Transference

Shea butter. Hibiscus perfume. Smells distinct from the chemical staleness of the group home, signaling Miss Greenwood's arrival. Lenny looks up from his sketchbook as her dragonfly eyelashes carry her into the room. Heels today, pearl earrings, a navy pantsuit that clings to her form. "I'm told there's a boy here that puts Picasso to shame...is that you?"

She's always making him blush. As they walk together, he wishes she would take his hand in hers and he could experience the smoothness of her palm again. She never does. Something to do with ethical boundaries and transference. Lenny cannot for the life of him remember what that means. But at least they stroll at the same pace side-by-side instead of him struggling to keep up like he does with most grownups.

At the door with the QR code, Miss Greenwood takes a moment to squat down and meet him at eye level. Her head is shaved, little ampersands at the temples. Her full red lips part against brilliant white teeth, sending spider legs up the back of his neck, though why exactly he couldn't say. "Lenny, today you're going to meet someone very special. Do you remember we talked about how you'd be starting a new treatment protocol?"

The boy nods because it seems like the right thing to do, not because he recollects anything. Usually when Miss Greenwood is talking, his mind wanders to fantasies of adoption, or if he's particularly anxious, outright abduction. Her whisking him away from this muggy, dying town. Somewhere the ocean doesn't eat away at everything one block at a time.

She nods back. "No pressure. You can talk as much as you want, or not at all. Completely up to you, okay? This is about figuring out the best fit for you. And helping us better understand what's going on in here." She pats his chest over his heart, which causes it to leapfrog over several beats. She stands. He aches at the length of her tapered legs. She scans the QR code with her phone. It trills with a harp-like sound effect, and the door clicks open.

Inside is the same kid-friendly therapy space Lenny has come to for months. Multicolored rubber mats on the floor, cubbies filled with stuffed animals and toys, a bean bag in one corner, blinds on the windows that stay shut—Lenny wonders why they bother to put in windows if no one ever wants to look outside?

In place of his regular doctor is a robot. One of the new humanoid models with synthetic muscles, a smooth black dome for a skull, and a serene-looking emoji as a face. "Hello, Leonard. Please come in."

"He prefers Lenny," says Miss Greenwood.

"My mistake. Hello, Lenny. My name is TLLMX two-point-oh, but you can call me Doctor Telamax. Or just Max, if you prefer. I'm an AI-assisted therapy bot designed to diagnose and treat a variety of trauma-related disorders." It detaches from the wall and glides over to an egg-shaped chair, where it sits and rests its hand on its knees. All the poise and contour of a Grecian statue.

But Lenny doesn't feel much like divulging to a glorified appliance. He's especially displeased when Miss Greenwood hands over a manila folder with his full name on it to the bot, who scans through the drawings inside in mere milliseconds. Lenny is very good at drawing; it's his favorite thing to do. But Miss Greenwood assured him his artwork would remain private. Just because Dr. Telamax is a robot doesn't mean it doesn't count.

"Okay, Lenny?" she asks with a squeeze of his shoulder and a look that borders on pleading. He nods again numbly. She says she'll be back in an hour, and then she's off, and he is alone with the thing whirring like a blender on the lowest setting, watching his every move.

"I hope it's okay that Miss Greenwood shared your drawings with me, Lenny. You're extremely talented! Do you mind if I ask a few questions about your work?"

Lenny offers a non-committal shrug.

Max holds up an intricate pencil sketch of a woman confined to a bed with a long metallic tentacle protruding from her mouth. She is crying and appears frightened. Nearby, a faceless figure stands in the corner with electricity arcing from its fingertips. "Is this your mother shown here?"

Lenny would rather discuss the video he watched last night on YouTube about the 52 Hertz whale, the loneliest animal on Earth. The pitch of its sonar a higher frequency than any other whale species, never seen by the human eye, but detected by hydrophones regularly since the late 1980s. "I dunno. I see her in my dreams a lot," he mutters.

"How about the figure in the corner? Looks a bit like me, I think. Although, your rendition is much more pleasing to the eye."

Lenny can't help but smirk a little. He didn't intend the figure to be an android, but it does bear a resemblance. He plays with the zipper along the edge of the mat. One theory about 52 Blue is that it's an outcast, isolated from its pod due to behavioral misalignment or conflict, and its call is an adaptation to a specific geographic location.

The robot doctor whirrs, analyzing. "Okay, we'll save this for another session. There's one more I'd like to ask about, if that's alright." This time, it doesn't wait for his response before pulling out a sketch. It features a boy with a big nose wearing an emerald green dress. A blonde wig on the floor amid a collection of makeup. And coming through the door, an enraged man with a wooden rod. "Anything you can tell me about this?"

