Because all good things come in threes.

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Soundtrack: The Black Keys, "Sinister Kid"

Fluorescent lights flicker to life in the small back portion of the newly remodeled classroom. Behind a two-way mirror, he pulls up a chair, staring into the empty room in which his students will soon begin to practice their shrink skills. But for today, with summer drawing to a close, it's just the doctor and the digital recorder on the table before him. It's a small thing, portable, kept under lock and key like all the rest. The perks of confidentiality.

"August eighteenth, twelve fifty-three in the afternoon ... the date and time at which I throw myself back in the observation chair."

He sounds bored, reluctant ... and yet his voice is strained a little, as though from the effort of concealing pain. A bottle rattles in the background, clicks open.

"The current allegations? Infidelity, alcoholism, cocaine abuse, sex addiction ... what else have we got here ... oh yeah, neglecting the children because I can't just make money appear out of nowhere while I'm sitting on my ass ... "

After a moment's silence, the lid snaps back into place, followed by a rustle of clothing as the container presumably returns to its hiding place.

"The truth? Well. It's never pure and rarely simple, as the saying goes. The truth is ... I love my kids, I'm divorcing my wife, and I may be on the verge of a heart attack. My last drink was two days ago, I haven't done a line since the day I moved back to this piece of shit town, and the only thing in my system right now is ... "

The silence draws out, broken only by the flick of a lighter and the metallic whisper of an engraved silver cigarette case opening. "Nicotine."

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