Turning towards the frigid wind, Don was finally able to light his cigarette by using his hand as a shield against the wisps of air racing between the simply constructed buildings. As if in a celebratory manner, he leaned back into the brick column that loomed just behind him, taking a drag as he slipped his lighter back into the small pocket where it usually resided. He pulled his pack of cigarettes from one of the front pockets of his hoody, stopping for a moment as another burst of wind blew his loosely fitting clothes around him without much resistance.

Once the icy wind had died and his clothes were relaxed, Don turned his pack over in his hand, slowly running his thumb over the raised lettering that spelled out Marlboro on the front. He maneuvered across the flimsy container like this a few times before rolling the small cardboard box over again; stopping once he reached the side with the Surgeon General's Warning printed along it. Slowly, he used his nail to trace beneath those foreboding words with his thumb until he eventually began to inspect this opposable digit itself.

Noticing the light-pink coloring of the flesh that rested underneath his thumbnail, Don directed his head towards the sheet of grey clouds above him; inspecting their stillness as he propped his foot up against the base of a black trashcan in front of him. He shoved his pack back into one of the front pockets of his hoody before another gust of chilled wind snapped him out of the trance he held with the sky.

Drawing the sides of his hood around his neck to protect it from the cold, he began to watch as pedestrians made their way towards whatever destination they had chosen on this chilly morning.

He noticed that the slow, but still present, pedestrian traffic that crossed in front of him held a strange contrast to everything around it. The palely grey colored buildings appeared as if shadows were cast upon them as individuals who had no interest in interacting with those around them continued about their days.

A woman pushing a stroller in his direction was the only thing out of place to him in this picture of mid-morning urban ritual.

Don watched for a moment until the pair, who were so out of place in this strikingly dull instance, came to a stop at an intersection the next block over.

Moving his attention, he searched patiently for winter wear in any color other than black, but quickly realized with a long look down the street that that wouldn't be happening any time soon. The number of people wearing thick winter-coats and carrying hot beverages reminded him of how he was wearing nothing but a hoody and beanie to provide some semblance of warmth in the more growingly frigid weather.

As if it would help protect him from the biting chill of the air in some way, he took a long drag from the Marlboro that rested between the first two fingers of his left hand.

Most of those passing Don met his gaze with squinted eyes and a grimace of distaste after they were sensually assaulted. Gusts of wind carrying the smell of burnt tobacco, without a doubt, being the perpetrator in these disdainful glances. Though, on occasion, a passerby from the opposite direction would shoot Don a quick glance. Briefly accompanied by a smile and abrupt up-turning of the head to signify acknowledgment of the man with an unhealthy habit; every now and again, while he flicked ash off the end of his cigarette, he would return the sentiment in exactly the same way.

Breaking away from the small gestures of socialization by pulling his phone out of his pocket, he pretended to check the time. Really only allowing himself a moment of disconnection from all that was in front of him.

Inspecting the shapes and forms that the numbers took on his screen, he took another drag, allowing the slight sting of the smoke to linger with the frigid air in his lungs.

Yet the realization that a stroller was being pushed past him by a young woman made Don exhale quickly.

Putting his phone to his side, Don matched eyes with the young looking brunette before he looked towards the little person who was being taken for a ride.

A heavily dressed toddler looked back at Don with newfound interest as she was wheeled by. Her mother smiled towards him as if she could tell that her daughter had decided to inspect the young man who had been caught partaking in his regretful habit.

Meekly returning the smile, Don attempted to hide the remainder of his cigarette as the pair rolled by him. A forced cough caught his attention just before they had ushered through the glass doors that stood as the entrance for the building he'd been smoking so closely to.

Turning his gaze back to the sidewalk, Don snubbed the remainder of his cigarette against the brick column he continued to pose himself against.

Understanding that it was time for him to move on, he watched the trickle of monochromatic, but appropriately clothed, individuals walk past one last time before moving around his brick-laden post. Tracing the same path towards the glass entranceway that the mother and daughter had taken just a moment before.