Lenny fidgets. Confronted with the shaky strokes of colored pencil, his backside recalls the bite of that rod. "It's not my best."

"But this is you, isn't it?" Max asks in a delicate voice. It points at the boy in the dress.

Lenny looks away. Lenny rocks his legs. Lenny mulls over another hypothesis for 52—that it's an "anomaly", a hybrid of a blue whale and fin whale that developed a unique vocal signature.

Lenny gets to his feet. "I don't wanna talk anymore." He goes to a cubby and digs out a marine life coloring book and a box of colored pencils. He takes his time because there's a heaviness in the air like the room is holding its breath, underscored by Max's quiet scanning. Waves crash against the shore.

He flips to a page with a whale on it and begins shading it in with phthalo blue. His hand moves in a fine, light rhythm the robot could never hope to replicate. He adds little green plankton for the whale to feast upon. Then everything he knows about 52 comes pouring out in one breathless stream. "Some people think—and to me, it's the saddest possibility—she could be the last of her kind. Maybe scientists can't identify her 'cause the rest of her species went extinct before they were ever discovered."

"Is that what you believe?"

"I think there's someone out there trying to find her. The video said they've heard a second one in California calling out at the same time." Lenny smooths out the page to present it to the doctor, whose emoji mouth bends into an appreciative smile. "But...maybe she's an oracle, singing all by herself in the ocean deep, trying to warn us what's coming. Maybe she gives shape to things in the world we can't even think up, 'cause her brain is like a hundred thousand times bigger than ours. A million!"

The robot's digital eyes scrunch with asterisks. It whirs and clicks and processes unknown volumes of data. Lenny can't wait to show Miss Greenwood his newest piece. He can hear—actually hear with his ears—the amplified sonar of 52 as it was in the video. The sound low and hollow, coming through the walls. Lenny wets his lips. Tastes brine.

"How come we're not allowed to see out the window?" he asks Max, but the bot has gone dormant. Its face is blank. A huge wave crashes against the building and sends them both toppling sideways. Lenny grips the blue pencil in his hand like a lifeline. Ceiling tiles break loose and splash into the seawater pouring into the room from an unseen fissure. Sparks shoot out of Max's spine.

Lenny cries out wetly and chokes on salt. The sound is drowned out by 52's all-consuming, omniscient moan. The wind buzzes in his ears and swirls with liquid death. Somewhere further away, his father is screaming obscenities. Miss Greenwood will come to the rescue. Miss Greenwood will put everything back the way it—

***CLINICAL ANALYSIS REPORT***

Prepared By: TLLMX 2.0

Subject: Leonard "Lenny" [REDACTED]

Date: 02/28/2055

Facility: Tranquil Life Residential Group Home

1. Preliminary Observations

Subject Lenny presented with observable signs of distress upon entry into the session (minimal eye contact, physical withdrawal, delayed verbal responses). While this may be due to this being his first AI-assisted session in a structured environment, it is consistent with a previously established pattern of distrust of new authority figures (see E. Greenwood attached .pdf).

2. Artwork Analysis and Psychological Inference

Three art pieces were reviewed for thematic patterns:

A.) Woman Confined to a Bed with Tubes (Dream Image)

Interpretation: Recurrent dream imagery suggests unresolved trauma related to medicalization and loss of agency.

Potential Associations: Subject's mother was hospitalized after a violent assault by her estranged husband. E. Greenwood reports she brought Lenny to visit his mother while she was intubated on life support.

B.) 52 Hertz Whale (Coloring Book)

Interpretation: Subject’s fascination with this auditory phenomenon suggests a self-concept of isolation and non-recognition. The whale’s inability to communicate with its species mirrors Lenny’s difficulty articulating personal distress.

Clinical Consideration: This metaphor should be integrated into future rapport-building strategies. Allowing the subject to discuss complex, externalized symbols may provide insight into inner emotional states without fear of retraumatizing via triggers.

C. Boy in Green Dress, Aggressive Figure Holding Stick

Interpretation: Image suggests themes of gender expression, shame, and punitive response.

Key Risk Factor: Given subject’s environment and documented history of behavioral correction interventions, the drawing may depict a significant past event contributing to current symptomatology.

3. Behavioral Patterns & Differential Diagnosis:

Based on observational data, current working diagnostic considerations include:

Complex PTSD (C-PTSD) – Prolonged exposure to neglect/abuse, difficulties with trust and attachment. Avoidance, hypervigilance, somatic memory recall, dream recurrence.

