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_For Sam Hurt

and the One True Hank_

"Of course, there's nothing I can do about it, Dr. Leitner, because it's just what happens to me. The world is what it is, and it's not my fault that everything is that way. I've done all I can, and I can't be blamed if things don't work out."

"I see," Rayford Leitner reflected softly. He had neither an MD nor a PhD, but Mrs. Kolopmann called him by the honorific anyway. "You feel there's nothing more for you to do?"

"Precisely."

"And what about the possibility of that social group that you spoke of during our last session? Have you visited with them?"

The old hedgehog's face pinched even tighter than it usually appeared. "That didn't work either. They talked among themselves like I wasn't even there. As far as they were concerned, I was invisible."

"Did you speak to them?"

"Naturally not. That's rude, especially to me. One must be invited into a conversation."

The psychotherapist remembered that, before Mrs. Kolopmann, he had never before heard of the description of a social vampire, a being that must be "invited into a conversation" or interaction; without it, the being was powerless. Once asked to cross the threshold, Leitner wondered, would a social vampire consider the other furson to be a victim to be sucked dry and discarded? Or, as the therapist had heard, must the vampire be invited in, again and again, himself discarded if not actively pursued? The metaphor broke down too easily. It was, however, an amusing distraction from Mrs. Kolopmann's dreadful, colorless monotone. Not even the most clichéd pompous parish priest could be this droning.

"...and it all just seems like nothing ever happens in my life. Nothing ever happens to me."

So many retorts entered Leitner's mind that the black cougar nearly had to bite his tongue in fact instead of just in metaphor. Back to the simplest techniques. "What would you like to do about that?"

"The world is what it is," the hedgehog repeated, and then stopped.

Again, the therapist held back his visceral response, calling upon all of his best species traits not to show outward emotion either to pray or predator unless and until absolutely necessary. Happily, a glance at the clock gave him the opportunity to escape, at least for the present. "Our time is about up for this session, Mrs. Kolopmann. I'd like to suggest something for you to try before next time. Imagine what you might do if the world were different. What would you try? How might you behave? What opportunities might exist in that different world?"

The sour expression revealed a few more lemons in its arsenal. "What is the point of that?"

"Merely a thought exercise." The feline rose, putting on his best Professional Smile of Encouragement™, promising to pay the royalties on it later. "Imagination can sometimes point the way to solutions you'd not thought of before."

Mrs. Kolopmann looked up at him as if perhaps she wasn't the one who needed therapy. "I have no imagination."

_I am agonizingly aware of that,_screamed an unspoken opinion that desperately wished for its own voice. "Merely an idea." Leitner made a slow, eloquent, restrainedly polite gesture with his arm, inviting the client to exit using the second door out of the office.

Slowly, the hedgehog rose and made her way to the door. "Same time next week," she said flatly, offered more as a curse than a confirmation.

"Certainly."Tragically, terrifyingly, foully, yes. The feline's Superego sternly told his Id to sit in a corner and shut the cuss up, while his Ego tried not to cheer on the Id to the point of unleashing it. He closed the door softly behind the client and found himself wishing for some equivalent of a non-sapient housecat's scratching post. Hauling in a log from the nearby woods and setting it up in a corner of the office seemed unprofessional, so he settled for the more genteel method of holding a pillow to his muzzle (just in case) and mentally-only screaming. After about fifteen seconds of this, he removed the pillow, took a deep breath in through his nose, out slowly through his maw, reminding himself that taking a client's issues onto himself was a sure route to madness. A few more breaths, and he was ready to finish off the last duties of the session.

Making notes in Mrs. Kolopmann's file was simple enough, as long as he remembered to distance himself from the frustration. He recognized the source of his trouble easily enough: Identification. His own life had a terrible level of sameness about it, and he found it difficult to take his own advice. There were important differences, however. The cougar didn't speak in a monotone, he didn't simply kvetch for the sake of it (mostly, at least), and he did have some friends to talk to. He did his best to encourage his clients to finish the life-consuming sentence that had worked its way into modern society: "It is what it is." It was the modern version of "It's God's will," and it allowed its speakers to give up any measure of personal responsibility in any aspect of their lives. The proper sentence begins with accepting reality and then taking action: "It is what it is, and here is what I'm going to do about it." Change the world itself or change yourself. Activism, perhaps; adaptation, at least. Either choice could lead to a better self and, perhaps, a better world as well.

