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After around my sixteenth patient today, I embarrassingly find myself dozing off. My patient looks at me as if I don't care about what they have to say.

"Doctor Anderson, if you don't care about this, I can just get going," they tell me. I groan and wipe my hands over my eyes.

"I'm so sorry Danielle, I've been having a stressful day," I rub my forehead.

"You always tell me that," she sighs, obviously frustrated with me.

Danielle Reeves. For ages, I've been trying to help her fix her attitude problem. It's getting better, but now, I'll have a harder time managing. With James scaring the living daylights out of me, I'm not sure how I'll even get through the day without passing out.

"Allow me to explain myself," I take a deep breath. With Danielle being sixteen, I'm not even quite sure if she'll understand.

"Okay."

"Around say...ten in the morning," I begin. "I have a patient and let's just say his case is serious."

"What is it?" Danielle questions me.

"He has an addiction and it has me tired out," I explain. "the guy believes that there's no way to fix him." Did I really just reveal part of a client's case? Shoot, I could get fired for this-

"How can he tire you out?" Daniella snorts. Of course.

"Because, although mental stress isn't physical, it still tires out your brain," I have to try my hardest to not roll my eyes at her. I pause for a few moments. "would you mind sitting out in the waiting room for a few minutes? I'd like to speak to your father."

Her eyes go wide and she stands up while I stay seated. Danielle stomps out of my office and I stare down at my notepad to see all of the cons that I have written down about her overall attitude.

The door opening breaks me from my thoughts and Mr. Reeves walks in. "Take a seat, sir."

He sits down and gives me a crooked grin. I shiver at how uncomfortable this man makes me. At times, his wife tells me that whenever they want to quit on me, he always disagrees and tells them that 'Cecilia is too good of a woman to leave'. I'm still trying to figure out how he knows my name. Rarely do I ever tell clients or their parents my name unless they ask me. Or unless your name is James. Not once did the Reeves family ask me for my name.

"Mr. Reeves-"

"Call me David," he interrupts me. Did the middle of my sentence interrupt the beginning of yours?

"I'd rather be professional with my clients' parents," I inform him. "back to what I was trying to say...Daniella is very difficult to work with and many times she's offered to walk out of the office. I know part of it is my own fault but when she does, I get this sense that I'm not meant for this job. So, if either you or your wife could talk to her, that'd be great."

"Anything to keep you helping Daniella," he flashes me a flirtatious smile. I throw up in my mouth and fake a smile and motion for him to leave the office. Oh, the urge to not help her is horrendous. How his wife doesn't know about this, I don't know.

I stay seated in my chair for a few minutes longer and decide on getting myself going to get home.

While exiting the building, I feel my phone vibrate in my back pocket. Once I get out into the cold city air, I pull my phone out and look to see a text from an unfamiliar number.

The message reads out, 'I need help...you're the only one that can do it'. Who is this? And what can I do? Most of all, why do they need help?

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