Mrs. Chesterton couldn't shake the growing feeling of unease that increased as she approached the doors of Dr. Jonathan Crane's office. The office building was quite plain compared to the luxurious skyscrapers she had grown accustomed to with the plate glass windows and gleaming brushed steel. Quite simply it was just a drab brick building with small windows

But inside the office looked pretty much the same as many other doctors' offices with neutral blue-gray carpeting, stained wood decoration and sterile white walls. The elevator's stainless steel doors slid open and she gazed at his business card.

Office 204

She pressed the No. 2 button. The elevator doors closed. One thing Mrs. Chesternon knew, she wasn't claustrophobic.

His office was on the far end of the hall and Mrs. Chesterton made a point of gazing at some of the other offices. She didn't get to see much. Many of the other offices were closed or seemed to be private rooms. How very odd indeed. When she opened the door, she expected the office wouldn't be crowded at all – she had not been all that impressed with the young doctor. But she had been mistaken.

In one corner was a pale young woman with sunken eyes who seemed like she hadn't slept in days. Unlike Mrs. Chesterton, she seemed quite poor with her rough cotton dress and tattered tennis shoes.

I sure hope this Crane isn't into charity cases, because I won't wait around while he serves that poor girl first.

To her right was a middle-aged man in a suit and tie, but he kept writing something on a pad of paper. He never raised his eyes up from the pad. Out of curiosity she glanced at the pad. It seemed like he was writing the same thing over and over again.

Well he's a mental case. I wonder if Dr. Westmeyer was wrong. I'm not as far gone as him.

The last patient made her the most uneasy of all. It was a young man with a hollow face and piercing black eyes. Like the young woman, he didn't seem to have that much money. He was wearing a ripped black T-shirt emblazoned with a screaming skull and ragged jeans. But he kept staring at her with those haunted eyes. This time Mrs. Chesterton couldn't help herself.

"You know it quite rude to stare," she said. "Know your manners, young man."

"Ahem."

It was the receptionist.

"Do you have an appointment ma'am?"

"Yes, dear. I'm Mrs. Genevieve Chesterton. I have a three o'clock appointment."

A young woman in her mid-twenties with light brown hair and a white coat pulled up her charts and checked the appointment schedule from behind the polished gray counter.

"So you do. Please fill out these forms and Dr. Crane will be with you shortly."

The receptionist handed her five pages worth of forms to Mrs. Chesterton and she flipped through them briefly.

"If you don't mind dear," said Mrs. Chesterton, glancing at the pale girl in the corner. "Do you know how long the wait is?"

"Oh, not long," said the receptionist. "Maybe 15 or 20 minutes. He is quite punctual."

"And, if I may ask," Mrs. Chesterton whispered, leaning over the counter. "Is that girl before me?"

"Oh, they all are, ma'am. They have appointments ahead of you. You agreed to the three o' clock."

"If I may be so bold, my dear. I will not wait for these – these people. I insist on being seen at once."

Mrs. Chesterton slid a $100 bill underneath the clipboard of all the unfilled out forms she was still clutching.

"Uh, ma'am, I cannot accept that. Please take your seat and fill out those forms. Dr. Crane will be with you shortly."

"Girl, I will not wait. This is an emergency! I will not wait yet again to see –"

"Is there a problem?"

The inner office door opened and Dr. Jonathan Crane was standing there in his perfectly tailored suit taking in the scene with those cool, blue eyes.

"Mrs. Chesterton, I'm so glad you could come to the three o' clock appointment," said Dr. Crane. "I have been looking forward to it."

Suddenly a wave of apprehension filled Mrs. Chesterton as she gazed at those cool, nearly emotionless blue eyes, as though intricate calculations on her character and soul were being filed and categorized in his mind. A slight smile formed on his lips.

"Please take a seat. I shan't keep you waiting long, I assure you," he said.

"But – but these other patients –"

"You're not used to waiting, are you? That's okay, Mrs. Chesterton. It will be worth the wait," he said. "I have studied your case quite thoroughly."

His gaze seemed to burrow into her soul and a chill filled her while her heart raced. It was only when his eyes turned away that she felt some relief.

"Angie, it's okay. It's your turn," said Dr. Crane, in as soothing a tone as Mrs. Chesterton had ever heard from him. It scared her even more. "Don't be frightened, Angie . . . There is nothing to fear."

