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Leo shifted his body in bed. His mind reeled with image fragments -- wind, an explosion, white heat, and a monster.

Not knowing why, he rolled over to the bedside table, picked up a pen and notebook and began drawing. He quickly sketched an image of the lightning strike. Shocks of pain made his hands shake. He began a second drawing, his stomach knotted with anxiety. Frustrated, he tore the page from the notebook and began again. He used childlike, tentative scratches to sketch people.ĘBut when he drew monsters, his hand moved in bold, practiced strokes. What was he trying to do?

"Need company?" Leo's girlfriend, Samantha, walked into his room. At 37, Sam was lithe, lovely, and often mistaken for being in her mid-twenties. Her bright almond eyes were rubbed red; her short black hair seemed tousled and messy.

"I need my best medicine," Leo said, turning his face up to receive a full, lingering kiss.

"I'm glad you're awake." Sam whispered. "You gave us quite a scare." She sat back on the bed and glanced at the scribbles on his notepad. "What's that?"

Leo flipped the notebook over, hiding it from her. "Therapy."

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