Dr. Warren sits in a gray folding chair, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. His suit is brown; his tie, red. His thin-rimmed glasses lie against his chest, on a chain. When I knock on the open door, he points to the vacant chair facing him, his gaze fixed on an old-school manila folder in his lap. His bald, liver-spotted head is as waxed and shiny as a freshly buffed sports car.

“Hello,” I say.

No response. After a brief hesitation, I squeak across the floors in my sneakers and sit.

Dr. Warren remains bent over his file.

The room is bare apart from the chairs, a potted plant, and a battered wooden coffee table. While I wait for him to acknowledge me, I observe a couple of sparrows pecking at the peeling paint on the windowsill outside.

“Excuse me,” I say, after several minutes, when Dr. Warren still hasn’t greeted me. The clock on the wall says five past the hour.

He looks up, faintly irritated. “Yes?”

“Are we . . .” I feel silly. “. . . going to start?”

He looks at the clock, then back at his paperwork. “Whenever you like.”

I haven’t seen a therapist before, but this feels a little unorthodox. Perhaps he is one of those therapists who uses unconventional means to bring about a particular result—like failing to provide a chair because he believes people get to the heart of things faster when they are uncomfortable?

That, or Dr. Warren is an asshole.