Page 7 of Victorious

His attention to detail had been a source of amusement among his colleagues at the hospital before he started his own practice. He was the first to admit, his was a level of routine bordering on ritual, and if a patient presented a similar pattern of precision, he would inquire about that patient’s past. After all, effects usually had causes, and most behaviors did not manifest without a source.

But for Gabriel himself, there was no underlying trauma. No need to counterbalance some childhood sense of disruption.

He simply preferred to impose a state of order on his day. His life. His self.

He kept his hair and nails both neatly trimmed, his glasses polished, and his pencil sharp. He kept his mind and body tuned and moved with the calm precision of a carefully wound watch.

Speaking of—Gabriel glanced at the time.

His four o’clock was late.

He turned through the file on his desk. Paul Barnett, a referral from Dr. Arnold over at Merit General. He skimmed the printed notes, recommitting the details of the case to memory.

At six minutes past, the knock finally came.

“Come in.”

The young man who entered was not well—that much was obvious. His fair hair tangled around his head, his eyes sunken in the hollows of his face. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. He looked like he was a ghost. A walking specter, worn thin by lack of sleep. And yet, there was a nervous tension to his movements, like cables drawn tight enough to snap.

“You must be Paul,” said Gabriel, holding out his hand.

The fingers that took his were taut, tendons ticking beneath the skin. “Dr. Gray?”

“Please,” said the therapist, “call me Gabriel. Why don’t you take a seat.”

He gestured to the furniture in front of the desk, where a chair and a sofa squared off, separated by a low coffee table, letting Paul decide which one to take. When he opted for the sofa, Gabriel took the chair.

As he sat, he unfastened the cuffs of his pale shirt, and rolled up his sleeves, three neat turns that brought the crisp fabric just below his elbows. Years ago, when he’d first hung out his shingle, the rolling of the sleeves had been a conscious affect. A way to signal it was time to get to work.

These days, it was as automatic as taking up his notebook, or marking the time. Even so, the gesture, like most of the therapist’s actions, was methodical, precise.

Paul shifted in his seat, and Gabriel wondered what kind of patient he would be.

Some people were convinced they didn’t need therapy. They built whole battlements around themselves before they ever showed up, as if preparing for a siege. Others wanted to talk but didn’t know how. Or rather, how to start. They’d erected a dam. But a little force, in the right place, and it would break, the contents of their mind rushing out in a flood.

Gabriel’s notebook and pencil sat waiting on the table.

“Well then,” he said, taking up the tools. “What brings you in today?”

Paul’s gaze flicked to the notebook. “Dr. Arnold should have sent you my file…”

“She did,” said Gabriel calmly. “But I’d prefer to hear it in your words.”

Paul dragged a pillow into his lap, then looked down at his hands, as if they belonged to someone else, and returned the pillow to the corner of the couch. One knee jittered up and down, and Gabriel began to tap his pencil gently, and at half the pace, to see if Paul would adjust to match the tempo. But he didn’t—didn’t seem to notice his own metronomic beat, let alone the doctor’s.

They sat in silence for a moment. That was fine.

Gabriel had spent many first sessions in near-perfect stillness. Like a handler with a skittish shelter dog, one that needed acclimating to a human presence before they started to feel safe. Some patients needed time. But Paul’s restlessness belied an urge to speak. Gabriel mentally began to count, and before he reached the number ten, Paul broke the silence. “I can’t sleep.”

“Can’t? Or are afraid to?”

Paul’s gaze jolted toward him. “Can’t. It’s not safe.”

Gabriel looked at Paul over his glasses. “For you?”

“For anyone.” He pressed his palms together, hard. “I tried to tell Dr. Arnold. She gave me these pills, after the accident, but they’re not strong enough.”

The accident, according to Paul’s file, involved sleepwalking out of a fourth-story window eighteen months before. Nine broken bones. A six-week coma. By all accounts, Paul Barnett shouldn’t be alive. And yet.