DOCTOR’S CHOICE

Joan Curtis quietly dressed herself in the dark. Her husband, Vern, was sleeping peacefully on his side of their bed and she avoided waking him up out of habit. With only the blue-green light of the “12:36” displayed by their digital clock, she felt her way into a set of loose black fatigues, tool belt and boots before taking inventory of the items secured to her belt by touch. She crept to her side of the bed and sat on the edge, feeling her husband react unconsciously to the slight shift of their mattress. As Joan sat thinking, she heard a change in his breathing and knew he was awake. She reached over to caress his hair.

“Awake, my love?” she asked, sounding less steady than she expected. His inarticulate response told her that he was barely conscious.

“I’ve got an errand,” she continued. He rustled slightly and she could feel his eyes open with a start in the darkness. “Can’t tell you where I’m going, what I’m doing or when I’ll be back, but I need you to trust me. If I don’t come back, it’s not by choice. It would kill me if you thought I left you in the middle of the night.” She paused in the darkness.

“Understood,” he said in that flat tone he always used when hiding his dislike for something he had to accept. “Stop wasting time. Move! Go!” Joan slipped quietly out of the bedroom, through her darkened home and out to the street, where a blue van waited for her with the engine running.

The van traveled directly to the nearby highway entrance. Later, as it turned off of the highway, the vehicle’s headlights winked out. It slowed, creeping though the night, away from public space and into a manicured wilderness that lay just beyond an unobtrusive chain link fence. The van eased over the twin paths that were almost a dirt road, searching carefully until it found the spot it was looking for. It halted and the sound of its engine was replaced by a relaxed tapping. Next to the inert vehicle was an exposed section of fence that stood out from the concealment of bushes and trees. Beyond the fence, an open garden of grass and sidewalk lay before the cluster of professionally square buildings, the tallest of which was decorated with the letters “KTC,” in the form of a logo that was carefully crafted to catch the eye.

Three people in black fatigues eased quietly out of the van, searching the night around them. One of them was Joan, wearing a tool belt, accompanied by a young man with his long, dark hair tied back and a slim older man with a beard. Once convinced that they were alone, one of them turned on a small light while another unfolded a large, map-like paper. They spread the paper on the ground and squatted over it.

“I think we’re here,” the older man whispered while pointing. “We should be able to cut through the fence without being seen. Dan, you’ve been inside. Security?”

The younger man paused for a moment, thinking as the other two looked to him. “I don’t really know, Lester.” Joan motioned nervously with one hand and he lowered his voice. “I know the inside, but I didn’t work security.”

Lester put a hand on his beard as he examined the paper. “Joan?” She gave him an attentive look. “You have cutters, right?” She drew a pair of heavy pliers from her belt. “You cut the fence and we can go for the side door. Unless they’ve beefed up security since he was there, we can get in with a screwdriver.” He motioned to Dan. “You check the director’s office while Joan and I go for the server room?” Dan nodded, as did Joan when he looked to her.

Lester and Dan waited and watched while Joan cut through the fence with a steady, careful snapping sound. Eventually, she pulled a piece of the chain-link fence out and down, bending it to the ground before crawling through the hole. Dan went through next, followed by Lester. The three of them crouched as they made their way across the grounds to the largest of the buildings and found a side door with only a knob for protection. Joan applied a screwdriver to the slot between the door and the frame around it. Something gave way with a pop that sounded overly loud in the quiet night. She eased open the door and the three of them rushed inside.

Later, a frantic siren violated the darkness and quiet of the night. Exterior lights winked on with mechanical urgency, filling the grounds with a harsh white glare. The alarm sang as yellow light came to life in one window after another. Soon, down the road from the main entrance, blue and red strobe lights rushed closer. Two police cars and a small truck hurried into the office complex and officers rushed inside with their guns drawn. As the police vehicles sat flashing, the alarm silenced as crisply as it had begun and stillness settled over the scene. The officers returned with a single, black clad figure between them. They deposited the suspect in the truck and shut the door with a satisfied thump. The police left at a relaxed pace, not bothering to turn off their lights.

Across town, as dawn colored the sky, Dr. Samuel Haplin sat typing at his computer and examining his note pad. His shift ended at eight and he wanted to organize his notes before morning rounds. It had been an unusual evening. He had not protested when he had been assigned as the supervising psychiatrist for the night shift at Redgate Hospital for the Mentally Ill because night duty was usually quiet and the staff typically handled any disturbances. He could use the overtime, too. Tonight had been different, thanks to Detective Jorge Cachapoca. Dr. Haplin had seen the police detective before, briefly. The man was always rigid and never took off his hat or sunglasses, making him seem more like a third world dictator inspecting his minions than an American police detective. The detective had interrupted a typical night shift when he had brought a suspect for mental observation. He had just showed up as though he owned the place and expected the suspect to be checked in at his convenience. Dr. Haplin was always uncomfortable with mental observation. He knew his notes and documents would be examined during a trial and that he had to be careful about legal procedures, an area in which his knowledge was incomplete.

He stopped typing and flipped through his notebook. After signing for the patient and ridding himself of Cachapoca, Dr. Haplin had gone through the motions. He had the patient, Dan Windson, escorted by two staff members to one of the offices designed for one-on-one therapy. The two staff members had stayed, just in case the patient became violent. Although dejected, Windson seemed quiet enough, with none of the signs of an impending change of behavior that experience had taught Dr. Haplin to look out for. In the office, Dr. Haplin had introduced himself and asked the standard identity questions, faking a pleasant demeanor and being sure to smile and look the patient in the eye occasionally as he scribbled the information in his notepad. The patient had begun to relax a bit. Dr. Haplin then informed him that he was not in prison and to speak up if he wanted something to eat or to use the restroom. He was being observed to determine his mental status under the law. He had braced himself. Many patients expressed their anxieties when informed that they would be detained at the hospital for no more than three days and then involuntarily committed if deemed mentally ill. Windson simply nodded before asking to see a lawyer.