Even given all that, Rayford Leitner was a psychotherapist and, to a great degree, nothing else. He didn't fancy himself the love of anyone's life, and he knew no one to fill that position in his own. His grades had been average, his degree properly yet unremarkably earned, and he was good at what he did, but he was hardly renowned for it; no professional organization was anxious for him to present a paper at their annual conference. His opinions and politics were middle-of-the-road, his streaming services were moderate, and even the billing fees for his therapy sessions were almost precisely in the center of the national range. If he played golf, he would probably shoot 100, since about 50% of amateurs are unable to shoot lower than that. Apart from his first name, which was generally shortened to "Ray," he was cursed by that horrifying term "average."

A light near the primary door to the office flicked on discreetly; his next client had arrived in the waiting room. The feline gave himself another half-minute to make sure that he was in a proper frame of mind to greet a new client and to provide the best care the he could, even if it was only average.

He shook his head. That's precisely the sort of thinking he wanted to get clear of. Giving himself one more grand stretch, Rayford "Ray" Leitner turned off the light from his side of the door, let his muzzle relax into a proper smile, and opened the door gently to admit...

...no one. The anteroom was empty. Perhaps the client had--

"Are you Dr. Leitner?"

The voice sounded male, somewhat anxious, and seemed to be coming from the general vicinity of the empty sofa.

"Uh," he began conversationally, "I'm Ray Leitner." His voice went up slightly on the last syllable, as if he wasn't entirely sure.

"May I come in?"

Suspecting an elaborate prank by someone, the cougar decided to play along a little further. Do what you can to make your new client feel welcome, the non-existent Therapist's Handbook said. "Sure. Please do."

He was surprised by the sensation of something brushing past him, maybe air, maybe just the idea of air, into the office itself. He closed the door to the waiting room and looked around his workspace. No one else was anywhere to be seen.

"Is the couch okay?"

Blinking toward the couch, where the voice seemed to come from, the feline nodded, his smile feeling somewhat frozen on his muzzle. "Yes, if that's where you feel comfortable."

He made his way to his own leather chair and sat in it with the feeling that he had never in all his life needed to sit down more than in that moment. If this was a trick, it was a good one. The feline had the briefest moment to think that, if someone had planted speakers in his office, the confidentiality issues... Rationality attempted to override the worries. More information; need more information. "May I ask your name?"

"You can call me Hank."

Ray had some recollection of booking the time with someone named Hank, or Henry, or as he realized all at once, there was no booking at all. The strain of Mrs. Kolopmann's sessions made it a good idea for her to be the last client of the day. He certainly wouldn't have booked a new client at this hour, an he had no one to make bookings for him, so if he hadn't set up the time, what in...

"Dr. Leitner?"

"Just Ray will be fine; I'm not a medical doctor." The statement was so automatic with him that he used it to give his brain time to get back up to speed. A few seconds later, he was able to remember another opening gambit from the there-really-oughta-be-one Handbook. "So, Hank, tell me... what--" _are you?_he wanted to say, substituting the more professional, "--do you do?"

"I'm a hallucination."

"Ah, I see," came the reflexive reflection statement. Ray had never before wished for the relative simplicity of a session with Mrs. Kolopmann. A little truth found its way out. "I can't say that I've ever met a hallucination before."

"Most people haven't, these days," said the voice from the couch. "That's why I'm here. Doc... I mean, Ray... I really need your help."

The feline's tact took a quick coffee break. "How can I help you if I can't even see you?"

"Oh... yeah, sorry. Forgot about that. What would you like?"

"Umm... 'like'?"

"Never mind."

With that, there appeared on the couch a large young male Briard, his thick, deep rust-colored coat full and shaggy, his blackish-brown headfur long over his wide shoulders, his eyes copper bright. He was clad in denim jeans and a leather jacket, medium-weight silver chains around his neck, one bearing a symbol that might have been Egyptian, Coptic, or something equally mystical in nature.

"This okay?" the dog asked.

"Yes. Fine. It's good to see you, Hank." Ray cringed at the remark.

"Look, Doc, Ray, whatever... I'm in a really bad way. I need help."

His training kicked in, overriding his continuing disbelief. "Hank, I need to ask you first if you've had any thoughts of self-harm." Leaning forward in what he hoped might be considered a gesture of concern, he added, "If you think you might actually hurt yourself, I would need to report it; if you're just thinking about it, without any intention to do it, believe me, you're not alone. I just need to address the issue of whether or not you'd act on those feelings."

