The sitter sits with Eli in the living room, watching “Spy Kids”. The mother gets in her car and drives away. She will pay the sitter a couple dollars extra for coming on short notice. It’s Wednesday night. Her husband’s e-mail said a brief is due tomorrow morning. He will be quiet when he comes home.

The little building looks roughly the same. She feels silly noting that six years is a long time.

In the little room she sits down. She doesn’t introduce herself to any of the seven other “graduates”. She feels confident she could but doesn’t feel like it. The therapist enters and grins at her. He tells everyone it’s been at least four years since she showed up. She nods and shakes the hands offered.

The process has changed slightly. Instead of two minutes at a time, each person gets 90 seconds. The therapist still holds the syllable clicker in his left hand and a child’s stop watch in his right. She is vaguely aware of clicking noises as they talk about their lives, about how it's okay they avoid parties, about their triumphs, about their unsupportive spouses or parents, about the funny things that have happened since last Wednesday night. In between their turns, the therapist ticks off their problems and solutions: slow down; breathe; spread out your phrasing; your syllable count is too high; use easy onsets; you have to want to be understood.

The mother’s first turn is a blur. The therapist asks what she’s been up to so she talks about her husband and son, about her garden, about the new house, about how from the kitchen you can see the entire backyard. She bats away the image of her husband glancing at her whenever their son stumbles over words and looks around anxiously. The watch beeps before she can mention there are no trees.

There are only three minutes left when they come back around to her. The other woman plays with the straps of her ratty purse. The therapist nods, asking nothing. The mother thinks of her son punching himself in the thigh yesterday when he couldn’t say “dinner,” how during such moments she wants to hug and shake him.

“My son,” she says, glancing over their heads. Her left elbow itches. She doesn't know what comes next.

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David Erlewine's stories appear or soon will in about 70 places, including The Pedestal, Pank, Keyhole (web), Necessary Fiction (So New Media), SmokeLong Quarterly, Word Riot, In Posse Review, Dogmatika, Elimae, and Titular.