Dr. Haplin paused, perplexed by the request. The patient should have been taken to a police facility before having been brought to Redgate. Was the request a trick? Dr. Haplin had done enough mental observation to know better than to ask if the police had followed their correct procedure, which would give the patient an opening that a shrewd criminal could exploit. It was unusual, however, to receive a patient from the police during the night shift. Dr. Haplin simply dodged the request by instructing the patient to wait until after the observation period and moving on to the MMPI test. The test consisted of a series of questions, carefully crafted to reveal a patient’s personality and trip-up a liar. Windson had been cooperative, answering the questions quickly. Also, his affect was that of a healthy person, with only the appropriate amount of anxiety for the situation. Except for a strong need for social connections, the test results made him appear sane enough. Dr. Haplin had him escorted to a room and locked in for the night.

Dr. Haplin paused at his computer and then retrieved the file that Detective Cachapoca had dropped off. The patient had been apprehended breaking into a laboratory owned by KTC, inc., an energy research firm, and attempting to steal documents. After his arrest, the suspect had asked what had become of his companions, although he had been alone, according to the sworn statements of all KTC security personnel involved. Windson was known to be a drifter and had not been willing to give a reason for the break-in, except to say that he was on some sort of mission with two other agents. Therefore, he had been sent for mental observation. Dr. Haplin had not asked about the break-in or his motives, as that would come later. After glancing at the time in the corner of his computer screen, he finished entering his notes and went on morning rounds.

The next evening, Dr. Haplin went to work early. He arrived at eight, with plenty of time for another interview with Dan Windson. Finding out whether the patient was genuinely mentally ill or simply attempting an insanity defense presented a challenge that Dr. Haplin just could not resist. The patient seemed sane, but his file demonstrated that he had broken into a highly secure building but had not attempted to take anything valuable. Besides, an insanity defense for breaking and entering would not be helpful. His prison sentence would most likely be shorter then his hospital stay, if he were committed. Dr. Haplin knew what to do next. Polygraph. A lie detector was not a particularly accurate piece of machinery, but that would not really matter. What would matter was the patient’s belief that he would be unable to tell an undetected lie.

Dr. Paul Brawnsky was in charge until the night shift began at twelve and Dr. Haplin had already called him about the polygraph test. Dr. Haplin went straight to his office after signing in. Dr. Brawnsky was a small, older man with seniority and experience. He was normally friendly and easygoing, but he often transformed into a cold, authoritative professional when dealing with patients. His age and air of confidence made him perfect to monitor the polygraph during an interview. When Dr. Haplin arrived, Dr. Brawnsky was waiting behind the machine, dressed in a gray suit and cryptic club tie covered by a lab coat and wearing a stethoscope around his neck with one end in his breast pocket. He grinned conspiratorially as Dr. Haplin knocked once and strode in.

“The patient is on his way,” Dr. Brawnsky informed him, giving him his cue to seat himself behind his colleague’s big desk and put his game face on.

Dr. Haplin took his place. “So, what do you think?”

“My money’s on paranoid,” Dr. Brawnsky answered. “They can become adept at pretending to be sane so no one will suspect them. Sophisticated in the matter of tests as well. He’s a drifter and Dan Windson may or may not be his real name. We don’t really know if he has been treated before or how much he may have learned about psychological testing.”

Dr. Haplin nodded, thoughtfully. “And a break-in would be consistent with a paranoid reading the paper and working up a nice delusion. But what about his imaginary friends?”

“Not unheard of,” Dr. Brawnsky said, offhand. “Could be a product of his need for social connections.”

“Or, there may have been someone else with him, who didn’t get caught,” Dr. Haplin observed.

“I wouldn’t go there if I were you,” Dr. Brawnsky said in a fatherly tone. He paused and adjusted his eyeglasses. “You don’t want to lend credibility to a patient’s delusion, trust me.”

A staff member in white eased the door open, peeked inside and pushed it the rest of the way inward with one hand while escorting the patient inside with the other. Dr. Brawnsky examined the polygraph machine and his smile melted into a distant expression. Dr. Haplin rose and motioned for Windson to be seated in the empty chair in front of Dr. Brawnsky.

“We often administer a polygraph test in cases like yours,” Dr. Haplin began, standing behind the desk. “Diagnosis requires truthful answers.” Dr. Haplin sat and leaned forward. A framed photo of Mrs. Brawnsky favored him with an encouraging smile. “Dr. Brawnsky will monitor your responses while I administer the test.” Dr. Brawnsky looked up from the machine, examining the piece of meat he was about to dissect. Windson smiled uncomfortably, so Dr. Brawnsky reached out, took the patient’s hand and attached the machine’s electrodes to his fingers. The staff member leaned against the wall behind Windson, waiting and watching.

With the electrodes attached, Dr. Brawnsky unfolded and adjusted the compact camera that would record the test and nodded crisply to Dr. Haplin when he had finished. “Do you consent to the polygraph test in the interest of your treatment? Be advised that the results are confidential and may not be used as evidence in a court of law.”

The patient thought for a moment and answered, “Yes, sir.” The machine made a whisper of metallic claws on paper.

“First, a sample, if you will,” Dr. Haplin proceeded. “What color is my shirt?”

“Blue,” Windson observed.

“Now, an untruthful answer, please. How old are you?”

“Um”, the patient fumbled. Dr. Brawnsky gave him a look of cool expectation. “Fourteen?” Dr. Brawnsky watched the machine scribble and then gave Dr. Haplin a nod.

“For the record,” Dr. Haplin continued. “Is Dan Windson your real name?”

“Yes,” responded the patient. The two doctors exchanged glances.

“That is not the whole truth, is it? Have you had any other names, or changed your name?” Dr. Haplin knew that the machine was not specific enough to make a determination on the matter, but he hoped that the patient did not. Besides, he wanted to look up more information about the man’s past.

Windson sighed. “Daniel Leemond Windson, social security number,” he rattled off the nine digit number. Dr. Haplin looked to Dr. Brawnsky, whose eyes were on the machine. Dr. Brawnsky looked up and his mouth worked silently.

“Mr. Windson,” Dr. Haplin intoned, “Please understand that doctor-patient confidentiality applies to this interview. Dr. Brawnsky and I are legally obliged to keep any information to ourselves. Please do give us complete information. Have you ever used another name or identity?”