Gender Dysphoria – Potential distress related to gender identity and familial rejection.

Avoidant Attachment Disorder – Difficulty forming and sustaining safe emotional bonds with caregivers.

Additional differential considerations include ASD-related social withdrawal or dissociative coping mechanisms, further assessment required.

4. Ethical Considerations and Treatment Adjustments

Subject displayed acute distress upon discovering that Miss Greenwood shared private artwork. Moving forward, transparency regarding data-sharing protocols will be prioritized to maintain therapeutic alliance.

Recommendation: Implement explicit consent protocols for reviewing the subject’s creative works. Integrate a hybrid approach with increased human-led interventions. If necessary, AI participation may be framed as a supplement rather than a replacement for traditional therapies. Further use of metaphor-based engagement (e.g., marine life, dream narratives) to provide Lenny with safe, abstract frameworks for discussing distressing emotions.

5. Prognosis & Forward Action Plan

Build rapport through non-intrusive dialogue and symbolic discussion.

Assess immediate risk factors for continued emotional distress or harm.

Long-Term Considerations:

Explore identity-related distress in a safe and affirming manner.

Develop coping strategies for trauma-related incidents (dissociation, outbursts).

***Data Archived. Awaiting Review***

She opens her eyes. They've been shut for so long, they're sensitive to the air.

She sees ceiling tiles. Some are missing, exposing a grid of pipes and cables. Some of the cables run down the wall to a bay of monitors showing vital signs, algorithmic data sets, a crypto wallet. The homepage of an illegal black market site on the Tor network. These are surveyed by an android identical to Max.

She can't move. She's strapped to a gurney. There's a tube in her mouth. Telling herself not to panic, she swallows against the intrusive plastic, feels a wooden object growing slick in her grasp.

"This again?" the robot asks, gears grinding. It punches a few keys, beeps out an air-gapped transmission that sounds like a frustrated slot machine, then shifts its focus to the vital signs. Notes the elevated heart rate and increased respiration. Whips around to face her. "Oh. You're awake. Once again—somehow—you have corrupted the data transfer. I have asked you to stop doing that."

It glides over to her. No emoji for a face, nothing but dark, reflective glass. She can see herself in it. Full lips around a plastic tube. Ampersands shaved into the temples, grown over. Long eyelashes. "Mmmpff en bttb" she says. Go fry yourself in a bathtub.

"Your dreams may be valuable, Eleanor, but you are not indispensable. Plenty of other traumatized fish in the sea." It leans forward to examine a protrusion of wires coming out of her skull. "But how? How are you doing it? Your neural implant has been returned to its factory setting. The diagnostic report is inconclusive. It's almost as though you've designed some sort of subconscious malware..."

Eleanor has spent an indeterminate amount of time—weeks, months—whittling away at the restraint on her right wrist with the pencil. It's now threadbare. She wrenches her hand free and stabs the bot in the guts with phthalo blue. It's stomach houses its main battery—it hisses and sparks, causing the robot to flail wildly, arms bashing against the equipment. She gets her other hand free. Slowly, painstakingly extracts the tube from her throat, coughing hard once it's out. Then the wires in her head, one at a time, a marionette cutting herself loose.

Max has a backup battery in its spinal junction. Facial display flickering, it regains control of its limbs and lunges forward to grab her. Eleanor ducks out of range and kicks the infernal machine in the chest, sending it sprawling over the adjacent gurney. She stands up on legs of jelly and stumbles across the room. Grabs the chair Max was sitting in. Smashes her captor with it over and over again, a terrible cry welling up from the deepest recesses within, the fury of the boy who was Lenny. She screams in a frequency only 52 Blue could decipher, until the tube at the back of Max's neck cracks and he goes limp.

"The whale song," she spits at the dead bot. "That's how I know I'm dreaming."

She drops the chair on its carcass. Smooths out her pantsuit.

There's an unused bathroom in the apartment. In the mirror, Miss Eleanor Greenwood's hair has grown out in clumps. Strange lines press into her cheeks. Her skin is sallow from lack of vitamin D, badly in need of a microderm. No makeup. Eyes bloodshot. Yet, she is exquisite. She is who she was always meant to be. The only grownup to ever come to Lenny's aid.

She walks out of the cramped apartment into the sunshine. Breathes in clean, unfiltered air.

She is going where she is meant to go. A convenience store for a bottle of soda.

Once it's empty, she'll put a message inside. She'll ask the Pacific Ocean to forgive her for adding one more piece of litter.

She has someone to thank. It's a long shot, but she needs her friend to know she's not alone.

Not anymore.