Carefully, Summer asked, “What is it you think you can do? What kind of help does he need, that you aren’t already providing?” She shaped her inflection to pure curiosity. No condemnation. “Tell me what’s going on, hon.”
“I don’t know what i can do. I can’t fix this. But I have to try.” She wasn’t sure how much she could tell the girl. If she spilled out the whole story, she would probably call her crazy and walk off. But, there was a small part of her that was curious to know what she would say. “He’s possessed.”
Summer sat back with a jolt. “Possessed,” she repeated. “By what? /How?/ You — oh, god.” She’d been thinking suicide, social anxiety, some chronic disease. “What have you — how many of you are there?”