As the two doctors observed, Windson’s demeanor changed. He appeared to be giving in or making a decision. He leaned forward, looking as though he were about to make an embarrassing admission. “I have been given another name, but I am not to disclose it. It was given to me by the community I have become a part of over the past few months. I’ve never used the name outside of that community.” Dr. Haplin glanced at the camera and silently reminded himself to review the recording later.

“Hmm,” Dr. Haplin intoned for show. “Please tell us about that community.”

“They value their privacy,” the patient informed him. Dr. Brawnsky watched the machine and nodded.

“I see,” Dr. Haplin said with suspicion. “Can you tell us how you became part of this community?”

Windson paused for a moment and Dr. Haplin could sense that he was picking through what he would and would not say. “I’ve been on the move for most of my life, looking for a worthwhile place to live and moving from one crappy job to another. A few months ago, I drifted into a town with a community, where people care about each other. Having gotten to know the people, I found out that they follow good advice and are part of the kind of thing I was looking for.”

Dr. Brawnsky had been observing the patient, but suddenly looked to the machine and took his time examining the result. He smiled slightly when he looked up and gave a long, slow nod.

Dr. Haplin paused as he came up with theories and ways to test them. “So, this community follows your advice?” he asked at last.

“Oh, no,” Windson informed him. “They are led by advisors, who I have not been granted the privilege of meeting.”

“Ah”, Dr. Haplin responded coolly. That went against the theory that the community was a delusion, but the mysterious advisors could easily be a subtler figment of an ill imagination. Now, to test the theory that the break-in was the result of a delusion, he thought.

Dr. Haplin assumed an air of authority. “You have been lead by these advisors since you joined the community, correct?”

The patient nodded.

“And they advised you to break into the KTC building, your former employer?”

Windson was silent. Dr. Haplin could see the whites of his eyes as he looked back.

“Your answers are confidential,” Dr. Haplin reminded him. “We only need to know for your diagnosis.”

The patient relaxed slightly. “The community decided that the break-in was necessary,” Windson informed him. “I went along only because I had been inside. Two other people had been chosen to go with me and I have no idea where they are or what happened to them.”

Dr. Brawnsky looked up from the machine and nodded. Now, Dr. Haplin could be reasonably certain that the patient did believe what he was saying about the break-in and that it was connected to this community he saw himself as a part of. The theory that he was delusional was passing the test and Dr. Haplin could deduce that this community with its advisors was no more real than his two imaginary friends. He hid the sadness he felt. Here was an already fragile mind that had become isolated and desperate for human contact, so much so that it had broken down and created a community with important work to do. Dr. Haplin knew that he could help Windson. He would ask one last question to test his theory and then recommend commitment.

“What was the reason for the break-in?” Dr. Haplin waited for a response.

“It was just for money,” the patient said with a condescending smile. “We hit them because they are a greedy corporation that is destroying the planet. We could shift some financing from their hands to ours. We were looking for computer equipment we could sell.”

Dr. Brawnsky looked up and shook his head. “Nice try, Mr. Windson,” Dr. Haplin scolded. “What was the real reason for the break-in?”

The patient’s affect shifted into a persuasive, urgent posture. “KTC is doing dangerous research. Very dangerous. The community was advised to take their records. It had become necessary.” Dr. Haplin looked to Dr. Brawnsky, who nodded.

“I think we have enough to make a determination.” Dr. Haplin said, knowing the comment would provoke more persuasion from the patient.

Windson sat up and his voice became an excited whine. “You guys don’t understand. It’s important! The advisors say that we are facing an ecological disaster and they would know! We can’t just sit back and let it happen.” The staff member who had been standing by moved forward, looming over the patient from behind and preparing to restrain him. Windson settled down, giving the two doctors a look of accusation.

The two doctors exchange a look that said they were both thinking the same thing. Dr. Haplin gave the patient a moment to settle down and spoke evenly. “I believe that’s enough for now.” He nodded to the staff member and the man escorted the patient away.

Once the patient was out of the room, Dr. Brawnsky’s easygoing demeanor returned and he favored Dr. Haplin with a friendly smile. The younger man sat back and exhaled. “OK, Sam?” Dr. Brawnsky asked.

Dr. Haplin nodded. “I do hope we can help this one. He seems like a decent guy, or he would be without the delusions.”

“You will have a chance,” Dr. Brawnsky answered. “He did break the law and that will mean involuntary commitment. Ah, he seems willing to talk to you. I can take you off of night shift if you want to take him on as a patient.”

Dr. Haplin straightened up. “Are you sure you can find someone else to take the night shift?”

Dr. Brawnsky’s smile broadened. “I’ll figure something out.”

That night was Dr. Haplin’s last night shift. Dr. Brawnsky had changed his schedule and he would be providing one-on-one therapy for a handful of patients, including Windson. Dr. Brawnsky had the final say about scheduling and had allowed Dr. Haplin to swap night shift duty for more therapy patients, in addition to his regular, long-term recipients. Dr. Brawnsky must have noticed his interest in the case. Dr. Haplin used the shift to go over the recording of Windson’s polygraph interview and take notes. As he studied the patient’s affect, he came to the conclusion that he wanted someone to listen to his delusions. He had dropped the occasional hint that it was secret or private and then spoke enthusiastically about his fantasies. He had even made a ham-handed attempt at a cover story, knowing the polygraph would catch it, before becoming agitated about the supposed ecological disaster he was trying to prevent. It seemed his mind had invented some excitement for him to act out. His life must have been excruciatingly boring.

As he examined the footage, Dr. Haplin was strategizing. The patient seemed cooperative enough and it would not be too hard to get him talking. Dr. Haplin decided that he would focus on the patient’s earlier life and why he drifted from job to job. That would reveal his underlying condition and once the therapy had uncovered it, the condition could be treated. The more he thought about it, the more curious he became. The patient acted sane, not at all like someone who had a condition serious enough to cause delusions. Also, there were the advisors. A patient would typically come right out and say spies, aliens or evil spirits, rather than discussing them while keeping who they were to himself. This case was a very rare one indeed and Dr. Haplin began to daydream about publishing his findings.

