack, was drink it.
Malcolm had ambitiously chosen the park for their talk. Trevon carried the chairs and a bag of supplies. Miguel walked beside Malcolm but was heavily supporting him near the end. Trevon opened a chair and helped an exhausted Malcolm into it. Miguel offered to be back in an hour. Trevon told him to make it two. If they finished early, they would just rest and admire the scenery.
Trevon offered Malcolm a bottle of water and a banana from the bag he carried. He didn't start in right away. The walk had been long for a man who had barely walked farther than from one wall to another in well over a year. "How are you feeling? It was a long walk. Does anything hurt more than usual?"
"Everything from my hips down." He looked away. "I used to be very fit."
"I can imagine, especially in your post as Tactical Officer. But you deliberately allowed your muscles to atrophy in an attempt to slow the surgeries. And then there were your injuries at the end. You're doing far better than anyone might have expected. You are healing physically. This isn't permanent. You'll be able to regain your fitness. It will require work. Hard work."
Malcolm ate the banana slowly, either as a procrastination attempt or to savor the flavor. Earth had quite a lovely variety of colorful fruits and vegetables. The banana was a subtly sweet, soft fruit, where he found strawberries sour and mangos overly tangy. Lemons and limes were fine as garnishes and flavorings but as a fruit snack in themselves, they put strawberries to shame. Trevon enjoyed the middle ground between sweet and sour, and bananas fit that bill nicely.
"Has your father returned?" he finally asked as he tossed his peel in a paper sack which he held out for Malcolm to do the same.
Malcolm shook his head. "And just this, here." He lifted a hand to indicate the park.
"Good. Our talks are easier without interruptions." Trevon pulled a PADD from the bag and put it on his lap. "What are your perceptions of the reasons behind your family's move to Malaysia?"
Malcolm had known this was coming, but he hadn't prepared at all. Those four years in Malaysia were the most unpleasant of his childhood. While he was free of Evington Academy, his attempted murderers, and boarding school altogether, it meant he spent more time at home. He was allowed no extracurricular activities beyond Scouts—thanks to Mr. Mansi. Most of the other students were curious about the short English kid, and he didn't have his squadron of bullies to protect him from unwanted attention. He did manage to make some friends in Scouts, but at home, his parents were devoid of affection at best. At worst, Father was blaming him for being forced to retire and for being a coward who disgraced the Reed tradition. This was the time Malcolm drew more into himself and became an enigma to his own family.
"He retired," he finally said. "Blamed me. I thought it was because of my revenge plot, but he never named the reason. He said it was forced."
"Forced is putting it strongly," Trevon commented. "Do you believe that you were the reason?"
"I don't know," Malcolm replied. "I was never sure."
"Did something else happen just before the move, something involving a ship and a dockside visit?"
Malcolm thought back. It wasn't hard. He'd very nearly drowned again. "Father's old ship was being launched after a refit. Full dress uniforms and fancy dress. I slipped and fell off the pier. A sailor jumped in after me and pulled me out. Father was angry."
"What if I told you that sailor had made a formal report and complaint against your father?"
Malcolm's eyebrows dropped in confusion. He replayed the scene in his mind. He was standing behind and to the side of Father. Mother was on Father's left with Madeline behind her. Father turned sharply to his left, and Malcolm lost his footing while Madeline reached for him. He heard Father's voice in the water but couldn't make out the words. She was trying to convince him that air was his enemy. Then strong arms hauled him to the surface and swam him back to the dock where other sailors lifted him from the water. While he stood shaking on the dock from fear and cold, his father had feigned concern while glowering at him when he thought no one was watching.
"Go through it slowly." Trevon told him. "Narrate."
Malcolm backed up. There was a band playing. Sailors in dress whites, his father with all his ribbons and Mother in her best dress. Madeline and he marched dutifully behind. Malcolm liked the pomp and circumstance but not the proximity of deep water between the pier and the ship. "Music. Patriotic music. Everyone in their finest. On shore, a big crowd. On ship, everyone saluting."
"Was the pier wet or dry?"
It had rained that morning. "Wet." Yes. He had to watch his footing. Mother had insisted he wear the new dress shoes she'd bought for the occasion. They didn't have the best traction. "Rather slick."