The pale girl in the corner got up, her eyes shyly meeting his before glancing back down to the floor. Gently he took her hand and Mrs. Chesterton noted how rough her hand looked compared to his. Dr. Crane's smile broadened as he led her through the office door.

"That girl is a common worker, isn't she," asked Mrs. Chesterton.

"Angie is one of the finest seamstresses in Gotham City. More likely than not she sewed one of your designer dresses – there is nothing common about her," said Dr. Crane.

"But she is poor and yet you saw her before me," said Mrs. Chesterton indignantly. "Surely she cannot afford to see you, not at what I'm paying you for this session."

Dr. Crane sat back in his leather chair, again his piercing blue eyes boring into her from his stylish designer glasses.

"Not just the wealthy need help with the mind, Mrs. Chesterton. Those who cannot afford to go to other psychologists come to me – and it's a privilege. Does that bother you?"

He leaned across his walnut desk and Mrs. Chesterton suddenly felt more than anything that she wanted to jump out of her plush black leather chair and run out of the office. Her eyes suddenly darted to the window.

"Why – Why are there bars on the window?"

"Oh. That's for my more violent patients. You needn't worry about that Mrs. Chesterton."

"But I – uh –"

"But you are afraid of something," Dr. Crane said in nearly a whisper. "That is why you are here – and that is why I can help. But I must warn you, my methods are unconventional . . . Are you ready?"

Normally Mrs. Chesterton would have jumped out her seat and stalked out of the room, but there was something about those mesmerizing, cool eyes and that slight smile upon those sensuous lips that kept her riveted.

Like a mouse enthralled by a cobra.

"Are you ready?"

Mrs. Chesterton slightly nodded.

"Good. We are all afraid of something, Mrs. Chesterton. Fear isn't a bad thing. It's a survival instinct really. It kept our ancestors alive for millennia, but when it paralyzes, when it enslaves us, that is the beginning of neurosis. Now the question we all must face is what do we fear the most?"

Mrs. Chesterton shook her head, feeling unable to move from her seat.

"I – I don't know."

"That is what I will help you find . . . But first I'm going to need a little help. This is Wilbur."

Mrs. Chesterton started screaming as soon as she saw it. She was hiding behind her chair in her designer clothing and fancy fur shawl. Dr. Crane was completely unphased.

"Wilbur isn't that scary really. I named him after the pig in "Charlotte's Web." I'm terribly uncreative with names. He's a South African tarantula. I hear most people are deathly afraid of spiders. I know I was as a child."

He took the hairy black tarantula out of its jar and held it very calmly on his hand.

"Would you like to hold him?"

"NO!"

"Very well." He placed Wilbur back in its jar and gave her a sly smile. "You know if you never face your fear you'll never overcome it."

Mrs. Chesterton was still too busy trembling and too relieved to not be holding Wilbur to reply.

"But that is not what you truly fear, is it Mrs. Chesterton," Dr. Crane said in his cool professional tone. "It is something much deeper . . . Please sit. I promise I will not bring Wilbur out again – unless you make me."

Timidly she slid back into her fine leather chair, feeling terribly vulnerable and naked under his gaze.

"When did your husband die," he asked, sliding a pad in front of him and opening a gold plated pen.

"I – I guess not too long ago," she said. "A year – year and a half maybe?"

"And you've enjoyed your time? Friends, money, entertainment. Had any nightmares?"

"Uh, maybe." Mrs. Chesterton squirmed. "Honestly, I don't remember doctor."

"And these panic attacks, when did these start? Did you have them while your husband was alive?"

"Um, no. Never."

"So it began after he died. Death can be a traumatic experience. Tell me the situation you experience these panic attacks."

"I – I can't describe them. They just seem to happen."

"No pattern at all?"

"I have them at home, in a shopping mall, watching a movie. Anywhere."

"Are you with your friends, family then?"

"Uh – no."

Dr. Crane suddenly wrote something very big Mrs. Chesterton couldn't see on the pad of paper and circled it several times.

"I think I can help, but you'll have to trust me on this." He gazed at her with those unnerving eyes that seemed to pierce the very depths of her soul. "Do you trust me?"

"I – I don't know."

Dr. Crane slowly smiled.