Page 11 of Victorious

He was, by all measures, a very talented psychiatrist. Sharp, and patient, articulate, insightful. But he’d spent his career escorting patients up and down well-trodden paths. At forty-eight, he’d yet to change the field in any way, yet to leave his own mark.

Most of the field’s greatest advancements came from an earlier time, one that understood that progress required risk. That sometimes, to truly understand a mind, you had to take it apart.

“Dr. Gray?”

Paul’s hands were gripping his knees, heels bouncing nervously, his face mottled with fear and confusion and hope. He was desperate for answers. And now, so was Gabriel. They would find them. Together.

The doctor shook his head. “No,” he said as gently as he could. “As far as I could tell, you were having a bad dream.”

Paul’s face fell. He bowed his head, and sank his fingers through his hair, clutching at his head. Gabriel waited for him to lash out, to snap that he was wrong, but when Paul spoke, his voice was soft, and cracking.

“Can you help me?”

Gabriel nodded gravely. “That’s what I’m here to do.” He rose and retrieved his notebook before returning to Paul’s side. He plucked the pencil from its spot between the pages and held it up between them. “Do you know why I never use a pen?”

Paul’s head drifted up, gaze hollow with exhaustion. His eyes hung on the pencil. “Why?” he mumbled.

“Other doctors treat the body. And when the body is injured, the damage can be permanent. But I treat the mind.” Gabriel spun the pencil round, trading the point for the eraser. “And the mind is always capable of change.”

He rose again, and crossed to his desk, fetching his prescription pad.

“Here,” he said, scribbling out an order before tearing off the sheet. “This is for nitrazepam. At this dosage, it should be more than strong enough to induce a dreamless sleep.”

Paul looked down at the slip and frowned. “It’s only for three days.”

“That’s right,” said Gabriel. “I could tell you it’s to make sure you don’t abuse the pills, but the truth is, sedation is a stopgap. I want you to come back, Paul. I want you to let me help. Together,” he said, resting his hand on his patient’s shoulder, “we’re going to get to the bottom of this. We’re going to find out exactly what’s happening inside your head.”

Paul rose and shuffled toward the door.

As soon as it closed behind him, Gabriel collapsed onto the sofa, heart racing in his chest. His gaze dropped to his left forearm, settled on the two faint pink dots where the serpent’s fangs had met, but failed to break, the skin.

He let out a small, dazed laugh, took up the notebook, and began to write, detailing every moment of the exercise. His pencil skated across the page.

Patient displays an ability that is quite frankly—

He paused, searching for a word to describe what he’d witnessed, before settling on the only one that fit.

—extraordinary.

IVNOW. THEN.

THE commute from Dr. Gray’s office to Gabriel’s house was twenty-eight steps.

Five from the door to the bottom of the stairs. Twelve up. And eleven down the hall.

When he left the hospital four years ago to open his own practice, they’d just bought a new house, and it seemed logical to put the office on the ground floor. The front door led to a vestibule, allowing patients to turn left toward the office, while his family could continue up.

And so, the first floor became Dr. Gray’s private practice, while the two above were Gabriel’s home.

The walls were thick enough that he couldn’t hear the sound of his wife and son arriving home during afternoon sessions, couldn’t hear the footsteps overhead as Ian raced around or Iris fixed him an after-school snack.

Iris extracted only one promise when choosing the new house—the same one she demanded when they first moved in together—that Gabriel wouldn’t bring his work home.

Which meant he had exactly twenty-eight steps to put down the weight of his sessions. To shed the role of therapist, and shift into the role of husband, father.

Those twenty-eight steps were normally enough, but today, Paul’s session clung to his legs as he locked the office door. As he climbed the stairs. As he continued down the hall, unrolling his sleeves in an attempt to convince himself the work was done.

Was it real?