Three weeks later, at four o’clock on Thursday, Dr.

Vance sat in an armchair in his second-floor office on Oak Street, an open yellow notepad across his knees.

The office was quiet, furnished with dark oak bookshelves and a thick rug that muffled the street traffic two stories below.

Ethan and I sat at opposite ends of the burgundy leather sofa facing the counselor’s desk.

“Ethan,” Dr.

Vance said, resting his gold pen on his notepad.

“In your individual intake last week, you said your silence during household arguments was an attempt to keep things stable.”