"Interesting. Your mother insisted on those shoes. Go on."
"Father turned suddenly."
Trevon interrupted, stopped the memory. "Why?"
"I don't know. It happened too fast. I slipped. I fell." He tried keeping it slow, but he couldn't see the reason. He still felt the water as it grew closer and engulfed him.
"Did your father make contact with you when he turned?"
Malcolm rolled the memory back as one would rewind a video. "He bumped me. The music stopped. Is that why?"
Trevon shook his head. "The music stopped because a boy had fallen in the water between the pier and ship. Is that a dangerous place to be?"
Malcolm stopped the memory. "Very. Rip currents near piers. The ship moves in the water. You can be crushed. Electricity can enter the water from the ship, or the ship might cause suction."
"That's where you fell."
The memory resumed as he splashed backwards into the cold, salty water. It stung his eyes, muffled sound. Was Father calling to him? He ignored the woman's voice, concentrated on his father's, but he couldn't make it out. Another splash, something grabbed him. In a panic, Malcolm fought until his face lifted above the surface and he gasped for air.
"He was yelling, 'Swim, Malcolm. Swim up," Trevon said. "The sailor had watched from the ship. He'd seen it below. Your father turned for no apparent reason and bumped you toward the water. To him, it had looked 'purposeful.'"
He meant it? Malcolm played it again and again. The shoes, the bump. He meant it. "Another challenge? There with everyone watching?"
Trevon nodded. "Yes. Your father, up to this point, had been increasingly focusing on your refusal to overcome your fear of drowning to the point of irrationality. Perhaps he thought embarrassment would motivate you, or perhaps the will to live."
Trevon took the PADD from his lap and handed it to Malcolm. The sailor's report was there, corroborated by other witnesses. He scrolled down.
"Your father denied it at the inquest, but there was media present for the occasion. There was footage."
The verdict: Guilty. For his years of service, Father was given the option of retiring or being drummed out in disgrace. "He resigned."
"Keep scrolling," Trevon encouraged. "Child Protective Services was starting an investigation. Your family abruptly left the country the next day." Trevon leaned forward. "Malcolm, it wasn't your fault. It was his."
Malcolm felt a weight lift from his shoulders but another slam into his stomach. "I couldn't do anything right. My room wasn't clean enough, my marks not high enough. Maddie broke a vase on accident and I was punished. They wouldn't talk with me. Only at me."
"Emotional neglect, perhaps even invalidation. They gaslit you. That is the term, isn't it?"
Malcolm nodded. Made him think all of it was his fault. And he silently begged for his father's approval! All the awards and badges. They never even came to the ceremonies.
"Your mother confuses me," Trevon said, breaking him from those thoughts. "Many mothers would choose their child's welfare over their husband mistreatment. But she seems to have abetted your father."
Malcolm remembered what Madeline used to say in their quiet talks on the roof after dinner. 'Mother always follows where Father leads.'
"Malcolm, I am sorry for your treatment by the people who were most ordained to love and protect you. Your absence, it would seem, did not make their hearts any fonder, given your father's display at the hospital. I'm glad you still had Madeline's support and love. And that you grew up to be a fine, upstanding, Starfleet officer with impeccable morals. Many abused children do not."
"Abused?" He wasn't beaten or locked in a closet or anything like that.
"Abuse takes many forms. Did you feel a gradual loss of their love from just after the drowning to the push off the pier?"
Like a gulf in his soul. Malcolm dropped his head in his hands as he tried to breathe.
"Trip mentioned that your family didn't know your favorite food. Did they allow you to voice your dislikes and likes at the table?"
Malcolm shook his head. "No displays, no faces."
"And are you not allergic to many tropical grasses?"
What did that have to do with anything? Malaysia. He'd had to take pills every day to block his histamine receptors.
"Yes, Malcolm. They chose their new home in a place full of tropical grasses. I understand these revelations are difficult. It's foundational. It undergirds your personality, your strong penchant for privacy, even your stint in Starfleet Intelligence. Your recruiter probably picked up on your need for approval and attention from a paternal figure."
Malcolm had wasted so many years hoping his father would relent! It was hard to breathe. "I need Hoshi."
