The pen between his fingers slowly tipped side to side, his other hand slanted across piles of paperwork and taxes. It felt as if no one truly worked here, and he was doing everything in the building. His secretary was worthless, the workers got their buck and left, and Barney was the only decent guard left. He lifted his hand to hang his head in, breathing out slowly. Not only was he a joke in the psychiatric circles, the book he was writing felt stunted. He needed something new.

God, what he would do for a glass of wine and a million dollars.

Chilton stared at the blank page of his manuscript, frustration building behind his eyes. The words wouldn't come, just like the respect he craved from his colleagues never came. He tapped the pen impatiently against the desk, wondering if another high-profile patient would be the key to both his literary breakthrough and professional redemption.