The seconds from the clock over the door tick viciously. I despised that clock ever since the secretary put it up some weeks ago, but earlier today I caught myself imagining how I might bring it down and break it into small pieces until it stops making its little nagging noises. I told them a thousand times I don’t need a clock in the office: I have a wristwatch. But they insisted I have one for the sake of my clients. I was told many of them found the noise reassuring. It was grounding them in reality. Made them fit into a time frame.
I could never see how such a horrific noise might have a calming effect. I can vouch that none of my clients are interested in the time when they come to seek help. Especially as they all sat with their backs to the door and the one who had to endure that endless torture through the work days was me. I know no one in the clinic likes me. They made it crystal clear they didn’t like me from day one, so I suppose this punishment makes sense.
The rhythmic torment continues, and I have to tear my gaze away from the clock and refocus on the nervous wreck sitting on the couch in front of me.
“I can’t sleep lately,” Lora admits, with a shaky voice. She’s a pale, bony thing, with a mountain of insecurities. At least, that’s how she jokingly described herself when I asked several minutes ago. I am often astounded at the accurate judgement some people have of themselves. “Awful nightmares.”
I put a hand on my knee, leaning back into my chair. “Do you wake up sporadically or can’t sleep at all?”
“I wake up several times during the night.” Lora laughs. It’s a brief, sharp noise wresting out of her chest occasionally, like she’s pushing it down at all times, but sometimes loses hold of it and it spills out.
“Tell me about the nightmares,” I said, suppressing a sigh. My eyes skimmed over Lora’s head and fixed on the clock again. The ticking could absolutely kill a man. It could, if I didn’t kill it first.
My client stirs uncomfortably, putting a lock of straight dark hair behind her ear. “Gosh… no, I don’t think they mean anything important.”
“What are they about?”
“This building, actually. You.. and the others,” she laughs again, fleetingly meeting my eyes. Her look somewhat annoys me, but I endeavour to keep my voice flat and professional.
“Laying down your deepest issues with more or less a stranger can be stressful.”
Lora straightens up. “Well, I can’t help what I dream about.”
“But you have a choice to leave if you don’t feel comfortable doing this or doing it here,” I remind her. “Or if you don’t like me, in particular.” The ticking nails into my skull. I need to make some noise and deafen it, so I add, louder: “Despite my best efforts to become likable.”
Lora catches her breath.
“That was inappropriate,” I say quickly, offering an apologetic smile right away. “Please, continue.”
“Okay,” she says, cautiously. “I was hoping you could give me some advice on…”
“Of course. Something that helps many people is keeping a sleep diary. Nothing complicated, just notes on your routine before bed.”
Lora barely blinks, soaking in my words and nodding comprehensively. “Okay. That’s doable.”
“This can help me identify any habits or behaviours that might be interfering with your sleep. Overthinking included.”
Again, Lora laughs sharply. “Yes.” An awkward pause, then she takes a breath and repeats. “Yes. I could do that.”
“I’m afraid our time is up for today,” I say, after a quick glance at my watch.
“Ah!” Lora jumps to her feet immediately and extends a hand. “In that case, I should be going. Thank you very much for your help, doctor.”
“Your self-observational skills are very strong.” I shake her hand. “They are your ally.”
“You’re right. I’ve always felt they will help me somehow, really, but never knew how.” Lora smiles. “Until next week.”
I smile back reassuringly as she makes her way out of the room and closes the door, leaving me with the terrible tolls of the wall clock. I scowl at it and get up. It’s so terribly bright in the room, despite that there’s only one window and it’s heavily latticed. I don’t like latticed windows.
The more I listen to her, the more certain I become that she might have more than a basic nervous disposition. At first, I thought she might be temperamentally sanguine, with a tendency to be overly talkative, impressionable, agitative. It was too early to suppose anything, but my speculation was that there was something detrimental in her habits. Substance abuse, perhaps. Overdosing on seemingly harmless pills. Many of the single, middle-aged women like her either abused those or alcohol, and have formed a solid excuse for it. And they were usually living in perfect denial that it might be a possible issue, or could lead to one.