The Briard seemed to consider it for a moment. "How can a hallucination hurt himself?"

"I needed to ask. If you don't think you'll hurt yourself, then let's move on to what brought you to me."

"Internet search."

Ray nodded. "I meant your issues, Hank. What's the problem?"

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Well..." The big dog shifted, searching for words. "I'm feeling... unwanted."

"Unwanted?" the feline reflected. Can one reflect a hallucination?

"Like no one wants me around anymore." The copper-bright eyes dimmed, became soulful, pleading. "No one cares anymore."

Ray found himself slipping further into the role of Therapist; it helped him keep going until he could understand what was actually happening. "Tell me what that looks like. What do you mean that no one cares anymore?"

"It's been a long time coming. I guess maybe I've been in denial about it. Didn't wanna admit..." Sighing, Hank let himself stretch out on the length of the couch, which seemed almost too narrow for him. Ray also noticed that the cushions of the couch didn't move or show signs of the weight of a body lying on them. "See, I came along in the last half of the last century. In the 60s, business was booming. Dreamers, drugs, experimentation, all that was becoming more mainstream..."

"What does that mean?"

"Anybody could enjoy a hallucination and not think they were abnormal or going nuts. Some of the old-timers, man, the stories they could tell. Being a hallucination was a really respectable job, back when dreams, visions, reveries, and musings were what we were called. There's always been some form of 'sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll' in the world; it was just kept quiet, not talked about. The 60s, all the stigma got taken off, and nearly everybody was trying it."

Ray considered. "So you were busy during that time."

"You wouldn't believe it. Huxley opened the doors of perception, and Leary blew off the hinges. I mostly showed up for folks here in this country, but there was plenty of work to go around all over the world. Best celebrity of the 60s was Lennon; he was really kind to all of us, no matter where we came from. He was more chummy with the British hallucinations, though, so I felt kinda out of place."

"British...?"

Hank waved a forepaw. "Not everybody is cliquish, but yeah, nationality counts. Maggie was really particular; thought foreigners were going to take over the country. I've got a friend who visits a couple of writers over there, especially one who... never mind, I won't drop names. I've had a few celebrities myself, but... not like the good old days. I mean, time was when the 'head trip' drugs were really popular. Folks like Warhol got regular hallucinations, but I was never invited by that crowd either."

Ray frowned. "Warhol used drugs?"

"Oh, no." The dog shook his head, his chains clinking a little. "No drugs. He just had hallucinations. He's long gone, too, of course. So many of the greats are gone, although some of them just got quiet and boring. There's been a lot of cutbacks in the field; I barely get any work anymore."

"Work?"

"The occasional nightmare. Usually the basics, unless it's some kid or nerd trying to put himself into one of the franchise universes. It can get tricky, if someone has a fixation on some of the new movies out there. I mean, you might get away with a few images, like memes, but you can't get too specific. Gotta be careful about copyright infringement."

"In a nightmare?"

"You bet. That kind of law is its own nightmare anyway."

The feline could only nod in agreement.

"That's part of what's gotten worse over the years." The big dog heaved a big sigh. "The 70s had its share, but most of it started getting dark about then. Crackdowns, paranoia, all the stuff that tried to make the 50s so black-and-white... no wonder the 60s happened, eh? Since then, it got nothin' but worse, seems to me. Not entirely. There were still dreamers, still visionaries, but so many of them turned it all into dollar signs. It was all turned upside-down and inward. They called the 80s 'The Me Decade,' did you know that? Not a good time for us."

"Has it really gotten that bad?"

"It's been choking off for a long time. All the dreaming happened in the movies, but so many got made just made for the bucks. It won't help for me to go decade by decade, all the way up to today; you've seen it happening, probably in your own practice. Individuals, everyday folk, they stopped wanting to notice things anymore, much less explore things. They get uptight, get along, get by, get through, but they just don't stop to dream. No time, too dangerous, not worth it... not even the hint of trying to dream something better. Not like those good old days."

"So you're saying there's not enough drug use anymore?"

