Dr. Hal Gren's office was very well lit. Glass walls that stretched from the floor to the ceiling overlooked the city's largest park. Its year around green vegetation—a courtesy of the tropics—saturated the vision as one waited in Dr. Gren's reception.

Tressi stood looking through the glass, with her back to the waiting area, as Des spoke to the smartly dressed receptionist about their appointment.

"Eleven thirty under Sakit?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Gren's just finishing up with a patient. Would you mind waiting for just a few minutes? He'll be done anytime now."

"No problem."

Des walked over to stand beside Tressi. "Do you wanna sit?"

"No."

He placed his hand on her arm. "It's gonna be fine. You know that don't you, Tress? It's gonna be fine no matter what he says."

Tressi turned to face him with her arms folded across her chest. "What do you think he's gonna say Des? That I'm crazy?"

"No—"

Tressi cut him off before he could say anything, "Because I already know I probably am. What else do you call someone that sees things? It's fine," she shrugged, turning away from him. "I'll be fine."

Before Des could say anything, they heard voices behind them. Dr. Gren came out with his patient—a young man about thirty.

He's so normal.

Tressi was startled by her own thoughts. Of course he was normal. Why was she picturing deranged features and manic laughter?

Get it together.

"Please renew Mr. Hogan's prescription," he told his receptionist. He then turned to his patient, "Same time next week?" They shook hands.

As Dr. Gren's eyes fell upon her, Tressi resisted the urge to look away.

Be normal.

Why did she feel like such a freak show?

"Tressi Sakit?" he asked, smiling professionally, as he looked up from the appointment register. It was a smile determined to put her at ease. Knowing that didn't stop it from working. He looked...friendly.

"Y-yes..."

"I'm Dr. Hal Gren." He walked forward with his hand outstretched.

Tressi tried to make the tremors in her hand less noticeable as she shook it. But she wasn't sure if it'd worked.

"And you are?" he asked, looking at Des.

"I'm Des Gemira. Her husband," he said offering his hand.

"Shall we go in then?" he gestured to the room behind the reception.

"Okay..." Tressi replied, clasping Des's hand, which Dr. Gren's sharp eyes didn't miss.

The room was designed very carefully to make one feel comfortable. Tressi noticed that as soon as she stepped in. The white and grey colour scheme wasn't dull, just muted. Combined with pops of green from the indoor plants at strategic locations, the effect was very pleasing. The lights were one step shy of bright. Glass wall—a recurring theme—took up the far right, also allowing a view of the park. Fresh citrus at short bursts from the air freshener, combined with the scent of rich leather from the furniture, created the perfect ambience.

This was a room devised to make people spill their guts.

Dr. Gren waved the couple to the sofa as he took up a leather chair opposite them. "What seems to be the problem, Tressi? Is it okay if I call you that?" he asked, with his practiced smile.

She knew why he wanted to of course—to establish a relationship. He might as well have said, 'Trust me, I'm your friend.'

"Y-yeah. Of course."

Stop stammering.

"So tell me, why are you here today?"

"I..."

He glanced at Des and looked back at her. "I'm sure Mr. Gemira would understand if you wanna do this alone."

"No!" It came out more vehemently than she'd meant it to. "I'd rather my husband stayed."

"Of course," a smile, "please go on."

He listened patiently as she recounted her past. She'd spoken more about it that week alone than in six years.

It was exhausting.

Dr. Gren didn't interrupt her much. She'd expected a lot of 'And how do you feel about that?'s. But he stayed silent for the most part, even when her flow stopped and awkward silence fell over the room.

As with Des, she left out her visit to Lapec over the weekend and focused on her childhood.

"So what do you think Dr. Gren? Is it curable? Does she need medication?" Des asked once Tressi was done talking.

Dr. Gren replied, "Medication? No. I still need to understand the background a little better," he turned back to her, "So Tressi, I'm gonna ask you to do something for me. You'll need to keep a dream journal for the next week."

"A dream journal?" Tressi asked doubtfully.

"Yes. I'd like you to please describe for me, the dreams that you have till your next appointment. Make sure to include as many details as you remember. No matter how trivial they may seem. The colours, the places, where you are, who you're with, whatever you can remember. And if you do experience any episodes when you are awake, please make sure to include those too. During the next appointment, I'd like to go through it and maybe we'll be closer to figuring out what the best approach here will be."

"Okay..."

Dr. Gren smiled. "That's it for tod—"

Des stood up to put his hand down on the table. "But aren't you gonna do something? Give her medications? She has hallucinations and nightly terrors. Those can't be good. She needs immediate attention."

Tears stung at Tressi's eyes. Despite all his assurances that it was nothing serious, it was clear that he saw this as something broken, something to be fixed immediately. His wild worry was the main reason that she'd never wanted to do this—she'd never wanted to be the freak.

Dr. Gren however, didn't lose his composure. "I understand your frustration, Mr. Gemira. I understand how scary this seems. But jumping into treatment without thoroughly understanding the case would be detrimental to your wife's health," he stood up to to be on level with Des and spoke with emphasis, "trust me on this. It'll help her in the long run."

"I'll do it, Dr. Gren. I'll keep the journal," Tressi said, desperate to get out of the place.

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Tressi. I'll see you next week."