Trevon placed a hand on Malcolm's back. "I'm sorry she can't be here. I'm a terrible substitute, but I shall relent. I think you understand now, the truth. Let's just breathe in this clean air and listen to the birds. Can you hear the leaves rustling in the trees?"
Malcolm tried taking deep breaths, reaching for the sound like a life line. It took a few minutes before he'd calmed enough to hear it.
Exhausted from the walk back from the park, Malcolm had showered then laid down to rest. He might have even slept, but most of the time he was rehashing memories of his father before the drowning in the fountain. He had little complaints about his father before then, even looking back. Father was strict, expecting his home to run as smoothly as his ship, but he also played with his children when he was home. He smiled and laughed. He hugged and patted. Malcolm had felt loved and proud to be ship-shape for his father. Father was still that to some degree right after the drowning and pneumonia. Perhaps less playful as his children were eight and twelve, but it no way did Malcolm doubt the affections of his parents. They were terribly worried for him, and Father had been livid that his assailants had gotten little more than a slap on the wrist while his son had nearly died.
When he'd taken him wading and Malcolm had run, his father had said he wouldn't have allowed him to drown, and Malcolm had believed him then. He still did. And yet, Malcolm was told how Reed men behaved anytime he had tried to talk about his feelings. And when he couldn't behave as Reed men did—regardless that he was only an adolescent and not a man—his father was disappointed and Malcolm felt worse.
Each time he came home from school, his father was dourer than the last. And dour turned to angry and angry to bitter. Less and less attention to his grades or doings at school, less and less conversation. Madeline became the only one who would talk with him and not just at him.
Malcolm had joined the Tuckers for dinner but kept quiet, just listening to the talk at the table. After dinner he helped with the dishes and thanked Mrs. Tucker for the meal. He could hardly remember what he'd eaten. He returned to his room and read the sailor's report again, the record of the inquest.
Father had tried to deny purposely knocking Malcolm into the water, claiming it to be an accident and that his son was an adept swimmer. The sailor's vantage point on the ship was too far, and the crowd in the docks was too thick to prove anything. The media, though, had used drones. They had recorded it from multiple angles, including directly overhead.
The sequence of events was the deciding factor. Father had turned for no discernible reason other than to initiate contact to destabilize his son on the slick wood of the dock. The music had stopped after the splash and gasps were heard as the crowd realized what had happened. Before the turn, the ceremony had proceeded accordingly. Nothing untoward had happened to cause the turn.
Father was found guilty and took the offer of retirement to save face and keep his pride. A news article covering the event had merited a CPS investigation. A subsequent article noted that the family home was found vacant. The Reeds had moved to Kota Bharu in Malaysia. Malaysia did not feel it necessary to continue any such investigations on England's behalf. No criminal charges had been filed, so no extradition could be granted.
His father in Malaysia was quietly malicious. Malcolm was on permanent punishment detail. No extracurricular activities—except Scouts—no frivolities of any sort. Dating was considered a frivolity. There were no smiles, no discussions beyond reminding him that the retirement and move were consequences of his behavior. Because of his behavior, family tradition going back generations was broken.
There were things they didn't say that Malcolm understood anyway. Because of his behavior, he was treated as an ill-favored boarder more than a son. There was a void where he used to feel loved and accepted. And he'd internalized it. It was his fault. He was to blame because he couldn't be the son his father wanted. He kept his distance, even eventually from Madeline when he left home and she stayed. He left for Starfleet, never intending to look back.
Malcolm next thought of Harris. His walls had not been high enough, because Harris had read him like the proverbial book. He took notice of the scrappy cadet with the knack for explosives. He offered mentorship and attention. Malcolm's void began to fill, and he followed Harris further and further into the darkness before coming to his senses and trying to get out of Section 31.
His time there, however, had taught him a lot about tactics, hand-to-hand combat, weapons, and of course, explosives. Starfleet captains were happy to have him in their crew as a security officer, then squad leader, then lieutenant and eventually Chief Tactical Officer of Enterprise.
Section 31 had taught him something else, too. How to bury his real self behind impenetrable barriers. Let no one in. And by the time, he'd come aboard Enterprise, he was very good at it.