Hank frowned, sitting up again. He locked eyes with the therapist and held up a pair of fingers, properly, palm facing outward. "Two things, Ray. First is that it's not all about drugs; when it is about drugs, it's about the right kind of drugs and the right reasons for using 'em. I'm a hallucination, not a delusion, not a pusher, and I've never hurt nobody. There's drugs and drug abuse out the wazoo these days, but it's not my doing and nothing I can help with. There's plenty of oxy and stuff like that around, but it's not the same; those kinds of drugs makes folks too numb to have any useful hallucinations, and it gets tough to try getting them interested in things. That's what's gone wrong in this crazy time. That stuff's supposed to fight pain, and folks use it just to turn off their brains because they believe it's too much pain or trouble to think.

"And that's the second thing." The Briard lowered his forepaw and leaned forward, his demeanor angry, but not toward the feline. "Remember what I was saying about visions, reveries, that kinda thing? That takes a different kind of drug, and it's not a chemical. The last big surge... that's something else the 60s are famous for, although no one remembers that part of it. I helped with those visions, in minor ways. Daydreams about world peace, about education, about inclusion and making sapients really understand each other and work together, those daydreams drew me like a magnet, and I helped push those visions further. I wasn't alone, and I've got friends who spent time with a lot of initials, like RFK and MLK. Folks who wanted to dream a better world? Those were the ones I worked hardest for." The dog hung his head. "Things got worse as time went on, and I found fewer and fewer dreamers out there. No one really cares enough to hallucinate anymore."

Ray blinked. "I'm not sure I understand, Hank."

"It's enuui, Ray. Sloth. Apathy. Don't-Give-A-Damn-Itis. No one reads anymore, and most writers today write what's popular; worse, books fly off the shelves, but are they ever actually read? I seriously doubt it. Same with music, art, film, everything that used to be creative. Now it's all bottom-line bean-counters that run the show, and actual creativity is being starved out. The greatest threat to me now is AI. Who needs to have a vision if a machine can do it for you?"

"Machines can't create visions."

"No. They create delusions."

The feline became more interested than frightened. "How is that different?"

Hank leaned forward, a snarl on his lip that nearly bared his teeth. "Are you serious?"

"I didn't ask in order to pick a fight, Hank. I want you to explain it to me."

Slowly, the Briard sat back, set his ears right. "Okay. Okay, that's fair. Like I told you, I don't hurt folks. Delusions hurt folks, because folks think they're real. Look, let me try it this way. I've done nightmares in my time, especially over the past decade or so, because it's about the only work that's left anymore. Nightmares are always unbelievable, even if they're not about monsters and beasties out to get you; at some point, you wake up from them, and you realize that it's not real, it's not the world that you really live in. Sometimes, a good nightmare can reflect stuff in your life that needs some looking at. That's one idea you should know, right?"

Ray nodded. No matter what particular flavor of therapy a practitioner might be into, a client reporting a nightmare always opened the door to discussions of the symbols or events in the dream that might reflect some issue that the client needed to face.

"Delusions affect everyday life. If some dog thinks he's really Napoleon or Hitler or somebody, that pup's daily life is gonna suffer, maybe even make other folks suffer. I don't have to tell you names, these days; delusions are more common than table salt, and a lot worse for the heart."

"Are delusions beings, in the same way that you're a hallucination?"

His long headfur, nearly flying, made his headshaking even more emphatic. "No, not like me, like us. Delusions are more organic. Ignorance brings them on, and arrogance, and self-righteousness, and..." Hank considered for a moment. "I've had a long time to think about this, and I think I have an answer now. You got me to come up with it by asking for the differences. Hallucinations, dreams, visions... we help you see other fursons in the world, make you wonder if maybe there's a way for things to be different in a good way. Maybe in a weird way, or even a crazy way, or a way that seems downright impossible, but good. Delusions make you see other fursons as ugly, bad, wrong, dangerous. Hallucinations can give you visions; delusions make you give up your sapience."

The cougar leaned back in his chair, considering calmly, which was quite the opposite of what he felt perhaps fifteen minutes ago. "You have a strong sense of self, Hank. A sense of purpose."

After a moment, the Briard also relaxed. "Thank you."

"Not only that, you're strong enough to seek help. Can you tell me what help looks like to you?"

After seeming to think about it for several seconds, the dog sighed softly. The posture was something that Ray recognized -- that moment when the body (even one that wasn't really there) relaxed into the mind's acceptance of being vulnerable. "I need to feel useful, Ray. I need to feel wanted, maybe even needed. I feel like hallucinations are a dying breed, these days, and I don't know what to do about it."

"If you don't know what to do," the feline asked slowly, "do you know at least that you want to do something?"