As each step brought Don closer to a warmer environment, the more clearly his reflection appeared in the glass ahead of him. His grey hoody matched the complexion of the clouds he had just recently been inspecting. Faded and worn jeans hung loosely around his waist. Tannish boots, accentuated by scuff marks and the fact that they weren't even tied, gave a solid, but loose sound to his steps. The only thing that seemed to fit him, based on how his reflection looked, was his beanie. It sat appropriately snug on his head, while the jadish green of the fabric seemed to tell some kind of story about him.

However, the more he could make out of himself in the glass- the slower he continued forward, and the shorter his strides became. Something just didn't seem right about what looked back at him.

Once he had finally reached the door, a stiff cold came from the metal door handle as he struggled to open one of the two transparent portals. A sudden burst of wind had rushed past him, keeping the door from bending to his will. His loose clothes were snapped against him as he passed into the building, revealing his small frame.

His clothes eventually relaxed as the bitter surges of air that waited outside stopped. He was met with the calmly flowing, pleasantly warm air that came from a vent above him. Standing in a small enclosure, which included the pair of doors for returning outside and another set that lead further into the building, Don looked over the floor directory that was neatly presented against the wall to his right-hand side.

Looking through the glass that covered the listings, he read over the various businesses, medical practices, and talent agencies that were distributed throughout the building's five floors.

Reading through the directory from bottom to top, he quickly skimmed past the options for the first and second floors. When he moved to third floor, he paused briefly at the listing for Suite 315: Cox Chiropractic and Hypnotherapy- just for a quick smirk before moving onto the next level. When he had moved onto the fifth floor, Don didn't even bother with reading the entirety of the suites that made up that floor.

While fixing his windblown hood, Don read over the suite information for his eventual destination on the fifth floor.

As a fluorescent bulb attached to the ceiling began to flicker, Don's reflection appeared and disappeared with the inconsistencies of the light; briefly allowing him to see the bagginess of his clothes, the thinness of his face, and the tiredness underneath his eyes. Apart from his jade-colored beanie, nothing about his flickering reflection seemed right to him- and that further escalated his anxieties about his future.

To avoid the fluctuations of the light and the reflection that followed it, Don made his way through the innermost doors into the building- heading for the fifth floor.

* * *

"So," Dr. Mathers started, "how have you been feeling since our last session Don?"

Don looked blankly at his doctor for a moment. He inspected the grey hairs along the sides of his head, the crispness of his white dress shirt and charcoal pants; the way the leather of his belt matched his shoes.

"Fine," Don quietly replied before slouching back into the pleated leather chair. All the while he had been looking down on the intertwined fingers that rested loosely in his lap.

Dr. Mathers chuckled, pulling his thick glasses off his face and exchanging them for a pen he had placed in his left breast pocket. "Now I get that we haven't met in a little over a month, but please don't act like this is the first time we're doing this."

Don picked up his head to look at the doctor sitting in front of him. "Sorry, a lot happened since last time."

"Oh, like what?" the aging doctor asked, clicking his pen as he prepared to start scribbling in the small Steno book draped over his lap.

Don sat still, swapping the focus of his tired eyes between Dr. Mathers and his own, clenched hands.

"Or," Mathers said, interrupting the silence, "we could talk about what you did before now- like over Christmas or New Years. Does that sound okay?"

"Yeah," Don replied, "that sounds better."

Dr. Mathers crossed his legs, writing without apparent interruption or obvious fault. "Okay," he said, "What'd you do? Anything special with Sidney?"

"Yeah, we went to New York for New Years."

"And how was that?"

"It was great," Don said hesitantly, "I never get tired of visiting cities."

"I know." Dr. Mathers stated as a bright smirk appeared across his face. "How'd Sidney like it? If I remember things right, this was her first time getting into Manhattan?"

