He lifted his head up from the uncomfortable crooked position on the hard table. His eyes were red-rimmed, but no longer from bad bio-implants. Techie had been crying. A LOT. “I th-think, um, I need to see m-my therapist again. I can’t go on l-like this!” In between words, he’d wipe away his tears with a worn, dirty sleeve. The tray of food to his left was cold and untouched.