“Are you having thoughts of death?” I am kind but direct when I inquire about safety with new patients who enter my care as a psychologist.

The young man nodded, stiff on my office chair and the fear plain in his eyes, while the sounds of New York City drifted in through the window.

“This is common, especially after a trauma.” I offered. “Can you describe the thoughts?”

“I just … want to stop feeling so bad. I don’t feel like myself. So sometimes I wish I could just die in my sleep or something.”

“Have you thought of ways to harm or kill yourself?”

“Not really. I could never do that; my mother would be devastated. Plus, I was raised Catholic.”

I nodded. “You’re waiting for the asteroid.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Waiting for the asteroid. It’s what I call it when you wish that you could

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