Dr. Haplin finished his shift and went home for the weekend. Having been divorced, he had his nice home to himself and had become more immersed in his work. He had a quiet weekend and wrote more notes about the patient, as ideas came to him. On Monday, he would have his first session with Windson. He knew he would have to inform the patient that he would be committed until such time as it was deemed safe to return him to society. He and Dr. Brawnsky had agreed. Three doctors were required to agree and sign their names for a patient to be committed, but Dr. Brawnsky could easily have another doctor add his or her name. Anyway, it was in the patient’s best interest. Without treatment, Dr. Haplin was sure that the patient’s condition would deteriorate. He had seen patients at that stage brought in by the police, so far-gone that they could not hold a job or find a place to live. They wound up homeless and self-medicating with any of a number of recreational drugs until they were arrested for vagrancy, petty theft, or worse. It really was fortunate that this patient was caught early. It would be less work to put his mind back together.

Dr. Haplin was waiting in a therapy room on Monday afternoon. He knew that a staff member would escort Mr. Windson into the room at any moment and the therapy would begin. The main thing that needed to be done was to break the ice, which was accomplished by encouraging the patient to talk about himself. The door opened and Windson walked in, looking relaxed but unenthusiastic, followed by a staff member. “Mr. Windson is ready for his appointment,” the staff member informed him with a formal smile.

“Thank you, that will be all,” Dr. Haplin said, letting the staff member know that he wanted to be left alone with the patient. He knew the man would not go far, once he was out the door. Dr. Haplin turned to Windson. “Please, have a seat.”

Windson took the seat offered, looking unsure of what to expect. “First,” Dr. Haplin began, “A matter of legal paperwork. As you know, you are here for observation related to the charges against you. A trial can be avoided if you accept a verdict of not guilty due to mental defect and commitment to this facility.” Dr. Haplin paused to observe the patient’s reaction. To his surprise, the patient looked relieved. “To make this official, I do need your signature.” Dr. Haplin leaned forward and handed Windson the paperwork.

The patient examined the forms and looked up. “So, I’m to be kept here until you OK my release and I will not be convicted of a crime?”

Dr. Haplin brightened slightly. “Yes. Officially, you will not be guilty, but you will be involuntarily committed.” Windson looked as if he were about to say something. “Three hots and a cot, for the duration of your stay,” Dr. Haplin added.

“But you will be able to administer any kind of treatment you want?” the patient asked.

“Within reason,” Dr. Haplin pointed out, reassuringly. “Facilities such as ours are supervised. I am required to provide proof that any treatment I prescribe is appropriate and experimental or dangerous practices are not allowed.”

The patient nodded. “And I am officially in your custody?”

“The custody of your doctor,” Dr. Haplin corrected. “If you decide you would prefer to be treated by another psychiatrist, there are proper channels.”

“So, the police or someone can come get me?”

Dr. Haplin noted the question, but resisted the temptation to start scribbling on his pad. He knew the session was being recorded, as were all therapy sessions at Redgate, so he would be able to review the disk and take notes later. Scribbling on his pad was an outdated habit, but useful when he wanted to let the patient know that he was taking an interest in a particular issue. For now, he just wanted the patient to relax. “Legally, no one can take you without my permission or a warrant from a state or federal judge and if I were to allow someone to help themselves to my patients without a very good reason, I would be in big trouble.” He chuckled, just to reassure his paranoid patient.

Windson signed the papers and handed them back. Dr. Haplin opened his briefcase and retrieved Mr. Windson’s file, adding the papers and placing the file on his lap while he closed the case and placed it on the floor. The patient grinned. “Am I in therapy now?”

Dr. Haplin paused and favored Windson with a fake casual smile. “This is our first therapy session. I’m still getting to know you, so we can talk about anything you would like.”

“OK,” the patient said with authority. “Is that my file? How much do you know about me?”

He had asked the question in such an amiable way that Dr. Haplin had to remind himself that this patient was a cunning paranoid.

“Not much,” Dr. Haplin admitted, still smiling. Windson spoke before he could think of a way to dodge the question.

“Doc, I’m really worried about my friends. They were with me at KTC, but the cops only brought me out and claimed I went in alone. I, uh, anything could have happened to them.”

His imaginary friends, Dr. Haplin thought. “Unfortunately, I don’t have access to that information. All I can tell you is that you were admitted to the hospital alone.” It was a good thing he was allowed to lie to the patients, as it was too soon to address the issue.

The patient almost seemed to crumple as he gave the floor a resentful look. Still, he was calm, to Dr. Haplin’s relief. “You can’t tell me anything?” Dan mumbled.

“I’m not the police,” Dr. Haplin reminded him, hoping to mix a little reassurance into the disappointment. He decided to move things along. “We don’t need to discuss the incident at KTC right now,” he began. “I’m more interested in you, in your life before all of that.”

The patient sat back. “OK.”

Dr. Haplin asked a series of questions designed to get at a patient’s background, as well as to touch issues that he might address later. The patient answered and seemed relaxed. Dr. Haplin marveled at how skilled he was at pretending to be sane. He showed none of the defensiveness that most patients displayed, which Dr. Haplin could have used to guide himself to an issue that needed to be address. Occasionally, Dr. Haplin would pause, scribble on his pad or say “Hmm” or “I See” in order to provoke a reaction. All he received in return was a funny look, as if his behavior were inappropriate. Dr. Haplin did, however, get a clearer picture of the patient’s background. He had left home at eighteen, apparently with the agreement of his family, as opposed to running away. Since then, he had drifted around the country. He would arrive in a town, find work and housing, stay until he was bored or dissatisfied and then move on, looking for a more satisfactory place to be. With the subtlety of a trained therapist, Dr. Haplin tried to get at the patient’s reasons for moving on, for repeatedly severing any social connections he had made. The reasons he gave varied, but the common theme was that he would move on because he either came to feel taken advantage of or had a disagreement with someone or other. Solving his problems by retreating was not the most effective way of doing things, but it did not fall outside the realm of sanity. Anyway, Dr. Haplin probed for unresolved conflicts, which most patients would go on about forever, but the patient acted as if the conflicts of his past life were inconsequential, no big deal.

