Oren had been doing the work for six years. It wasn't a business; he didn't advertise. People found their way to him through other people who had found their way to him. His apartment had two chairs and a table. He had thought, when he started, that he should have better chairs, and had then decided not to think about the chairs.
He was an accountant. He did taxes. He had a grief permit, current, renewed every fourteen months on a regular schedule. His fourth extension was in processing now: he had submitted it eleven days ago and would have it back within the week. He had done the timeline enough times to know the processing window.
The Act required that anyone offering grief support services hold a license from the Affective Welfare Institute. The license required three hundred supervised hours and a written examination. Oren had done neither. He had done six years of unsupervised practice and had not sat for any examination. He kept his own permit current not as cover but because he understood the process best when he was inside it.
Today's client had found him through a woman he had sat with the year before. Her permit had lapsed. Three months of non-compliance. She had been at work when the deadline passed and had not noticed until the automated notice arrived.
She sat in the chair across from him. He asked her what she was grieving. She said the word.
He made tea. He sat across from her. She sat. He let her sit.