Still thoughtful, I leave the office from outside and shake off the godawful clock sounds as I pace down the corridor and stop at the information desk. A prim, neat-looking brunette is sitting behind a chair and stacking files, picking from a large pile next to her computer. Eventually, she notices my pointed stare and greets me half-heartedly.
“Listen,” I lean an elbow over the counter, and the secretary looks up at me with a mixture of confusion and expectancy. “Tell the board that if they have something against me, they should say it in my face, okay? Playing tricks to punish me is childish.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she replies.
“Whose idea was to put that infernal clock in my office?”
She shrugs.
“Thanks. You’re of great help,” I sigh, and she looks at me askance.
“If you hate it that much, I can tell someone to put it down,” the secretary reaches out for a stash of documents with a hard smile. “But everyone else likes it.”
I bristle up. Samuel. That explains everything. I wave dismissively and walk out of the clinic and into the fenced yard for a breath of air. I forgot I shared the space with him and the others. Anyway. After pushing this frustration aside, my thoughts return to Lora.
It’s hard to tell if she even wants a change. Every one of her sessions is an extended self-analysis (which she could do at home by herself without my help) and delving deeper into the chaos of her issues. This is confusing to the extent that even I’m not sure what she needs therapy for. Maybe I have to change up the strategy for her. And what did she mean by I can’t help what I dream about? What was that supposed to mean? Was she implying her nightmares were my fault? A way to get on someone’s nerves.
***
The secretary tells me there’s a call for me. She always interrupts me, either when I’m in the middle of a session or when I’m deep in thought. I’ve wondered if she’s trying to get my attention (which is ridiculously bold, given I’m married) or purposefully trying to sabotage me. Either way, I’m getting aggravated about it.
Diligently, she hands me the phone from her usual place behind the counter and tells me who’s calling. I pick up. “Samuel.”
“Hope it’s not a bad time for you.”
Of course it’s a bad time. What should a man do to get some peace and quiet? Not that I haven’t expected this job to be stressful. “Not at all. What’s going on?”
“That was what I called to ask you,” says my supervisor. “The secretary called me yesterday and told me you’ve got a problem with the clock in the office.”
“It’s a little irritating to me, yes, but I suppose that was the initial idea when you put it up,” I laugh. Samuel laughs too.
“No, it wasn’t; I just thought it would make a nice difference in the interior, nothing more. None of the others mind it. I’ll tell them to put it down, if it’s such a problem for you.”
A pause. I already want to hang up.
“There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about as well.”
My mind reels back to Lora and to how I screwed up in our last session. Maybe she’s been telling people about it and this was about her. “I’m listening.”
“I’ve been told you want to prescribe an antipsychotic drug to a client who has no symptoms of any psychosis. I leafed through their file and your notes. It looks like plain depression to me.”
“I have no memory of this,” I furrow. “I must have been tired or something.”
“That sounds to me like a serious problem. I think we should talk about it.”
That was a sentence I had no right to say no to. If you refuse the supervisor, bad things follow. “Yeah, guess we could do that.”
“I’ll call to inform the secretary one of these days, and she could give you more details,” Samuel says. “If there’s anything bothering you in the meantime, feel free to find me or call. You know I’m in the clinic all the time.”
“Sure.”
My supervisor ends the call first and leaves me hanging. Prescribing the wrong drugs? Just because I write down my thoughts and observations doesn’t mean I’m going to act on them. And since when is it okay to rummage through people’s personal notebooks? First the clock and now making things up to make me look bad. The board must really want me out.
***
The wintry morning is bright and clear. I walk down the clinic’s corridors way earlier than my scheduled session for today, in coiling anticipation. I greet the secretary blandly and proceed to my office in anxious silence. I reach for the handle and push the door open.
For a moment, I stand there holding my breath, without moving a single muscle. Then I exhale slowly, pushing the door closed. It’s gone. The infernal ticking. With a quick glance, I make sure of it. Samuel had told them to remove the clock from the wall. There is a man and a woman in the room. They’re casually dressed and talk quietly. I’ve seen them around before, they’re not bothersome. They can stay.