Dr. Haplin decided that daily therapy was appropriate and the patient did not object when he brought it up. During the daily sessions, he continued to probe into the patient’s past. One day, later that week, Dr. Haplin decided to ask the patient about the community he had said he was a member of. After the patient had been escorted in, Dr. Haplin began the session. “Today, I would like to know more about the community you joined recently.”

The patient fidgeted. “I shouldn’t. They value their privacy.” Odd. Normally, Dr. Haplin would have thought the patient had been lying, but he was reasonably certain that Windson believed himself to be part of a community. He decided to approach the issue stealthily.

“OK,” Dr. Haplin said agreeably. “Can you tell me how you found it? You don’t have to tell me everything and, as always, what you do tell me is confidential.”

The patient thought for a moment. “I had been working at KTC just long enough to become uncomfortable there. Security was tight and they had some kind of master of the world thing going. Even though I was just a heating and AC maintenance man, I felt that I was part of something dangerous.” Dr. Haplin smiled as if he understood. “So I left the job,” the patient continued. “I took a few days off to bum around the apartment I was renting and figure out where I would go next. That was when I had a dream. I followed what I saw as best I could and the community was waiting for me.”

Dr. Haplin figured he was onto something. “They knew what you were dreaming?”

The patient perked up. “The dreams..” He stopped suddenly.

“Yes,” Dr. Haplin said with a smile of encouragement.

“It’s private,” the patient informed him, looking at the floor.

“OK,” Dr. Haplin conceded. “So, you followed the dreams to a new home, where you found the acceptance you have been looking for?”

The patient nodded. “I had been called. It was real nice, everyone was friendly and I always had someone to be around. Also, they did not even try to make me believe the same things they do. They barely talked about that.”

“A religious community?” Dr. Haplin asked. “God called you?” Delusions with a religious flavor, he thought.

“Kind of,” the patient answered. “While I was there, I had another dream that told me why I had been called. Fusion. We had to do something.”

“Fusion?” Dr. Haplin wanted to keep him talking.

“Mm-hm, it’s the only way to destroy water. Any other use of water leaves it intact, although it may be polluted or moved around. With fusion, the oxygen and hydrogen are separated and the hydrogen is then fused into another element. If people start building fusion reactors to make electricity, it would be cleaner than fossil fuel, but the planet’s water would be used. That’s what I dreamed about, night after night. A dying world where wars are fought over the little remaining water and the side using fusion would be powerful enough to defeat anyone defending their drinking water.” The patient looked proud, as if sharing a secret. “If you think war over oil is nasty..”

Dr. Haplin decided to steer the conversation away from the patient’s paranoid delusions about fusion power. “And you dreamed in color?”

“Yes,” the patient answered. “Is that significant, doctor?”

Dr. Haplin nodded. “The more significant dreams are always in color.”

“And the advisors..” The patient stopped himself again. Dr. Haplin was scribbling on his pad for show. He looked up.

“You broke into KTC to stop fusion?”

“We had to,” the patient insisted.

Dr. Haplin paused and thought. Sooner or later he would have to lead the patient to the reality that he had broken into the facility alone, but it was early in the therapeutic process. “The information in your file says you were alone, according to KTC security and the police.”

The patient’s affect changed startlingly. “I wish you could explain that, doctor. They are friends. I just want to know if they’re OK and what happened to them.” He looked really frightened.

Dr. Haplin was perplexed. The patient had experienced hallucinations serious enough to convince him that two other people were with him, but had not continued to see them when he arrived at the facility. He had not been given drugs. Normally, a patient with his condition would see something that would explain his imaginary friends’ fate and try to persuade the therapist that the patient knew what was really happening. “I’m sorry I can’t help you there. What do you think may have happened?”

“I don’t know!” The patient was becoming frustrated. “People don’t just vanish. Something is wrong.”

Dr. Haplin ended the session there. He really did feel sorry for the patient. The man was worried about his companions, real or not, but his therapist could not offer an explanation. Later therapy sessions produced an impasse. The patient was convinced that he was being led by his dreams and his fantasy world was impenetrable. Dr. Haplin tried to go deeper into his relationship with the world and the actual people in it, but the patient would not budge. He still maintained the illusion of sanity. He also persisted in his delusion that KTC was about to destroy the world.

The next weekend, Dr. Haplin had the idea to look up KTC and fusion energy on the Internet. KTC was a leading researcher in alternative energy, with projects around the world. Much of what he found was corporate hype, but he did find some highly critical articles. Apparently, KTC kept almost everything it did secure from the outside world and maintained a disproportionately large security force. Dr. Haplin could understand that. It was safe to assume that they had competitors, who would gladly try to beat them to a lucrative discovery, and there were hints that the company had any number of government contracts. Nuclear fusion, however, had few critics. If fusion technology were developed, the process would be far cleaner than the fission process used by a conventional nuclear reactor, and many experts held out the hope that it would be a clean energy source for the future. Even the believers in conspiracies liked the idea. The only alleged plots he found were accusations that those with a vested interest in fossil fuels were suppressing fusion energy. “I’ll never go out of business,” Dr. Haplin thought to himself. “There are plenty of people out there who need help.”

He distracted himself with some television and went to bed. When he awoke the next morning, his heart was pounding. He lay thinking, forcing his consciousness to cut through the haze of awakening. He remembered part of a recent dream. He had been standing in his yard, but the green suburb he lived in had become a brown, dusty desert, devoid of grass and trees. No water. An electric car had buzzed past him and down the street. A miserable, gaunt child had looked at him from the rear window. Dr. Haplin employed a breathing exercise before getting out of bed. Then he began to laugh. “Is Windson’s insanity contagious?” he asked, surprised to hear himself speak his thoughts to an empty house.

The next night, he had another dream. In the morning, he remembered it much more clearly. He saw himself running though an office building. Men were chasing him with handguns drawn. They were large, with military haircuts and expensive suits. Ahead of him in the darkened corridor, a police officer with a gun and flashlight confronted him. He halted and his pursuers caught up to him. A shove from behind made him sprawl on the floor. He had noticed the KTC logo on the wall just before waking up.

