“At least I have a job,” he said. “There’s a lot of unemployment these days.” “That’s true, but it doesn’t mean you have to pretend that your job is perfect,” the therapist replied. Her name was Dr. Weston, and she’d had her own practice for just over eleven years. She helped patients from all walks of life with any number of issues, including substance abuse, grief, marriage counselling, emotional trauma, stress and depression, and considerably more. Her approach was always bespoke, making no assumptions about the source of each patient’s difficulties, or which therapeutic method would be most effective for them. This particular client was one of her most interesting. She knew him only as Daniel, and she was about ninety-nine percent certain that the name was made up. He’d never given a surname at all, and her secretary reported that he paid in cash, monthly in advance. He had never missed a payment by so much as an hour. She had been helping him for a few weeks now, yet most of his life remained a mystery. He chose to refer only obliquely to everything from family to work, but it was the latter that he chose to discuss most often. His problems seemed to largely relate to the inherent pressures of his job, and the level of responsibility he had to bear. He hadn’t ever named his employer, and he was also circumspect about why his duties created such a burden. Weston thought he was displaying classic signs of burnout, and a growing but still mild depression. The vagueness of his answers was also starting to hinder the recovery process, in her professional opinion. “You said that you’re responsible for a great many people,” she said. “I assume you’re in a management role, and it’s part of your job to help these people make progress in their own careers.” Daniel glanced away from the window to look at her with his dark eyes. His ethnicity was somehow European, but difficult to pin down. He spoke in perfectly unaccented English. He also wore either a deodorant or an aftershave that had a strong, earthy scent. It had taken a few sessions before she became accustomed to it. “I… manage many people; that much is true,” he replied. “And I suppose you could say I do help them get to where they’re meant to be. I used to take a great deal of pride in my work. I felt nothing but passion for it.” “And now?” Daniel was looking out of the window again. It was a beautiful sunlit afternoon. “Now, I increasingly find that I dread it. I ask myself whether it’s the right thing.” “I understand,” Weston said. “Many people come to realise that their career is no longer a good match for how they’ve grown and changed. There’s no shame in that. It’s very common. It sounds like, as you say, your work may no longer be right for you.” Daniel shook his head, pressing his lips together for a moment before speaking. “It certainly is right — for me, I mean. I’m ideally suited. What I meant is that I’m no longer sure it’s the right thing to do at all. For anyone.” Weston controlled her expression to avoid frowning. When a patient made a loaded statement like this, it was better to wait for them to continue when they were ready, without any prompting either verbal or otherwise. The silence dragged out for a minute or two, and then Daniel sighed and made a gesture of frustration with his right hand. For at least the tenth time since she had first met him, Weston noticed his strikingly slender fingers. A musician’s hands, she thought. Or a surgeon’s, or something. “My work is all I’ve ever known,” Daniel said at last. “It’s not a role that you just walk away from. There’s an order to things, and everyone plays their part.” “A person’s work is very important, but it doesn’t have to define them,” Weston said carefully. For some reason, the observation seemed to amuse Daniel, drawing another glance from him. “That’s true for most people,” he said. “But by no means all. For some of us, our work is who we are.” The sun went behind a cloud at that moment, and Weston suppressed an involuntary shiver. “That level of focus, and a sense of having a calling in life, can be a wonderful thing. But it can also distort a person’s sense of responsibility and turn it into a problem. I think your admirable work ethic might have caused you to overburden yourself.” “I do bear a great duty,” Daniel replied. Weston could hear the weight of it in his voice. “If you don’t mind me asking,” she began, “roughly how many people are you in charge of?” “Ultimately, oh… billions,” he said. Weston blinked, but there was no humour in his voice. Daniel’s own brow was heavily creased now, and his body language was clear. He was telling the truth, at least as he saw it. She was about to respond when he continued speaking, this time in a quieter and more lyrical voice. “I’m… well, I’m a shepherd, if you like, as much as a manager. I guide those who are lost. Lost in this life, at least. I ensure they reach the destination that carries the consequences of their choices.” He looked at her again, and for a moment, his face seemed to become a mask, or a veil that only partially occluded what lay behind. Just for a fraction of a second, she glimpsed something terrible; something that tore all the warmth from the room, and that made her mind scream a wordless alert. It was nothing even remotely human. The cloud obscuring the sun moved away, and warm golden light once again streamed into the room. For the first time, Weston noticed with rapidly blooming horror that Daniel’s body was always in shadow, no matter where the sun’s rays fell. And the scent that accompanied him; it had grown stronger. “Everyone bears responsibility for their own lives,” Daniel said quietly. His voice was thoughtful; reflective. There was sadness in his tone, but also a core of ice to it. “And I bear responsibility for all of them. Such is the stain of sin.” He stood up now, and Weston watched in paralysed fascination as the light being cast upon the carpeted floor from the window actually seemed to recede to make room for him. He took a few steps towards the door, then paused. “You…” she began, then she swallowed. “Your work—” “So many of you come to me, in the end,” Daniel interrupted gently. “I’m no happier about it than those I take below. I wish there was another way, but we are all the pawns of he who sees fit to arbitrate how you live your lives. I’m merely doing my job.” It was suddenly so clear in her mind. “You’re being punished too,” she whispered, and he smiled an inhuman smile containing too many teeth, within lips that were far too thin. An instant later, his normal face — his mask — was back in place. He crossed the short remaining distance to the door, and grasped the handle. “My father would say that everyone deserves what they get,” he said. “I used to agree with him. Now I’m not so sure. But it doesn’t matter. Perhaps he’s right after all.” “Whoever you are… whatever you are, I don’t think you can possibly deserve this punishment of yours,” she said quietly. Daniel, or whatever it’s name really was, looked at her once more. This time, it was just Daniel, with the dark eyes and pensive face. “What makes you think this isn’t yours, Doctor?” he said, and then he was gone.