“She’s seventeen. How old are you?”

“Almost thirteen,” she told him. “What did your daughter … How did she…?”

“She told us he is not tzniusdik. She says she won’t go back.”

“And you believe her?” she asked, her voice so pitiful and fearful, it broke his heart.

“Why wouldn’t I? And you must tell your parents, too. And your teachers and your rebbe.”

“The Rebbe was the one who sent me to him. They won’t believe me. No one will help me.”

“I believe you, and I will help you. Here,” he said, handing her a piece of paper and a pen, “write down your name and address and phone number.”

She hesitated, searching his face as if for answers that would help her make a decision. “They would be angry if they knew I spoke to a strange man. They’ll say it’s my fault. That’s what he tells them all the time. That I’m not cooperating.”

“What does he want you to do?”

She stared at him in terror, clamming up. Then she suddenly filled out the paper, handing it back to him wordlessly, then running quickly down the staircase.

He folded it carefully, placing it into his wallet. Then he took the elevator down and rode up once again to the main entrance to Grub’s office.

He sat on a chair in the waiting room until the door opened and Grub came out, scanning the room. When their eyes met, Yaakov got up and walked toward him.

Grub looked at him, puzzled.

“You are expecting my daughter, my Shaindel. I’m her father. Can I come in and speak to you?”

Grub backed away, blocking the entrance to his office, but Yaakov pushed past him.

There it was, the picture with the women in bikinis at the beach.

Grub followed him in, carefully closing the door behind them.

Yaakov took in the couch-bed. He sat down, trying it out. It was not a lounge chair but a bed that took up almost the entire office.

“So where is she?”

“Shaindele?”

Grub nodded arrogantly. “You’ll have to pay for this session. She never canceled.”

“We need to talk, Rav Grub.”

“About what?”

“About what goes on in an office between a religious married man, a grandfather, and teenage girls when the door is locked from both sides and there is a big bed between you.”

“I’m a professional, licensed…,” he blustered.

Yaakov scanned the diplomas on the wall. There was no license and nothing from a recognized institution. It was mostly letters of gratitude from various Hasidic charities and a certificate that he had passed a yeshiva program in religious counseling.

“Your license?” He pointed to the wall.

“Licenses are for goyim. I have twenty-five years’ experience.”