Pete has been struggling to find work ever since he had the optional surgery that removed his ability to understand subtlety. He started a side hustle as a grief counselor to make ends meet. “Welcome to my grief counseling office,” Pete tells the weeping family, his first customers. He is wearing a shirt with a giant sad face and no pants.

The father reaches for a glass of water, and Pete slaps it out of his hand, letting it shatter on the floor. “That water is for me only,” says Pete, having maintained eye contact without blinking since the session began. “You are broken, and I will fix you,” Pete assures him.

“Laughter is the best therapy. Knock knock,” Pete begins. The family looks at him in silence. “Knock knock,” he repeats louder. Silence again. Pete confidently jots “deaf” into his notebook.

Pete eases them into the conversation gently: “I HEARD YOU ARE SAD BECAUSE YOUR SON CRASHED HIS 2009 CHEVY EQUINOX INTO A POLE AND DIED INSTANTLY.” The family winces.

After a pause, the mother chimes in, “It... it just feels like we lost everything when we lost Jack.” Pete, ever the optimist, has an answer for this: “One person isn’t everything. I know nine people, so I would never be sad about one person dying.” The family braces as he continues his address: “Everyone dies someday.” He turns his attention to little Janine, so frail and rheumatic that she can hardly survive the cold of winter. “You will die earlier than most.” The family sits, captivated, knowing the session is non-refundable.

Little Janine chimes in: “My big brother died, and I think I will be sad forever.” Pete speaks directly through her: “Loss is temporary. You will forget this ever happened in under five years. I haven’t been sad since I had a surgery that removed a large part of my brain,” Pete announces. “I will soon have surgery to remove the rest.”

“I’ve now cured you. This session is over.” They get up to leave, but Pete stops them. “You need to leave a Yelp review. You can’t leave until you leave a Yelp review. Show me your phone.”