Blacke Harbor

For a quiet moment no one said anything. Erik simply sat there, staring at the fake wood of the tabletop and trying to convince himself that coming all the way here to meet these strangers had been the right thing to do after all.

“Erik?” It was Catherine’s voice this time.

“I guess,” Erik said, “all this talk about fetishes and mental illness . . . I’m just, well, I guess I’m sort of wondering what kind of monster you think I am.”

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” Catherine said, standing. She picked up the little folder, waved it at the waitress and then put it back down on the fake wooden tabletop. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sokoloff. We shouldn’t have spoken about this here.”

She put what Erik thought was supposed to be a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You’re my patient and what you have isn’t a psychosis or an obsession. Your infection is as real as cancer or AIDS and that’s how we’re going to treat it.”