Only now he knew it was all based on a lie. He hadn't done anything wrong or worthy of shame. His behavior was fully in line with him being a child who'd nearly been killed by three bullies. With no therapy, no guidance on how to properly handle his new feelings of fear and dread, he'd reacted predictably. He fled, or fought, or froze. He grew angry and bitter toward the bullies and the school that didn't punish them, fantasizing about blowing both up. He cheated for bigger boys to feel safe by having bullies of his own, loyal to him. He connived to trap Leslie Morris and do to him what he and his friends had done to Malcolm. And he nearly had.
His father had caused another near drowning in public, hoping embarrassment would or the survival instinct would force Malcolm into swimming back to save face and honor. It hadn't. Of course, it hadn't. Once he'd hit the water, Malcolm could hardly think. He'd fought the sailor trying to help him, after all.
His father chose to lie and blame him, to punish him according to the lie. To withhold his love and affection. And he did it so long it turned to indifference, to bitterness, and finally, to hatred.
He'd chosen not to love his son. All the punishments were a consequence of his father's behavior. He'd chosen the Navy and tradition over the life and well-being of one of his children. It sounded ridiculous to Malcolm's own mind. How could any sane person make that choice?
And if Mother had disagreed, she never said anything or acted in any way to show it. What Father decreed before he shipped out was obeyed and enforced by Mother until he returned. Always had been. She did not choose to defend her son and first-born child. She chose to honor and obey her husband in word and deed. If she had continued to secretly love him, Malcolm hadn't felt it from her. Wasn't she, then, just as guilty?
"You leave your mother out of this! A real man doesn't hid behind a woman.
Malcolm glared at him. Did she argue with you over removing me from life support?
"She didn't want you to suffer. We'd be rid of your disgrace. Two birds, one stone."
Only I didn't die, Malcolm replied. And you got rid of me long ago.
"You took our daughter from us!" Father stood and moved toward the bed.
Malcolm rose to face him. She chose it. She loved me and chose to help me live. She is the only one who chose me. He turned away. I don't need you anymore. You've never been real to begin with. The real Stuart Reed never said these things out loud. You're a figment, a construction of my traumatized mind. And you aren't helping me heal.
The figment didn't respond. Malcolm chanced a look back but the room was empty. He sighed in relief. The clock said it was late but he heard movement in the kitchen. He was not surprised to find Mrs. Tucker there.
"I was just warming some milk to help me sleep. Would you like some?"
Malcolm nodded and sat on the bench in the nook to wait. It wasn't long before she joined him with two mugs of steaming milk.
"You were very quiet at dinner," she said.
"Thinking," he replied. "I think my father's gone for good this time."
"How does that feel?"
Malcolm thought about how to answer, but it came out different than he planned. "Therapy is strange. It makes me feel worse but then I feel better."
She took a sip of her milk. "I think I can see how that would be. You look like you feel better."
"I remember meeting you here. I told you I thought I was losing my mind."
She smiled. "I remember. I told you it was a safe place to do it." She took his other hand and squeezed.
Malcolm nodded and squeezed back. "I think now I'm starting to find it."
Her smile widened. "Amen to that!" She touched her half-empty mug to his in toast. The rest of the milk was sipped in comfortable quiet and Malcolm felt content.
The next day, Malcolm found himself sitting beside Mr. Tucker as they sat in the back of a flitter. Physical Therapy. He'd had that before with Phlox after the Romulan mine had impaled him through the leg. Torture for his own good was a more fitting term. Phlox had even said he could cause as much pain as he wanted. And it had hurt a hell of a lot. And Malcolm hadn't even got to see if it had helped him because that space station had healed him after abducting Travis.
Rather understandably, then, he felt anxious. His heart—their heart—was pounding, and he was starting to sweat. What had happened this time was more than a hole through his thigh. Holes through both wrists. He felt the stakes being pounding in. Smaller holes in his ankles, the cables being pulled tight. He couldn't relax.
"I was out in the tool shed the other day," Mr. Tucker said. "Clearing out some old crates and I found something special."
Malcolm thought it might be something Trip left behind, but he listened to the older man, letting his curiosity pull his thoughts from that awful day in the hot sun and sand. It wasn't easy.
"A mama cat had decided one of those crates on the floor was a good place to have a litter of kittens. Couldn't have been older than a few days. She eyed me warily so I didn't get too close. It's not the best place for those little ones. There are some sharp edges and hard metals in that crate."
