The referral says that Avigail is a nightmare to teach and upsets almost anyone who crosses her path

It’s the dark fringe covering most of her eyes I see first, her face a frozen mask. I break the silence. “This is the play therapy room. Maybe there’s something in here that you’d like to look at?” She shrugs and plonks herself down at the sand tray, shoulders tense.

The referral says that Avigail is a nightmare to teach and upsets almost anyone who crosses her path. Here she is, in my office, a prickly 11-year-old, moments away from her next eye roll. I sit myself down on the floor a small distance from her, and wait.

The first five sessions are almost identical: Avigail dumps herself down and arranges things neatly in the sand tray, her back deliberately to me. At first, she’s bewildered by my attention, sneaking a glance at me when she thinks I’m not looking, then flashing me an odd, dismissive expression. Occasionally she speaks to me to correct my reflections, or to tut and roll her eyes, but mainly, we sit in silence. There’s no narrative to her play, no sifting of the sand, dialogue between characters. Just rows of miniatures placed in serried ranks, which she carefully cleans up before she leaves, despite my reminders that cleaning up is my job. My back starts to lock during those 50 minutes of oppressive stillness. What’s hurting you? I wonder.