I hum, sinking down into my armchair. Maybe Samuel isn’t as bad as I previously thought. Having a supervisor was a pain in the ass. Always after me, following all my moves, picking at the slightest things, scrutinising my every note. I know what he does is a necessary evil, and what he’s doing is an obligation, but it’s still annoying as hell.
I jump up when I hear a few sharp knocks on the door. Must be my new client. I rush to open the door and see a scruffy-looking young white male, with hollowed-out cheeks and glassy eyes. With those ripped jeans and rumpled shirt, he couldn’t have been over twenty-five. Just as I am making my estimations, he makes his too.
“Cool shirt,” is the first thing he says, and reaches out. I take his hand for a handshake, smiling at the compliment.
“Thank you. You must be… Noah?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t we start with a quick chat? Get to know each other?”
Noah raises a brow. “Who are you, again?”
“Your new therapist? They must have told you about me.”
“Oh. The therapist, yeah.” Noah smirks a little. “They told me you have a chat with everyone who comes here. Well, I can’t refuse, can I?”
They? I move from the door and gesture at him to enter. His body language is aggressive: shoulders hunched; stiff, awkward movements, and tense expressions. I shut the door behind him and offer him a seat, while I take my place. He’s visibly uncomfortable, but I predispose him by reaching into my pocket and pulling out my notes on his case: notes I made myself when they first transferred the client to me. New clients are always panicky. Whenever I take some time to examine my notes, they have time to calm down and readjust. It’s a good trick, I’ve always found it useful.
Some days ago, I asked my supervisor about him, to get a better idea of personality and sketch out what issues I’m going to deal with. That conversation was anything but enlightening. I hoped I would get a deeper understanding today.
“So,” I begin. “I understand this is not your first rodeo.”
Noah scoffs. “I’ve been around therapists and clinics a lot… against my will, that is. My folks force me to go. You guys are all the same to me.”
“I see,” I hear myself say. Bratty. “It’s rude to be disappointed in advance, don’t you think?”
Noah regards me from head to toe. “Chill out, I’m not judging you, it was just an expression.”
I offer a tight-lipped smile and a nod. I divert my attention back to my notes and leaf through the information once more, to recollect the case. “Alcohol, drugs, and gambling.”
“The holy trinity,” Noah chuckles. “Now you look like you’re disappointed in advance.”
“No such thing,” I protest, though I suspect my expression might’ve momentarily betrayed my first impression.
The silence extends with my mental attempts to construct the best way to reach that young man. Some of the information he’s given me just now is new to me. If he has been to a lot of therapists, then I have to tread very carefully. He’s clearly smart, so if I try foolproof approaches, he might end up disappointed quickly. And once he’s disappointed, I can’t win his trust back anymore. The lack of interaction bores him; he lunges into a new conversation once more.
“Aren’t sessions supposed to be private?”
I catch him nodding toward the talking pair across the room. “Do they bother you?”
Noah shrugs.
“Is it true that if I don’t like how you’re treating me, I can report you?”
I only spare a staggered glance up at him and my attention returns to the notes. “Yes, I believe.” Then curiosity stings me. “Why do you ask? Are you against anything I’ve said or done so far? My questions, is that it?”
“Nah, I’m just asking ‘cause they told me I can do that,” Noah says, studying my reaction. “Seems pretty messed up. Anything you say or do could bug me if I decide it does.”
For a moment, I consider the words. “That’s true.” A pause. Then a dark thought evanescently passes through my mind and I clench my fist, then release it. “And who exactly told you that?”
My client hesitates, his hand coming up to bite at his nails as he looks somewhere behind me. Laughter rumbles from the woman somewhere behind me and then the conversation goes on just as quietly. “One of the creepers with the white overalls. He let me know I can tell him if you’re making me feel uncomfortable.” Noah leans back on the couch with a sigh. “You don’t seem half bad, though.”