The next week, he continued to try to unlock his patient’s past. He was not succeeding in finding the expected pattern and the patient was getting tired of answering questions. Apparently, the patient had begun to show symptoms only recently. Dr. Haplin expected to discover an event that had pushed him into a delusional state, but such an event was either absent or remained undisclosed. There were also things the patient still would not tell him, which was unusual. Not only was he tight-lipped about elements of his delusion, the community and the advisors, he also would not say where he had lived before his arrest or how he had been earning a living after leaving KTC. When encouraged, he skirted around it with vague, semi-religious statements. That in itself was odd because the patient showed no other signs that he had any religious beliefs.

Another thing further frustrated the doctor. Dr. Haplin was having vivid dreams every night. Often, they were about the desert and the events that had led to its creation. The dreams were right out of the patient’s delusion. The desert had been created by a global water shortage. Other dreams were about a community of preachy hippies. Strangely, many of them had features that appeared to indicate a partial Native American background and they often wore or used symbols taken from Central American culture. Stranger still, instead of a peace sign, they regularly showed each other a cryptic hand gesture that Dr. Haplin had never seen before. The gesture was made by holding up one’s hand, palm out, and making a circle with the thumb and middle finger, bisected from behind by a straight index finger.

In therapy, Dr. Haplin began to drift away from what he knew to be the professional strategy. He began to ask the patient more about his dreams. After a little probing, the patient was willing to talk about the content of his dreams, but avoided disclosing information about the relationship between the dreams and his actions. There had been three important dreams. The first had led him to a new life. In the dream, Windson had seen himself buy a bus ticket and walk to his destination. The second dream had been a warning about fusion power and a water shortage. Dr. Haplin knew that he should not be interested in that dream and its delusional message, but he could not resist encouraging the patient to discuss it. The patient’s dream had been strikingly similar to his own. The third dream had been about KTC and the results of their research. The patient resisted the admission that the dream had convinced him to break into KTC and steal documents, but it was obvious to Dr. Haplin that the dreams had been his motivation. The picture Dr. Haplin was constructing was one of a man led slowly into a fantasy world by these dreams. This led to a conclusion that Dr. Haplin knew to be impossible. He had been having similar dreams and had to wonder if he had caught something from his patient. He pushed that thought out of his mind, since he knew that mental illness did not work that way.

One day in therapy, after Dr. Haplin had dreamed a particularly frightening dry Earth nightmare the night before, he gave in to temptation and spoke to the patient about the matter. “I would like to know more about the advisors and how they communicate.”

Windson fidgeted. “That’s private.”

“In the process of therapy, private matters are often discussed,” Dr. Haplin insisted, using a casual and reassuring tone.

“I gave my word. It’s important,” the patient responded.

“The advisors are responsible for your dreams. They use them to guide you, or so you have often implied. We have been over that during our sessions.” Dr. Haplin waited while the patient sat thinking. For a moment, he thought that the patient would give him the silent treatment.

Finally, Windson answered. “Of all the stars in the universe, only a few have the conditions that allow life to come into being. Of those few, only a small portion produce intelligent life and only a tiny percentage of those develop civilization. Of those civilizations, only very few survive without either blowing themselves up or consuming their only planet.” The patient paused and his face settled into a far-away look. “That’s the reason behind the dreams.”

Dr. Haplin’s head spun. The statement was out of character for this patient. Its tone and wording were more educated and scientific than he would expect from a man with Windson’s background. Also the patient, who had seemed to be some sort of religious fanatic, was now talking in almost evolutionary terms. And it made too much sense. Dr. Haplin struggled to avoid connecting the comment to his own dreams. He forced himself back into the roll of a psychiatrist.

“And the advisors called you to save the world?” Dr. Haplin asked, hoping to encourage the patient to finally open up and expose his own delusions.

“Not by myself,” the patient responded in an attempt to persuade Dr. Haplin that he did not see himself as some kind of messiah. “I can’t tell you more.”

“You seem comfortable asking me about the whereabouts of two other people.” Dr. Haplin knew that he should not lend reality to the patient’s companions, but his determination to prove that Windson had lost touch with reality had completely gotten the better of him.

The patient adopted a tone that said he was admitting a terrible mistake. “I know, but I’m really worried about them. It sucks, not knowing if my friends are OK,” the patient whined softly.

“You were called to help them?” Dr. Haplin wanted to stay on topic.

“I was advised. The choice was my own and they would have gone in without me. I’m here because..” the patient stopped himself.

“Go on,” Dr. Haplin said with a friendly smile.

“Because I made a choice. I chose to break the law, plain and simple. I assume its nicer here than in prison.”

To Dr. Haplin, it was obvious that the patient was lying. He believed he was here for some other reason and he must have been certain that his doctor would not believe it. He was faking sanity again, pretending to take responsibility for the crime that had resulted in his commitment.

Dr. Haplin leaned forward and spoke in an almost pleading tone. “You are not here as a punishment. In order for your treatment to be successful, there has to be a level of honesty in the relationship between a therapist and a patient. Otherwise, without success, I would simply have to continue your therapy.” That sugarcoated threat often would open a stubborn patient’s mouth. Refusing to cooperate would only lengthen his stay as a committed patient.

Windson said nothing and looked back at him with a condescending smile. He did not seem to care about getting back into the world. Maybe he believed he could leave whenever he wanted. Dr. Haplin ended the session there. He thought it best to give the patient time, so that he might realize that cooperation in his therapy was his way out.

That night, Dr. Haplin was laying in bed listening to his heart race. He had had another intense dream and this time it was related to his patient’s disturbing theory about the survival of a civilization. He had seen a planet with a red sky and a blasted landscape, populated by gaunt, dying creatures. They were obviously not human beings and their bizarre faces stared at him like the starving children he had seen in commercials for charities. Dr. Haplin calmed himself. He wished he could just lie there and recover but he had to use the bathroom. He took care of that business, walking briskly but unsteadily to the convenience. As he washed his hands, he looked in the mirror and nearly jumped out of his own skin. The face of one of the pathetic, staring creatures from his dream looked back at him. Another sat on the toilet as it, too, stared. Dr. Haplin hurried out of the bathroom, only to see a half-dozen more of them in his darkened bedroom. Without a light, he should not have been able to see anything, but he could see the things clearly as they sat against the wall, haunting him with their eyes. He found his bed by touch, sat down and closed his eyes. There was no denying it now, he thought. Dr. Haplin knew he had lost it. Hallucinations.

