An dignified elderly woman standing on a roof overlooking the lawn of a mental health facility. Lush grass, old oaks, orchard trees, and paths with strategically placed benches. In the distance, the employee parking lot is a patchwork of columns and rows, cars tidily arranged. A patina of order hides an inner world of magic where no one and no thing were either predictable or reliable. The woman is a mysterious psychiatrist. The wind disturbs her white coat, patterned skirt, and short auburn curls heavily salted with gray. She is in her seventies. She has a steady gaze. She smiles a psychiatrist’s smile, non-committal. --ar 2:3