“What was the emergency room physician’s diagnosis?” the doctor asked.

“He said I’d experienced an anxiety attack.”

“Do you understand what that is?”

“I’ve read up on it.”

“Why don’t we talk about that?”

Sighing, Tomasetti looked out the window at the lights of the city beyond. Downtown Columbus was a bustling place this time of the evening. Happy hour was just heating up over at the Buckeye Pub on High Street. He could hear the traffic three stories down and wished he were out there. He wished he were anywhere but inside this office, inside his own skin, inside his own head.

“How much of this gets back to the suits at BCI?” he asked after a moment.

“Everything you and I talk about is confidential. You know that.”

“You have to tell them something. How else do they know whether or not I show up?”

“I give them attendance reports.”

“So how are they going to know when I’m fixed?”

A smile curved the doctor’s mouth. “I’ll include that in my final report.”

“How will you know when we get there?”

“Let’s just say we’re not there yet.” The doctor waited a beat. “John, tell me about the anxiety attacks.”

Tomasetti thought about walking out. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d walked out of a doctor’s office. But he knew it would be counterproductive. The last thing he wanted was to sabotage his job. His relationship with Kate aside, it was all he had left.

He shrugged. “They’re pretty much textbook. Pounding heart. Sweating. Chest so tight I can’t take a breath.”

“How do they make you feel?”

“Out of control.” Tomasetti wiped his wet palms on his slacks, realized what he was doing and stopped. “Scared shitless.”

“I can write you a prescription.”

“I think I’ve had more than my share of pills.”

Hunt frowned. “Let’s go back to the nightmares for a second.”

“What about them?”

“How do they make you feel?”

“They scare the fuck out of me.”

“Why do they scare you?”

“Because someone I care about always gets hurt. Or worse.”

“They die?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are you there? Witnessing it?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you try to help them?”

“I try. But I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s like I’m paralyzed or something.”

“Are we talking about your family? Nancy? The girls?”

This was the part Tomasetti didn’t want to talk about. If he said it aloud, he would have to acknowledge the possibility that it could really happen. “Not always.”

“Who else is it you dream about, John? Who is it you can’t help? Who can’t you talk to me about?”

“Someone I care about.”

“A partner? A cop? A personal relationship?”

“Personal.”