"Yeah, she loved it." Will replied softly as his eyes returned to his hands. "But we couldn't do a whole lot- she got tired really easy. All the excitement I guess."

"That'd make sense for someone in her condition," Dr. Mathers said as he stopped his writing to look forward at Don.

"Yeah?" Don replied, closing his eyes.

Apart from Dr. Mathers' scribbling in his notepad, a sort of quiet fell over the room.

Pulling his beanie off his head, Don slouched forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Grasping it in his right hand, he brought his beanie to his fac

e while his left hand grabbed the opposite wrist. He inhaled deeply before opening his eyes again.

"It's just?" he started as he began to inspect the carpet.

"Hard." Dr. Mathers finished for him.

"Yeah."

"Why wouldn't it be?" Dr. Mathers said as he sat up in his chair. "How couldn't your situation be difficult?"

Don stopped mulling over the carpet long enough to glance at his doctor before his attention shifted towards the bookshelf propped against the back wall. Dr. Mathers watched as his patient sat in silence across from him. The focus of his work's head cranked to the side - obviously pretending to see what books he had on his shelves.

"When did you start smoking?" the aged psychiatrist asked.

Don looked back at Dr. Mathers, drawing his feigned interest from the bookshelf, locking eyes with him for a moment. His gaze only to return to the carpet within the same second.

"A month ago," he said firmly.

Don's inspector gave him a concerned look before he frowned and began to write in his notebook.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because it's not just hard," Don said quickly as if he'd wanted to say it the entire time. "It's not fair either."

"I understand that some people believe cigarettes relieve stress, but don't you think there's a healthier option for you than that?"

"It seemed appropriate to me," Don said, locking his heavy eyes with the man across from him.

"And how does that seem appropriate to you?" Dr. Mathers questioned while anxiously running his hand through his hair.

"I'm under a lot of stress. I am already free of cancer- so why not?" Don replied, obviously getting worked up about the topic.

Dr. Mathers looked in disbelief at the young man who sat, upright and upset, across from him for a few seconds.

"I'd say that Sidney's why not," he said with a frown cemented on his lips. A stern look of disapproval resting within his eyes.

His words instantly caused his patient's face to drop.

Another wave of silence filled the room as Don processed everything that had just been said. He looked at Dr. Mathers with glossy eyes as he tightly clenched his beanie.

"She's only got eight months," he stated solemnly, trying to hide how his eyes were starting to puff up and turn red.

"I know," the doctor said as he clicked his pen and placed it back into his left breast pocket, a serious expression of concern spread across his face.

"She's trying so hard, but she's just getting weaker and weaker." Don barely managed to choke out, burying his eyes in his beanie.

"There's not a whole lot more that you can ask for from her."

"I know," he started between heavy breaths, "I just don't know anymore. What am I supposed to do without her? Fight through it?"

Don paused to catch his breath as he buried his face further into his beanie.

"I can't," he continued, "just look at me? Six fuckin' rounds of Chemo did to me what one's doing to her."

Dr. Mathers looked over Don for a moment empathetically before he finally turned away.

"Okay," he said, "I've seen enough."

Pulling his head up from his makeshift tissue, Don looked at Dr. Mathers with his red, puffy eyes in disbelief; obviously unsure of what the man sitting across from him meant.

"I've seen enough," he repeated to Don as he pulled his pen out and began to take notes in his Steno book again. "You got the part."

"What?" Don asked in shock, a small smile beginning to stretch across his face.

"I liked you- you were good," Mathers said without even glancing up from the notepad. "Come back in a week and we'll figure out where you're headed."

Stupefied by what he'd just heard, Don slowly got out of the pleated leather seat he had been sitting in and began to cross the room towards Dr. Mathers. Shooting a quick dart of the eyes in his direction, Mathers stood up, shook Don's hand, and repeated what he'd just told the young man.

Now with a rather large smile running across his face, Don turned around and made his way out the door.