Kittens. Hadn't he and Madeline wanted a kitten? "Maybe when she leaves, you could get a blanket under them."
"That's a good idea. We could put some food and water down for her, too, so she doesn't have to wander far."
Malcolm needed to keep his mind on the cats and not where he was going. "What do they look like?"
"Well, the mama's a tortie, all kinds of mottled colors all mixed in. I counted five little ones. One looked all white, but with shadows on the ears and tail. Another was black and white. Two tabbies and a calico. Their eyes and ears are closed at this age and they don't do much. But it will be cute watching them grow."
The flitter stopped. The idea of kittens was swallowed by the thought of what lay ahead. Mr. Tucker exited then offered a hand to help him out. He didn't let go when Malcolm was out. He put his other hand on Malcolm's back and leaned in close. "I had PT a while ago when I wrenched my back. Hurts like a son of gun, but it helps in the end. Just keep focused on the future. What it will help you do."
The future. Hoshi was the future. He wanted to be strong for her. Enterprise would return or he would go back to wherever the ship was. He would be healthy and she would be smiling. He nodded and walked into the building with Trip's father.
A dark-haired woman approached. "Welcome, Lieutenant Reed. My name is Paula. We'll be starting with an assessment of your range of motion today. Right this way." She held out a hand toward what looked like an exam room. "Your companion can wait out here."
Malcolm was still very tense. He didn't move and he was shaking. Talk of kittens probably wouldn't work here.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to stay. I'll keep out of the way."
Malcolm nodded his agreement but didn't say anything else. His skin was pale and his eyes open wide. Paula must have caught on as she allowed it. She smiled again. "Right this way then."
Charles stayed near when they entered and then found a corner near the exam table. Malcolm got stuck again. He stared at the table. Studied "invasively." Probably seen a table like that too many times. Charles thought maybe he should say something, but he really didn't know what all happened when he was studied. It was obviously not pleasant for Malcolm. "Could we have a minute?" he finally said.
Paula nodded and stepped out.
Charles put his hand on Malcolm's shoulder. "Can you tell me what's wrong or how I can help?"
"I don't want to do this."
"She won't hurt you. You're safe. They only want to make you better. You only need to sit on the table."
Malcolm rubbed his thigh. "They broke. . . ."
Charles spotted a stool, probably one Paula would use. "Maybe you could sit there or we can chair in here. Would that help?"
Malcolm nodded and looked toward the door.
"I'll go ask her," Charles offered. "Stay put."
Paula was at the counter when he approached. "Ma'am," Charles started, "did they tell you anything about why he needs physical therapy?"
"I can't divulge—"
Charles held up a hand to stop her. "I'm not asking you to. Here's what I know and it's not a lot. He spent a year being 'invasively studied' and tortured in some kind of lab. So he's having a flashback in there. The table's not a good option. Can he have a chair?"
Paula's eyes widened. "Oh, yes, of course. I have the injuries, not how they happened. Are you his father?"
"Not originally," Charles answered. "But I'm working on it."
Paula grabbed a chair from the waiting area and pulled it into the exam room. She placed it in front of the table. "Here, Lieutenant, why don't you sit here?"
Malcolm sighed as he sat down, but his hands were still shaking as he put them on the arms of the chair. The chair's orientation there in front of the table, put that trigger to Malcolm's back.
Paula pulled a stool over to Malcolm, and Charles resumed his place in the corner. "I understand you had a very hard year, and some significant injuries. We're concerned with your overall conditioning. That's going to mean exercises, weight training and cardio. Don't worry we'll start you easy and work up to the harder stuff. We're also concerned with fine motor skills. You had bone fractures and nerve damage in your extremities. I need to assess your range of motion and dexterity and get a base reading of your grip strength. How do you feel about your ankles?"
"I can walk," Malcolm replied in a whisper.
"Good. Do they hurt when you do? Do they wear out fairly quickly?"
After Malcolm answered, she lifted his right leg, had Malcolm flex and point and circle both ways. Looked a bit stiff to Charles but what did he know. The left leg went the same way. She did his wrists next. She removed the splints he'd been wearing since he came home and put on new ones that just wrapped his wrist without restricting his hand movements. She tested his hands like the feet, but also had him spread his fingers and make a fist, touch each finger to his thumb.