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on his bed, alone in the dark. The realization that he did not remember putting his head back on his pillow was enough to convince him that he had still been dreaming, as opposed to actually hallucinating. Slowly, he became aware of the sound of running water and asked himself with mild frustration if the sound was real and where it was coming from. Slowly, it dawned on him that he had left his bathroom sink running and he had to get up and go back into the bathroom to shut it off.

The next day at work, Dr. Haplin was debating whether or not to talk about his dreams with Dr. Brawnsky or one of the other therapists on staff. On the one hand, he knew he would feel better if he were to avoid keeping it all to himself. He knew he would receive the support he needed from a professional therapist. On the other hand, it could very easily turn out to be a mistake. If he were diagnosed with a condition that caused hallucinations, he knew it would be the end of his career. He would never be trusted to administer therapy again. He was so perplexed that he began to mumble. He was rehearsing, speaking as if he were explaining the problem to Dr. Brawnsky.

About halfway through his second rehearsal, movement by the door made him freeze where he sat. The door to the therapy room was open less than an inch and something had blocked the light from the hallway for a moment. Someone was standing outside his door and might have been able to hear him talking to himself. He heard a knock on the doorframe. He wondered if it was time for his next patient, yet. The clock on the wall told him that he still had ten minutes. He calmed himself and employed a cheerful tone. “Yes!”

Detective Cachapoca pushed the door open and entered. Dr. Haplin hid his hands in his lap to keep them from shaking. It would have been bad enough if a therapist or staff member had heard him, but he did not want to find out what a police detective would conclude about his behavior. He shook off the surprised feeling, stood and glad-handed the detective. “Mr. Cachapoca, this is a surprise.”

Detective Cachapoca was wearing his hat and sunglasses, as always. It made him hard to read, which was probably a deliberate effect. The detective smiled as the two men shook hands. “Good afternoon doctor, I hope I’m not interrupting.” Dr. Haplin shook his head. “But I needed to see you about a patient,” the detective continued.

“Certainly,” Dr. Haplin answered, welcoming the mundane request. “Come in, have a seat.” Dr. Haplin sat back down in his chair while Cachapoca perched on the edge of the patient’s couch and opened his briefcase. “Which patient does this concern?” Dr. Haplin asked.

Detective Cachapoca removed a file from his case. “Dan Windson.” The detective flipped carefully through the file and found a paper. “He was never truly committed. Technically, he is still in police custody. It seems I have to collect him, until we can get this sorted out.” The detective shrugged, as if taking a patient from his therapist’s care were a trivial matter. He handed Dr. Haplin a form.

Dr. Haplin examined the page. It was a copy of one of the forms that were needed when a patient was committed to psychiatric care. It looked fine to him. “What am I looking at?” he asked seriously.

The detective leaned forward, placing one elbow on his knee and reaching out with the index finger of his other hand. “It’s not signed. No judges signature.”

Dr. Haplin thought for a moment. The last thing he wanted to do was give up Windson without finding out more, or resolving his own issues surrounding the case. He sat back, slipping into the role of an authoritative professional. “Mr. Windson is a delusional patient who has already committed one crime. Letting him walk out because of a technicality would be irresponsible.”

“Legal technicalities,” the detective answered with a tight cynical smile. “Mr. Windson will be kept in custody, not released. This is for your protection, doctor. If a lawyer sees this, he could secure the patient’s release onto the street and hold your facility responsible.”

Nice try, Dr. Haplin thought. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you, detective,” Dr. Haplin answered with condescension. “However, the patient’s needs must come first. I have made a bit of progress with this patient and I am reasonably certain that said progress would be erased if he were taken to prison. I must insist that we keep him while this matter is cleared up.”

The detective sighed and looked away, almost seeming to shrink. He took off his hat, showing Dr. Haplin his thinning, close cropped black hair for the first time. “I’m in a bit of a bind, Sam.” The inappropriate formality took Dr. Haplin by surprise, as did the fact that the detective knew his first name.

“I’ll say,” Dr. Haplin needled him. He wanted to remind the man that acquiring the appropriate signature was his responsibility and ignore his own obligation to check the paperwork.

The cop looked at his hat, allowing his sunglasses to slide down his nose. When his gaze returned to Dr. Haplin, his exposed eyes pleaded for leniency. “I really do need to take the patient. It’s important. Of course, I will see to it that he is decently treated. He’ll be OK.”

“Why?” Dr. Haplin grunted the question.

“Can’t say. Look, I know I’m asking for a lot, but I need you to trust me. It’s your choice. It really is in the best interest of the patient that I take him, and soon.”

Dr. Haplin cringed. The detective was up to something and the absence of a judge’s signature must not have been an accident. “I can’t,” Dr. Haplin insisted. “I’m on record. You want to just walk off with a patient and won’t tell me why. This could mean my career.”

“It’s important,” the detective insisted. “We all have to choose where we stand. Some things are more important than either of our careers.” He held up his hand and made a gesture. His thumb and middle finger formed a circle, bisected from behind by his index finger. The cop’s eyes looked over his sunglasses with intense expectation. “I know it all seems crazy, but things are the way they are, and we all have to choose what to believe and what to do.”

Dr. Haplin’s head spun as the reality of seeing that hand gesture from a live person sank in. He just sat looking with his mouth hanging open for a moment, before he recovered and decided to act. “OK.”

Detective Cachapoca slumped on the couch and gave a slow sigh of relief before retrieving another form from his briefcase. He smiled a knowing smile as he handed the page over. “Sign here if you would, please.”

Dr. Haplin signed the form and handed it back with an intense, confused look. The detective put his hat and sunglasses back on and strode out of the room, as rigid and confident as ever. Dr. Haplin collapsed into his chair, unable to suppress the doubts he had about his perspective. He had been so sure that the patient was delusional, in spite of his signs of sanity, but his dreams had eroded that certainty and pushed him to find out more. Now the patient was leaving, just like that. He doubted he would ever be sure about what had really happened. A staff member escorted his next patient into the therapy room and Dr. Haplin forced himself to appear professional and tried to lose himself in administering her treatment.

