Monday. Again. Christine slid into the routine with trepidation and yet the delightful sensation of I have a secret. Although the emotions of the weekend had not yet faded from her mind, her newly-made resolutions had given her an inner strength. Passing Meg near the front door, the two of them exchanged a small smile, and Christine swung on her coat with more enthusiasm than she'd been able to muster for at least the last six months or so on the job.

She did have a secret. She had her music back.

And though she was not yet able to consider it without some material pain in remembering her father, the memory of her father warmed her inside, almost as though he were behind her as she walked, murmuring encouragement interspersed with sprightly notes of his violin.

It hurt. But it hurt in a fresh sort of way. It was the sharp stab of remembrance rather than the dull, pounding ache of suppression that had been hanging in her temples and between her shoulder blades for the last five years.

Moreover, Christine had a plan. Most professionals, after all, said that it took only twenty-one days to develop a habit, and Christine had been a maker of to-do lists and plans since before she'd left for college. Having a plan made her feel secure, especially since the territory she knew she was soon to be walking was unlike any she had ventured on before, so she was comforted by the solidity of those four letters: plan.

Of course, every plan had a back-up plan. And Christine's plans always had a back-up, back-up plan.

She giggled as she took up her roster. Knorr, Whaler, Knox, Grayson, Winters.

Five consultations, and the hardest one last. This time, though, she was prepared. She had spent quite a bit of her weekend, between demolishing and rebuilding her bedroom, in looking through the man's file. Erik Winters was forty-two years old. His place of birth was Seattle, Washington, but he had resided in quite a good bit of Europe and Asia during his childhood and teenage years, moving back to the States only when he had turned twenty-four. Even as his permanent residence said Westchester, New York, apparently his therapy (started when he was thirty-six) had been punctuated with further visits abroad.

Christine had wondered, as she browsed his file, what sights he had seen, and what experiences he might be able to tell. Her own life, narrow and dull, had been punctuated only by death and its aftermath.

She shook her head. There was no use in thinking of that. After all, what had her father always said?

Always look forward, Christine, especially when you want most to look back.

Always look forward. Always look forward.

She held that warm presence and mantra inside of her as she stepped into her office and greeted the wan, pale face of Diana Knorr.

During the familiar routine of greetings, weekend enquiries and preliminary weight check, Christine felt the fine line of tension that ran through the room, connecting Mrs. Knorr's twisting hands, Diana's downcast eyes, and her own fine diagnostic sense. She resisted a sigh as she adjusted the weight on the scale, not wanting Diana to turn around and see the result, one way or the other.

As she had assumed, the half pound was gone. So was another half pound. It just wasn't enough.

Helping Diana back onto her perch on the examination bench, Christine found that she just couldn't, in all fairness, keep the truth from either of them any longer. Sitting on her chair and drawing her clipboard onto her knees, she faced them both.

"All right. We have to talk."

When lunchtime finally rolled around, she could have cheered. Setting her pager to its loudest mode, she ordered her food and carried her tray and the stack of papers to a table in the corner. She began the deathly dull routine of signing letters of recommendation and forms of committal. Poor kid. The look of dread certainty in her eyes and been heartbreaking, but at least Diana knew, from years of therapy, what most anorexics never did. If she did not become well, if she didn't admit there was a serious problem, then she would die.

At least Diana knew. Her mother had been the one needing convincing, although her twisting hands had told the truth from the start.

Christine signed the final papers as she lingered over her coffee and stale bagel. It was no use. Continued therapy in an outpatient environment just wasn't enough for her. Diana Knorr needed to be watched twenty-four hours a day. She needed to be taken from school to one of the few institutions in upstate New York with a dedicated medical staff.

It always hurt to face the certainty, as a doctor, that you could not give enough. You could not help enough. Christine had had to face that certainty before, but this time it especially hurt. She had grown very close to little Diana Knorr over the past two years of her residency, having essentially taken over the girl's case the moment she arrived on the scene. Her own parents couldn't have agonized over every ounce lost or rejoiced over every pound gained as she had.

But this would be better for her. Christine signed her name with a flourish and, tucking the papers under her arm, deposited the garbage of her lunch and brought the forms to the desk to be mailed.

Checking her watch, she realized she still had fifteen minutes to prep before her last consultation of the day came in. Mr. Winters. The enigmatic Erik. That had a strangely pleasant ring to it.

Smiling slightly bitterly, the flavor of her defeat over Diana still fresh in her mouth, she retreated to her office and commandeered her chair before he could sit in it. She plopped his folder firmly into a deep drawer and slid it shut. No crutches this time. Taking a new pad of paper from another drawer, she reviewed in her mind the questions that she hoped would off balance him as much as she wanted them too.

The first trick with every patient, no matter what they were being treated for, was to get them to admit that they had a problem. Unless, of course, they were wholly beyond the reach of talk therapy. But that wasn't her line. Erik, it seemed, was somewhat of a tourist. She'd noticed that pattern in his file. He seemed to enjoy the repeated attempts to categorize him, using the strangeness of his mask and the unknown element behind it to poke and prod at the examiners.

What was he after?

Of course, that was what she really wanted to know. Opening with something like that, however, the completely ridiculous "Tell me all your secrets" would never work. He'd eluded others with the skill of a master. Perhaps she could trip him up in some other way.

Rebecca had said to avoid a friendship with him, that friendship was the seemingly easiest way, but led to…what? She had never said. Christine frowned over her dilemma.

Over the weekend, though, she'd decided that the best way to get the better of this case was to play right into Erik's hands. If he wanted to jerk her around and make her seem like an idiot, then she would very obligingly be that idiot. She'd ask blunt questions, and perhaps amuse him to the point where he'd give blunt answers.

She uncapped a pen and tapped it against her pad. The thrill of the chase was in her, and with her father's spirit still warm inside her, still giving her fresh jabs of pain to remind her that she was alive, she had never looked forward so much to a consultation before.

Bring it on, Erik. Let's see if you can get the better of me.