Charles admitted to himself that he was curious about what had happened to Malcolm. But he understood that anyone going through something similar would probably not want to talk about it. And he'd heard enough stories about the enigmatic Malcolm Reed from Trip the last four years to know that it would probably be even less likely for him to talk about it.
Finally, she pushed her stool back. "Those are your new splints. Your bones are healing well so we want you using your hands more. Some of what we do can seem a little weird, like picking up pegs with tweezers, but it will help in the long run." She stood. "Alright, come this way."
Malcolm hadn't liked the exam, but it was better in the chair. The table had reminded him of the table T-Rex had broken his leg on. From the chair, it was more like the early days in Zheiren, when the orcs were curious about their soft skin, their supple lips, their five fingers. It wasn't that that was a particularly bad time, but it was uncomfortable. And it had led to worse.
The next part reminded him of the cold experiments and the puzzle boxes he had to work to get warm items of clothing. Now he was squeezing a meter to test his grip strength or lack thereof or, yes, picking up pegs with a set of tweezers, pinching clay between his thumb and each finger. There was an odd-looking ball with five loops coming off of it. He had to put his fingers and thumb into the loops and then stretch them outward against the resistance of the loops and ball.
After fifteen minutes of that and hand massages (which actually felt rather nice) he was led to an exercise bike with moving handle bars. He was told to pedal and move the bars for ten minutes. That only reminded him of the gym on Enterprise and Hoshi. They were better memories except that it also reminded him that he missed her and that all this would be easier if she were there. Still, it felt a little better that Mr. Tucker stayed nearby. He was a familiar face among strangers.
The last part was more traditional strength training. Sometimes he had to push with his legs, others to pull with his arms. It shocked him just how little weight he could manage.
Trip's father handed him a bottle of water when he was done. Malcolm drained half of it, feeling worn out from the paltry exertions he could manage. But he also felt something else. He remembered feeling like this after good workout. He remembered being fit and healthy. And this was how he had done it. He was just staring so far back.
To get back to the ship—to Hoshi—he had to be strong and healthy again. He had to start somewhere. And as they got back in the flitter to return to the house, he felt just a tiny bit like himself again. Only weaker.
Trevon arrived in the afternoon. Malcolm had been sleeping, which mean that his physical therapy had been taxing. Instead of walking all the way to the park, he suggested they convene in the back yard. The trees afforded a canopy and a gentle wind felt cool on his skin.
"How was physical therapy?" Trevon asked. "Any flashbacks?"
Malcolm nodded. "A few. Especially near an exam table."
Trevon nodded. "I can see why you might. Were the tables in Zheiren similar?"
Malcolm shrugged. "They were flat. Less padded."
Trevon felt that was enough small talk. "How do you feel about what we talked about last time?"
"Angry," Malcolm told him.
Trevon nodded again. Perfectly reasonable. "Your parents behaved abusively towards you. That's worthy of anger. You are allowed to feel angry. What will you do, do you think, with that anger? You don't want to hold it in and let it fester."
"Like what?"
"You could write him a letter that you don't have to send. You could sit in the shower and tell him off. Perhaps there's someone you trust enough to tell. Or you can use it as fuel for all those exercises the physical therapist will have you doing. Just don't overdo those or you'll hinder your progress. But I also want you to consider another feeling that might be hiding underneath that anger: Grief.
"You had decent parents to the age of twelve, then you lost their affection, their attention, their love. The title of 'son' was taken from you. If you find that feeling, I want you to let yourself feel it. You have other things to grieve as well. Your sister, of course. Hoshi. She's unreachable. The entirety of the last year.
"Personally, I like to take one good wallow day for smaller grievances. Missed a promotion? Wallow for a day, then get back out there. Deeper grief may take more than a day. But if you need to wallow, spend some time wallowing."
A small smile flitted across Malcolm's face. "I think I was wallowing when I came here."
Trevon chuckled. "Among other things. You needn't wallow that deeply, but let yourself feel those feelings of anger and grief. This is a safe place. You're on medical leave. You don't have duties to attend to. But when you feel you've wallowed enough, we'll start the work of healing."
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