Fear Nothing Read Online Free PDF

middle of the night and you’re uncomfortable. What do you do then?”
    She didn’t answer right away.
    I took my time, waiting quietly.
    “I tell myself to go back to sleep,” she said at last.
    “Does that work?”
    That motion again, the nod that was not a nod.
    “Do you want to be here?” I asked abruptly.
    She seemed startled. “What do you mean?”
    “Today. Right now. Do you want to be in my office, talking to me?”
    The detective stopped staring at my wall, met my eyes instead. Her gaze was mutinous. It didn’t surprise me. Some people internalized their pain. Others externalized it, lashing out. Not too hard to judge which camp D. D. Warren fell into.
    “No,” she said bluntly.
    “Then why did you come?”
    “I want to return to work. I like my job.” Her tone turned less hostile, more defensive.
    “You’re a homicide detective, yes?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you enjoy your job?”
    “I love my job.”
    “I see. So your injury, not being able to work right now, that must be difficult.”
    “I’m on medical leave,” the detective stated briskly. “Might sound clear enough: You’re hurt, you stay home. You get fixed, you return to work. But like any good bureaucracy, the department likes to make it complicated. Because maybe my shoulder gets better, but what about my head? Am I still the cool, calm detective I was before? Maybe I regain my physical ability to charge into a crisis situation. But will I? Or will I hang back, unnerved by the thought of jostling my left side, straining my shoulder? The department doesn’t want my body to return to work but my head to stay at home. I understand their point, but still . . .”
    “You’re here to humor your bosses.”
    “Let’s put it this way: The deputy superintendent of homicide personally handed me your business card. I took the hint.”
    “So what’s your plan?” I asked, leaning forward, genuinely interested now. “You’ll have to attend more than a single session with me—no one will believe you took pain therapy seriously with only one visit. Six is maybe a bit much. I’m pegging you at three. You’ll see me three times; then the ‘rescheduling’ will begin.”
    For the first time, the detective appeared impressed. “I was thinking three would be a good number.”
    “Fair enough. Three sessions it is. But you have to take your visits with me seriously; that’s my condition. You don’t have to believe in everything I say. But as long as we have three appointments together, you might as well listen. And do your homework.”
    “Homework?”
    “Absolutely. Your first assignment is to name your pain.”
    “What?” I had the good detective’s full attention again, most likely because she thought I was nuts.
    “Give your pain a name. And next time you wake up in the middle of the night, instead of telling yourself to go back to sleep, I want you to address your pain by name. Talk to it. Then listen for what it might have to say.”
    “You mean, like, ‘Give me Percocet’?” D.D. muttered.
    I smiled. “Speaking of which, are you taking anything?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    That seminod, or maybe it was a half shrug. “Just say no to drugs, yada, yada, yada. Prescription, nonprescription, it’s a fine line out there with narcotics, and I’d prefer not to cross it.”
    “Are you afraid of drugs?”
    “Say what?”
    “Some people are. They’re afraid of how the drugs may make them feel; they’re afraid of becoming addicted. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that. I’m just asking.”
    “I don’t like meds. Plain and simple. They’re not for me.”
    “You consider yourself tougher than that?”
    “You’re stereotyping me.”
    “And you’re avoiding my question.”
    “Is it true you can’t feel pain?”
    I smiled, sat back fully and glanced at the clock. “Twenty-two minutes,” I said.
    The detective wasn’t dumb. She glanced at the wall clock hanging beside my desk, then