How to Human 101 - Inspection (pt2)

Last night was my first sleepover.

I had the best Alfredo of my entire life.

This was the exchange.

Makeover for pasta.

I regret nothing.

I do not want to leave the couch.

I do not want to go to work.

But—my god—whatever Luis is cooking for breakfast smells incredible.

Haley sighs. “Jennifer, I know the couch is comfortable, but we do have to go to work today.”

“Unfortunately,” I say, sitting up and stretching.

Luis walks in with plates and sets them on the coffee table.

Eggs. Toast. Sausage. And something that looks suspiciously gourmet. There are herbs. I do not recognize the herbs.

“This is illegal,” I say.

“Eat,” Luis replies.

I do.

Haley tosses me a blazer.

“Put this on.”

I catch it instinctively.

It is… soft.

Comfortably structured.

Not itchy.

This is crucial information.

I slip it on and look down.

Oh.

I look… acceptable.

Professional, even.

This is deeply concerning.

Haley sits beside me and starts brushing my hair.

This makes me feel like I am seven years old. I know how to brush my own hair. However, Haley appears competent, and I choose trust.

Luis watches critically from the kitchen.

“Ponytail or bun?” Haley asks him.

“Bun,” he says immediately.

“Bun it is.”

I stare straight ahead, frozen.

“I feel like I am being prepared for battle,” I say.

“You are,” Haley replies. “Corporate battle.”

Luis nods. “White-collar warfare.”

She twists my hair into a neat bun and secures it. Gentle. Efficient.

When she’s done, she tilts my chin toward the mirror.

I barely recognize the woman staring back.

She looks… composed.

Like someone an inspector wouldn’t immediately arrest.

“That’ll do,” Haley says. “Low makeup. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.”

I finish my breakfast and stand.

The couch tries to reclaim me.

I resist.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

Haley smiles. Luis pretends he didn’t hear anything sentimental.

We grab our bags.

The three of us run out to our cars.

This is what my mother calls “running on a short timeframe.” I think.

“WE ARE RUNNING ON A SHORT TIMEFRAME!” Haley yells.

“HURRY UP!”

I was right.

Luis fumbles with his keys. Drops them. Swears creatively. Haley is already in her car, engine on, reversing with the confidence of someone who has accepted chaos as a lifestyle.

I jog. I do not sprint. Sprinting invites injury.

I get into my car, slam the door, and immediately forget to start it because my brain is still buffering.

Car. Yes. Car go.

We peel out of the parking lot like we are late for a heist.

At a red light, I glance over. Haley is vibrating. Luis is singing at the radio. I am gripping the steering wheel like it might escape.

“Jennifer!” Haley shouts through her open window. “Breathe!”

“I AM BREATHING,” I shout back. “AGGRESSIVELY.”

The light turns green.

We speed off.

The parking lot is already half full when we arrive.

That is not reassuring.

The building looms. Innocent. Unaware that it is about to ruin my day.

I step out of my car and adjust my blazer.

Still not itchy.

Miracles do happen.

Haley straightens my collar without asking. I allow it because we are past consent formalities.

Luis taps his phone. “Inspector’s car isn’t here yet.”

Good.

I need at least three more minutes to pretend I am a real professional adult human woman.

We walk inside.

The air feels… tense. Quieter than usual. Like everyone is holding their breath.

Karen is already at her desk.

She looks at me.

Up and down.

Her eyes narrow.

I smile.

It feels wrong.

But it works.

I just realized I left my book in my car.

I need it.

I need it.

I turn and start toward the door—but Lydia walks in at the exact same moment and physically shepherds me back inside with an arm to the shoulder.

Dammit.

I wanted my book.

“The inspector is here,” Lydia announces. “I need everyone on their best behavior.”

“We’re not children, Lydia,” Karen says sharply.

“You act like one,” I reply.

Karen gasps and clutches her chest with one dramatic hand. “How dare—”

“Ladies, please,” Robert cuts in, fast and firm.

Too late.

The front door opens.

Everyone freezes.

Footsteps echo across the lobby. Measured. Confident. Shoes that cost more than my monthly rent and were never meant to touch this carpet.

The inspector steps inside.

He is… younger than expected.

Neatly dressed. Clean lines. Clipboard tucked under one arm. His eyes are sharp—not cruel, not kind. Curious. Like he’s already sorting us into categories.

His gaze sweeps the room.

Karen straightens instantly. Her smile snaps into place like a switchblade.

His eyes land on me.

Oh no.

“And who are you?” he asks.

“Jennifer,” I reply.

Simple. Efficient.

“And your role here?”

My stomach drops.

This is the question.

The question with an answer I do not possess.

Before I can say anything—before my brain can even scream—Lydia answers smoothly.

“Jennifer is one of our therapists.”

The inspector looks back at me.

Something flickers in his expression.

Interest.

“Is that so?” he says. “You don’t look nervous.”

That is because I am beyond nervous.

“I am,” I reply honestly.

That earns me a pause.

“…Good,” he says after a beat. “The best professionals usually are.”

He writes something on his clipboard.

I have no idea what.

I miss my book.

Deeply.

He walks around back.

Inspecting offices.

One by one.

Most of us follow out of curiosity.

In my office:

I have two-day-old apple juice sitting on my desk.

I have a glitter pen.

I do not have credentials.

I am going to be the cause of this entire practice’s downfall.

The inspector steps into my doorway.

“May I?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say automatically. It feels illegal to say no.

He enters. Looks around.

Clipboard ready.

My heart attempts to exit my body.

His eyes land on the apple juice.

Pause.

“…Do you drink that often?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply. “It is safe.”

He nods, like that answer satisfies him.

He scans my desk. The notebook. The pen.

He picks up the glitter pen.

It says You’ve got this! in aggressively cheerful cursive.

“…Interesting,” he murmurs, jotting something down.

This is not reassuring.

“And how long have you been practicing, Jennifer?” he asks, turning back to me.

I stare at him.

I could lie.

I could say something vague.

Instead, I say the truth. The Jennifer truth.

“I am very new,” I say. “But I take my job seriously, and I ask for help when I am overwhelmed.”

The room goes quiet.

He looks at me. Really looks at me this time.

Then—

He smiles.

Not big. Not fake. Just… approving.

“That’s rare,” he says.

He makes another note.

“What population do you specialize in?” he asks.

I blink.

“…People,” I say carefully. “Mostly ones who are uncomfortable.”

Another pause.

Then he lets out a small huff of laughter.

“That tracks,” he says. “Your clients’ feedback is… unusual.”

Oh no.

“They describe you as ‘direct,’ ‘grounding,’ and ‘strangely calming.’ One wrote that you ‘do not perform empathy, but somehow provide it.’”

I do not know what that means.

He looks around once more.

“No excessive clutter,” he continues. “Minimal distractions. Sensory-neutral environment.”

That was accidental.

He closes his clipboard.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I think you’re doing important work.”

My brain blue-screens.

He steps past me and into the lobby.

“Carry on,” he adds.

The door clicks shut behind him.

I blink once.

Then twice.

I open my mouth. "But I—"

Haley immediately covers my mouth.

"This is bullying,” I say into her palm.

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