The anger rushes into my veins at the words. I stand up at once. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”
Noah shrugs again.
I nearly run to the door and fling it open, feeling my heartbeat increase by the minute as I march down the corridor. At the end of it is a glass-wall of windows and a crossroad of more corridors. I take the one on the left and climb up the stairs to where the others’ offices are. Thankfully, it’s mostly empty of people. I only cross paths with a single cleaner at one turn, but she’s inconsequential. I stop in front of the door to my supervisor’s office and knock three times. When no sound comes from the other side, I allow myself to barge in.
This surprises my supervisor, who is sitting behind his desk and working on papers. He blinks up at me with beady black eyes and pulls down his glasses.
“Good morning,” he greets.
“It was you, right?”
A beat. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve talked with my new client. The druggie.”
My supervisor blinks again, in sudden comprehension.
“The addict boy?” A heavy, thoughtful sigh. “When they transferred him to our clinic, the board had me get him through protocols. So I did talk with him, yes.”
“And what exactly is your problem with me? I know you told him something about me. Something bad.”
“I don’t understand,” Samuel chuckles. “You sound angry.”
“Yes, I am angry. My client doesn’t trust me because you somehow hinted to him I am untrustworthy. What did you say?”
“I promise you, I haven’t discussed you with your client. I only shared the protocol with him and his rights.”
“I don’t believe you,” I shake my head. “First the clock thing, now this… You better watch out. You’re crossing the line.”
Silence. Then another deep sigh. “Look, we should meet and talk. You sound like you’re on the brink of a—”
“A breakdown? Is that what you’re implying? I’m incapable?”
“A burnout,” he uses a professional word and smiles apologetically. I don’t believe he meant to use that word initially. I don’t listen to much of the conversation anymore, but he asks if I’d like to share my lunch with him and how it’ll be good for both of us to really sit down and talk. Somewhere not in his office. I pretend to agree, even though I hate his little face and his croaky voice. What does it matter what I’ll say or not? You refuse nothing your supervisor wants.
The calm tone and poise my supervisor stupefies me into silence, and my anger abates. Maybe he’s right about the burnout. I do feel exhausted lately, so I yield. “Fine.”
“Okay,” Samuel says, cautiously. “See you later, then. Try not to worry too much.”
I leave his office, frowning. Somehow, I’m still not feeling appeased. Just confused. Nevermind. We’ll clear things up at lunch.
I find Noah still sitting on the couch, but his leg is tapping the floor at a neurotic rhythm.
“Let’s start again,” I say, taking my place and eyeing his restless motions. My client is watching me with lukewarm intrigue, like he was putting in enormous struggles just to appear like he cared about anything that was happening or was being said. “Why haven’t you killed yourself yet?”
Noah’s movements cease abruptly as he fixes his full attention on me. “Sorry, what?”
“If you’re still among the living, I concluded you must have some reason to stay around, despite all your affairs with death. I wanna hear it. So…” I make an open hand gesture, repeating, “why haven’t you killed yourself yet?”
The boy is astounded. “I don’t know.”
“You think normal life has nothing to offer you?”
“Normal life is boring,” he says.
“It could be way less boring, especially if you use that intelligence of yours. You could make it interesting. Sexy.”
Noah thinks for a good minute, and then he acquires the same dark spark addicts have in their eye when they speak about narcotics. He smirks, “Death is sexier.”
“Maybe because you haven’t gotten to know life well enough.”
He scoffs. “Right. I had just started to like you.”
“I’m glad you did,” I tell him. “But I’m not here to make you like me, I’m here to make you like life.”
***
I’m sitting next to a window in the clinic’s bleak canteen and wondering if my supervisor will show up at all. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t. Another one of his little pranks. Everything he did lately was to either undermine me, discredit me in front of my clients or just remind me I’m inferior to him and that he’d have the last say, in whatever I do. Did he think I didn’t notice any of it? He thinks he’s immune to the workplace rules just because he’s higher in the hierarchy.
