I lifted my bag and reached for the door, but Travis slid out of a blind corner as if the building had dispensed him.
He set his palm on the doorframe and turned his shoulder which narrowed the opening. Not quite a strike, but certainly possession.
Group had ended hours ago, so I had no idea where Travis had come from. We hadn’t spoken one-on-one yet, but his file had.
Last week he’d shouted in another participant’s face so hard the room went still. We had to pause group, and I had to log it as a boundary violation. Which meant a safety-plan hold went on Travis’s chart. A hold that couldn’t be lifted without a supervisor, a witness, and a pen that didn’t shake.
I attempted to pretend as if I didn’t see him and continued to walk, but he shifted and fully blocked the door. When I tried to slide past him, his fingers pinched my bag strap for a beat then let go.
Contact so brief it could pretend to be nothing at all. But it wasn’t nothing. It was calculated.
“Take the hold off,” he said.
He watched my hands, not my face. Like a trained fighter waiting to see if I’d strike back.
The doorframe creaked under his weight as he leaned against it. I steadied myself and kept my voice even.
“The hold went on after last week’s incident,” I said. “You shouted in a participant’s face, which is not allowed.”
I decided to add a hint of encouragement to keep things neutral. “And if you stick with the program, Travis, you’ll learn new techniques to cope with your anger?—”
“It’s just a note,” he said, interrupting. “It’s not scripture. Fix it.”
“I’ll add what’s factual before five,” I said, as I realized I had only a few minutes remaining before Travis’s file would automatically export to his parole officer.
“That’s all I can do,” I added. “Status changes require a supervisor.”
He shook his head. “I have to meet my PO in the morning, and you know what that means, counselor.”
“I do,” I said, “but I’m still not lifting a hold under pressure.”
His face froze as if he was not accustomed to hearing the word no. Especially not from someone half his size.
Travis didn’t touch me again. Didn’t move, either. I widened the space by a few inches and took it. Head up, ordinary pace. He stayed framed in metal as if he were a problem that could be bordered and contained. I knew better.
I made my way—as calmly as possible—down the hallway toward my office, glancing back once to make sure Travis hadn’t followed me.
At my terminal, the banner glared yellow: Export to probation at 17:00. Late edits flagged.
I kept the addendum clean and orderly. Verbal escalation last week, group paused. De-escalated and exited with no threats or contact observed in group session. I reviewed it once before I clicked submit.
Then I opened a new note for today’s corridor incident. Physical obstruction at exit, brief grasp of personal effect. Experienced as coercive. Supervisor informed and pinged.
The banner flipped from yellow to gray.
Export pending… export complete at 17:00.
Down the hall, the elevator chimed once, bright as a verdict.
My hands remained steady on the desk while the office, and everything else around me, moved. Facing the doors, I didn’t call for help.
I stood to meet whatever stepped out.
3
COLT
Mandatory anger management.That’s what they’d called it. A punishment with a polite name. The same way rich people called rehab a wellness retreat.