"Yes." Absolutely no hesitation in the answer. "Can you help me?"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They sat together at Ray's desk, the therapist going files and notes, the hallucination taking an active interest in the folders and pages that shuffled past like card tricks. "There's got to be someone," the black cougar muttered, "or am I the St. Jude of the truly lost?"

"Not your fault, Ray. This has been building for decades."

"You shouldn't have to pay for our mistakes."

Hank smiled softly. "Sounds like you give a damn."

Ray looked up, slowly growing a smile on his muzzle. "Can't very well waste my own hallucination, can I?"

"Thanks for keeping me around."

"Glad I can help. These folks, however..." The feline tossed some pages back onto his desk and leaned back with a sigh, shaking his head gently. "I've no business judging them; I'm trying to keep my examinations of these files more in the realm of evaluation for a rather unorthodox form of therapy. Mind you, I'm having to skirt the entire idea of consent forms."

"You're sharing confidential information with a hallucination; I don't think regulations cover that, either."

Laughing, Ray nodded. "I'd love to see someone trying to cross-examine you under oath. That is a daydream I could relish."

"We'll book some time," the Briard grinned. "In the meantime, are you trying to tell me that none of your clients have any potential need for a good hallucination?"

"Since we can share information freely enough, I can tell you about the client who was here just before you, this afternoon. I suggested that she try a thought exercise, just wondering what a different world might look like, one where she could try talking to other people, or even find other things to do, other ways to look at the world. She told me outright that she had no imagination."

"None of these other clients have imagination?"

Ray grimaced gently. "I can't say 'none,' but it does seem that people today really don't have... flights of fancy? Is that another name for you?"

"Glad to be anyone's fancy." Hank shrugged, or perhaps that was just Ray's imagination. "Ray, don't worry if you can't find someone. This is still new to you, and I really appreciate how you've accepted... well, all of this."

"It's become a challenge, at this point. A friendly one. I don't want to believe that the world really has become so dark." The cat looked the dog in the eyes, or that's what it seemed like, so... A thought popped up out of that simple fact. He frowned gently. "Hank, how were you able to make me see you?"

There seemed to be something like a blush rising under the dark fur on dog's cheeks. "I kinda made my own appointment. I'm sorry if I overstepped."

_One thing explained,_Ray thought. "Actually, I meant seeing you, actually seeing this image of you."

"Just appeared for you. This version of me was part of a fantasy for a certain writer who..."

"No, I mean... You needed me to help you, and I heard your voice, then you became visible..." Ray sat forward again. "I'm not actually hallucinating you, right? I didn't sort of dream you up, so to speak?"

"Hey, that's not--"

"Wait, Hank, listen to what I'm asking. You're you, because I don't think I've got enough imagination to have created you myself. Of course, that's the same logical fallacy that Descartes used, but never mind. What I'm trying to get at is, how are you able to get through to me? I didn't make you up, and I'm not on any drugs stronger than coffee, and my only fantasy about that is wishing that the stuff wouldn't cost so much. So how did you manifest yourself to me?"

The dog's eyes grew wide. "I guess I... I just wanted to get help, to... well, do something about the situation."

"You looked at your situation, and you wanted something different. You weren't sure if you could change the world, so you took a chance on changing yourself. Instead of waiting for someone to ask for you, you reached out to me."

"And you saw me. You wanted to see me."

Ray blinked. "Yes, I suppose that I did. I must have done, because communication..."

"...goes both ways." The Briard nodded briskly, smiling, eager. And then, almost as quickly, the smile grew wan, fell from his muzzle, and he sank back in his chair. "But if it's not returned, what then?"

"That's when it hurts." Sighing softly, the cougar clasped his forepaws and put them gently on the desk. "There's no getting away from that, Hank. Rejection is a risk, every time. And you keep trying because, once in a while, it works. Like with me."

"Yeah, but you're supposed to help the furs who come to you. Of course you're gonna talk to me."

"So I don't count, because I'm a therapist?"

"Ah, hell, I didn't--" The Briard heaved another sigh. "I'm sorry, Ray. I didn't mean it like that. It's just... I mean, I had a reason to come to you, and you had a reason to help me, so we started talking. It was like an introduction, a reason for us to interact."

It was in that moment that Ray finally got the idea.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"I don't understand, Dr. Leitner."

"Simply a thought experiment. Think of it as a meditation, if you like," the cougar soothed. "You said to me, last time, that you had no imagination. I thought we might see if that's really true. Let's try it, just once. Settle back now, close your eyes, and relax your muscles a little."