That night, Dr. Haplin dreamed. In his dream, he saw Detective Cachapoca driving Dan Windson. They rolled down the highway with music blaring on the radio. Dan was preoccupied by the view out the window. He focused on a green highway sign that read “Snakeye Valley next exit.” The unmarked police car eased onto the exit ramp, around a curve and into town, stopping at a humble church. As the congregation welcomed Dan back into the fold, the scene faded. Strangely, Dr. Haplin saw a piece of plumbing equipment that sat in a bare room, gurgling as it worked. The dream gave him a closer look and he knew how it functioned, somehow. He woke up with a start, his mind overwhelmed with a clear picture of the device.

The next day at work, Dr. Haplin postponed his earliest appointment. He just could not forget that device and had started to talk to himself about it when he was stuck in traffic on the way in. Now, he sat at the computer, manipulating the standard shapes that its drawing program provided into an image of the device and making notes. A ring of tubing wound around and through it, which had to be attached at just the right angle so that the flowing water could be pushed back up a gentle incline to the top by the valve set at a specific angle under the vertical central pipe. Inside the pipe, a turbine was waiting for the water to spill over it and turn it. Gold wires carried electricity from the turbine to anything one plugged into the device. Dr. Haplin was almost finished drawing it. He had no clue whether or not the device would actually work, but he had to deal with it to feel right again.

A knock interrupted him. Dr. Brawnsky pushed open the door, smiling. “Hey, Sam. Sorry to interrupt, but have you seen Dan Windson?” Dr. Brawnsky seemed as relaxed and friendly as always, but Dr. Haplin knew him well enough to detect the signs of tension in his affect.

Dr. Haplin paused. “The police took him yesterday,” he answered, expressing surprise with his tone of voice, as though he thought that Dr. Brawnsky already knew. He had decided not to say that it was Detective Cachapoca who had come to get him.

Dr. Brawnsky’s smile vanished and his eyes narrowed. “Yeah?”

“Mm-Hm,” Dr. Haplin responded casually.

“That’s strange. The FBI is here to take custody,” Dr. Brawnsky informed him with a look that told of trouble coming. “They have a warrant.”

Dr. Haplin’s stomach tightened. He wondered if they knew about the missing signature business and if he was about to be arrested. “It should not be a problem. Can’t they get him from the police? The paperwork should be in order and filed.”

“I’ll check,” Dr. Brawnsky said gratefully. “The agents are concerned. They need him as a witness and want to put him in protective custody. Have you seen today’s news?”

Dr. Haplin shook his head.

“KTC’s security people were busted for holding prisoners illegally and taking them out of the state. The FBI is preparing kidnapping charges. The two victims say they were caught breaking in along with Mr. Windson.”

“Oh,” Dr. Haplin said. His hands were shaking.

“Right,” Dr. Brawnsky added, complaining. “This is going to get ugly in public and we are in the middle of it. It looks bad. I know we had no way of knowing that he was telling the truth, but a misdiagnosis like this could be painted as incompetence, especially if the press gets a hold of it. And now the patient is not here. Holy Moly!”

“Paul,” Dr. Haplin began in a reassuring tone. “The police have custody and our treatment is confidential. It should be easy enough to keep our involvement in this minimal. The press will have bigger fish to fry.”

Dr. Brawnsky relaxed. “Sorry, I guess I let dealing with those FBI interrogators get to me.”

Dr. Haplin faked a grin. “I assume they will be out of your life when we send them to the police. Want me to call ahead?” Dr. Haplin drew his cell phone from a pocket.

“Would you?”

“My name is on the paperwork,” he pointed out.

Dr. Brawnsky grinned impishly. “I’ll get rid of the FBI.” He walked off in the direction of the file room while Dr. Haplin found Detective Cachapoca’s number in the facility’s computer records. He left a brief and formal message in the detective’s voice mail.

To Dr. Haplin’s relief, the FBI never came to see him. He finished his diagram and had an otherwise ordinary day. Although he was still preoccupied with the Windson case, he began to lose himself in his work as he treated his current patients.

That night, he dreamed again. In the dream, he had a list of e-mail addresses that he was using to distribute copies of the diagram he had drawn. He saw the list so clearly that he remembered it when he awoke with a start. It was so clear that he could not get the list out of his head as he lay in the dark. That was when he heard the voice. It sounded as if someone was whispering in his ear, but it seemed to come from all directions at once.

“This needs to be done,” said the voice.

Dr. Haplin lay in bed, his eyes wide in the darkness. His first thought was that he had gone nuts, but then he reminded himself of the real events that surrounded the Windson case. The realization slowly crept over his sleepy consciousness. Anxiety washed over him in the form of a sense of urgency.

“Please!” the voice pleaded.

Dr. Haplin swore in the darkness. “OK,” he mumbled, attempting to get a grip. “OK-OK.” He contemplated the strange voice in the night. He had treated many patients who had heard voices. So this was what it sounded and felt like. It reminded him of a patient who said she had heard the voice of God. Not God, he reminded himself. Advisor. “It has to be,” he mumbled, reassuring himself. His mind turned over and poked at the list of addresses. He made a decision and rose suddenly. After standing by his bed for a moment, he went and turned on his computer. He checked his e-mail and saw that he had mailed a copy of the diagram to his home account. He did not remember doing that. “Will I be sane again if I do it?” he asked his empty house. He went to a website that offered free e-mail under any name the user chose, set up an account and e-mailed the diagram to the recipients on the list. When he was sure that all of the e-mail had been sent, he deleted the account. He did not want to hear from the recipients and try to explain the device’s origin. As the computer shut down, he drifted off where he sat and would be a little stiff from sleeping in the chair when he woke up the next morning.

A lone figure stood in Dr. Haplin’s back yard, dressed in black, baggy cloths. The person was motionless and deep in concentration. Had anyone been looking, they would have seen someone that could be a man or a woman, hard to tell, with long, straight black hair. The person’s golden eyes snapped open and drifted back and forth slowly, taking in the surrounding suburban setting. It turned slowly and walked away, striding down the sidewalk and into the night with a satisfied gait.

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