Now, though, he had his dream office, or as close to it as he could ever have hoped for. The location was in a newly built medical practice building near the city hospital; and he got a smoking deal on the rent because the owners couldn't fill the available spaces. The waiting room barely fit the two dark wood chairs and small end table he picked up at Pottery Barn, and the front desk was so narrow that Roden couldn't squeeze behind it when Martha sat at her computer. The chart room was little more than a closet, and there was no room anywhere for a kitchenette, so Roden found an enclosed bookshelf for his office, where he hid a microwave and a mini-fridge.

Other furniture in his office consisted of a small mahogany desk with a chair that matched the two in the waiting room. Roden and Martha took their lunch at this desk, or occasionally ran to the noodle shop down the next street. The room also contained a camel color micro-fiber armchair for him to sit in while his patients took the matching couch. Chocolate brown curtains complimented the khaki green walls and the beaded suede throw pillows; and the overall décor had an Asian feel, because World Market was having a sale at the time he decorated this space. The final touch of comfort owed itself to the lighting, affected by several low watt lamps to give the space a warm glow. All in all, Roden felt very satisfied with his work.

Only three of the patients from his previous state funded practice were able to follow him to his new office, and that was because he gave two of them a hefty discount. The third one, he had become very close to, and didn't want to lose all the success they had worked to attain over the years. This particular patient, scheduled to show up in the office for their weekly meeting, was now six minutes late. Roden felt a bit bothered by this, as lateness was not a common characteristic of this individual.

Finally, his patient came into the room, but rather than his usual quiet entrance, the young man bounded through the door in an uncharacteristic semi-dramatic way. He didn't knock. He had no greeting. He simply came in with a rush, and collapsed on the couch, an action that peeked Roden's curiosity.

Instead of the young man's typically relaxed and controlled conversation, this time he began a hurried tirade regarding his agitation. His degree of restlessness concerned Roden, but not nearly as much as the developing subject that turned out to be the cause of it.

"You'll never guess what's happened," he stated half shouting, half whispering. "I saw her. I can't believe it." He paused for a few seconds, wheels turning in his head, before he continued, "You know, at some point in the last few years, I started to convince myself that maybe she was only a dream after all. I used to look for her everywhere I went, hoping I'd come across her face in a sea of strangers. Well, you know all that; but anyway – I gave up. I gave up, and then she appeared. I jus' - I still can't believe it!"

Roden forgot to restrain himself from displaying his shock and upset. He knew exactly who the subject of this rant was. He knew that he needed to calm the young man's high spirits; and he needed the details. "Max, you saw Esther? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Yes, at the gallery." Max replied, taking turns clasping and unclasping his hands or running his fingers through his tousled brown hair in his excitement. It had been five days since he first saw her, but he was bursting to tell his friend about this pivotal event.

The gallery? "Max, you never go to the galleries. You hate the galleries. What were you doing there?" That didn't sit right with Roden. The worst part of witnessing this disturbance became the knowledge that he was most likely the fault of it. He made a mistake, and now that he knew it, it was his job to make it right.

Max looked at him, and then rolled his eyes to the floor with a slight grimace that broke the animation on his face. Clearly, he still didn't like to visit the galleries. "Angoli wanted to meet me there to discuss purchasing my works. He said they were my best yet, and he wanted them badly. I knew they were my best, and I didn't want to part with them, but he threw me a hard bargain. Eighty thousand dollars. How could I possibly turn that down? Man, but I tried to." He paused again, thinking. A thin smile started to form.

"And as we stood there debating over it, Esther appeared, in the flesh; and she was much lovelier than I could ever have carved her in stone. I tried to imagine her as a grown up, – as a woman – but my art is obviously flawed. It just pales in comparison."

He looked up; his elated brown eyes meeting Roden's concerned blue eyes. "She was there. It was fate." Then he shrugged and broke eye contact. "I didn't need the statues anymore, so I gave in. I shook Angoli's hand and accepted the eighty thousand."

"Shit – I mean – wow, eighty thousand!?" Roden exclaimed. "That's incredible. That has to be more than you've made off of all your previous works combined. Congratulations!" Roden really was rather impressed by the news, and proudly thrust out his stout hand to shake the artist's skilled one.

"Yes, I know, that is good, very good. But, really, I'm more overwhelmed about seeing her."

Then Roden saw a bittersweet look in his patient's eyes. This didn't bode well. Roden knew this young man since he was the age of ten years, a little over one year after he had become a ward of the state. His file was stored in the chart room, along with all of Roden's other patients, but Roden never had it pulled. He didn't need it. Everything he needed to know about Max, he remembered. Max seemed almost like a little brother, or even a son; and he knew that he was Max's best friend.

Max had had a very difficult childhood, extremely difficult. During his early years, he never had any contact with the outside world, except for drug addicts who associated with his abusive prostitute of a mother. At least this had been the assumption Roden made from early sessions with the boy. No one had ever attempted to claim him after the police picked him up. He had no real name that he was aware of, so the guys at the police station just called him Max, and it stuck. He picked out his own last name later.

His rather limited language capabilities and unfamiliarity with the world made for quite a culture shock. Max was at least five or six years behind other children in his education, and he had no idea how to behave in society. He proved to be special, though, soaking up knowledge as if he was a dry sponge. By the time he became Roden's patient, only a year of schooling separated him from his peers, and he quickly gained on them. Two years later, by the time he turned twelve, he had the learning level of an average sixteen year old. Roden really felt quite proud when Max graduated high school at the age of fifteen, and started college at the state university on a scholarship. He double majored in Anthropology (his culture shock apparently turned into culture interest) and Engineering; but, oddly enough, his joy in life centered on his minor: Art. He never lived off of it, though. Until now, it proved never more than a hobby. Eighty thousand dollars! That had to be at least one and a half times more than the young man made in a year as an engineer at the small electronics design firm he worked for.

Truth be told, the real concern of Roden all these years was not Max's adjustment into the world; but his obsession with the person who bestow on him the first act of kindness he had ever known: Esther. Due to his mental and physical condition and lack of known family, Max was cared for in a state run facility rather than placed into foster care. The state employees treated him well enough, provided for him; but he rarely benefited from sincere kindness. This, Roden thought, made him cling all the more to his image of "Esther the Kindhearted". To Max, she was the epitome of virtue and decency. Before her, he didn't know what it was to be treated humanely. When this girl showed him consideration, she introduced him to a euphoria of compassion. It worked like a drug for him, and he never forgot it.