The hedgehog frowned tightly, her face seeming to do anything other than relax. After a few moments, she reluctantly closed her eyes and performed a perfunctory adjustment of her posture. It was, Ray decided, the best that she could do.

"That's fine, Mrs. Kolopmann. Just relax. Let's start with something simple, something that's real. Perhaps you could describe the kitchen of your home."

She opened her eyes, the tight frown returning. "Why?"

"It's a place that you know. You can picture it in your mind, and you can describe it to me. It will help you to imagine it."

With great reluctance, the frown retreated a short distance, making room (barely) for her eyes to close rather than to be screwed shut. "What about my kitchen?"

"Can you tell me about it? Describe it?"

"It's a kitchen."

Ray suppressed a frustrated sigh that was even more frustrated by having to be suppressed. "What color is the stove?"

"White."

"The sink?"

"White."

Naturally. "One basin or two?"

"One."

The cougar felt himself practicing mental dentistry. "Is there a window in the kitchen?"

"Yes."

"Above the sink?"

"Yes."

"Tell me what you can see through the window."

"The house next door."

"Is there a tree visible through that window?"

"Yes."

"Do you ever see birds in that tree?"

"No."

Ray waited. Although her eyes stayed closed, the hedgehog's face changed expression the slightest bit.

"Sometimes."

"That sounds nice. What kinds of birds?"

Another pause, and something almost like surprise in the voice that was usually so monotonous. "Redbirds. Non-sapient redbirds, of course."

"Of course. Can you hear them?"

"Don't be silly, they--" And again, surprise, a sound that came from someone a little younger than the client sitting in front of him. "Sometimes, yes. If I turn off the water. I can't hear them over the sound of the water." Doubt crept into her voice. "Am I doing this right?"

Vocal inflection. Interesting."You're doing just fine, Mrs. Kolopmann. Do you ever see anything else through the window? Anything else in the tree, perhaps?"

Several seconds passed, and the hedgehog's eyes moved a bit under their lids. "I think it's... yes, I can see a squirrel. I mean... you know what I mean. That's so strange. I don't think I've ever..."

"Would you like to stop for a moment?"

"Perhaps... just for..."

"Take a breath and open your eyes." Ray smiled warmly as the hedgehog complied. "That was very good, especially for a first try. We can do more, next time, if you'd like. And you can try more at home, too."

"I don't have to describe my kitchen to myself." The statement was less terse than it could have been.

"But you can notice more. You remembered seeing the redbirds this time, didn't you?

And the squirrels? Perhaps you just didn't think to notice them before."

Standing slowly, the hedgehog asked, with a soft tone that actually had the question mark in it, "Same time next week?"

"That will be fine, Mrs. Kolopmann."

After the client had left through the second door, Ray called softly, "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

With a snort, the Briard appeared on the couch, returning the cougar's grin. "How'd I do?"

"Couldn't be better, Hank. How was it from your viewpoint?"

"Your questions were perfect. Just enough room for me to squeeze in and get her to notice things."

"Did she really see them?"

"Redbirds? Squirrels?" The dog grinned. "She did just now. She probably had seen them out there before, because it was easy for me to pull the image up for her."

"Is it enough?"

"Enough for me to start working with her, yes. The introduction helped a lot. She's ready to open up now."

"Not quite what I meant." The cougar leaned forward, regarding the hallucination with what even he might call affection. "You've certainly helped Mrs. Kolopmann more in those few minutes than I've managed to do in four months. I meant, is it enough for you?"

The Briard offered a lopsided smile. "Looks like a steady gig, for now, at least."

"How much work can you handle? Now that I have an idea how to introduce you to them, certain clients of mine might benefit from some benevolent reveries."

"It doesn't have to be all me. I have friends who... well, maybe they need a good therapist, too."

"Just want to take care of you properly, Hank."

"Ditto, Ray." Leaning forward, the shaggy dog passed to the cougar a large cup bearing a familiar logo. "A certain very grateful client has tied a gift card to his own account; it'll never run out. Get a dose anytime you want."

Smiling broadly, the therapist let himself smell the familiar aroma of a pale-roast vanilla latte, light-iced for the warm weather, and imagined what it would be like to have such a regular infusion of this élixir de vie, and how positive it made him feel, how ready to help others, to help make positive changes in the world, and how wonderful such a world could be...