I get so worked up over those things. My wife told me it’s only worsening my health. Everyone tells me I should get less frustrated over little things, really. They’re right. I don’t feel well anymore. Even now, I’m too angry to eat so I don’t touch my food. Canteen food is the worst, I don’t know why I keep eating it. Well, it’s convenient, with all the work in the clinic. There’s never time to go out and eat somewhere else. Not that there are any nice places you could eat in the neighbourhood. Even if there were any, I doubt I’d have the time to go to them. I need to attend to my clients incessantly.
I remember I used to hate this building, with its bland paint and quiet corridors. In fact, I hated it so much at the beginning that I thought about quitting numerous times, but the others always talked me out of it. It’s always a thin line. I can’t stand the building, but I love my job. I love helping. I love helping people control their demons. I love people. People are interesting. This is the most rewarding job I’ve ever had, and it’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just that I hate the clinic. Workdays are so long and tiring that it makes me forget how it feels like to be at home.
Days seem shorter and shorter lately. It’s noon, but the late-autumn sunlight is faint and barely warms the ground anymore. It still gilds the yard in specks of gold and the view distracts me.
I flinch when I notice Samuel standing next to me, hands behind his back and glasses on, peeking curiously at me. He asks if he can join. I snap at him that it’s weird to suggest a shared lunch and then ask if you can proceed with it. He only responds with his usual weak smile and sits across from me.
I already regret raising my voice at him, but it’s over now. It’s just I can’t help myself when I see him. He’s the reason I’m constantly humiliated at this place. This started long ago, but now almost the entire board suspects me of being unstable and unreliable, and my colleagues and clients are equally suspicious and distrustful of me. He’s the reason my life’s been so miserable and hellish lately.
My supervisor announces he’s, unfortunately, had lunch already and apologises that he wouldn’t be able to share a meal with me, but he could still use the time to have a conversation. I am stubbornly silent after this, feeling like should I open my mouth for a reply, it will come out as an insult or at least something insult-like.
“Tough day?” Samuel asks.
“How do you think?”
“Come on, what’s going on? Tell me,” he nods at me. “Personal problems?”
“None, thanks for asking,” I retort. There were very few things that got on my nerves as much as people prying into my personal life. Especially double-faced people I don’t particularly like. Kind of ironic, now that I think about it, since they paid me to do exactly that with other people.
“What’s on your mind, then? Are clients causing you trouble? I can tell the board to transfer clients to someone else, in another clinic, if you feel you can’t deal with them.”
“I am doing perfectly well,” I protest. “I don’t need… interventions. Or whatever this is.”
Samuel throws his hands in the air with a gesture of defeat. “Just trying to help with anything I can.”
“Don’t need anyone’s help,” I murmur, sipping from my glass. “Is this about me prescribing the antipsychotics?”
Samuel nods. “I got worried.”
“I must’ve been tired. Don’t remember doing that at all.”
“Well, you did. But I trust you won’t do it again.”
Samuel’s always been like that. Going straight for the kill. I used to like his straightforwardness, but now I find it arrogant. Passive-aggressive. I hesitate whether to be completely honest with him in my turn and think over what I want to say and how I want to say it. You shouldn’t hide anything from your supervisor anyhow. It’s the rule. “You know what? I’m thinking of quitting. Really quitting. I’m done with this place.”
“You can’t do that,” Samuel tells me, regarding me carefully.
“Why not?”
“We need you here.”
I give Samuel a blustering look but manage to bite back my words. Always speaking like he can make my decisions. And always treating me like some kind of an unruly child they’ve let loose, expecting me to make a mess. I am getting really sick of it. But I keep this for myself and continue to drink in tense silence.
Samuel appears unaffected by my reactions. In fact, he is even more curious than before. He leans back a little. “Your wife. What does she think about you quitting?”
“Has she been calling again?” I suddenly ask. She does that sometimes. It aggravates me that she is constantly meddling with my affairs. But it is to be expected. Samuel had grown to be something of a close family friend at this point. “It’s none of your business what she thinks,” I heard myself say, sardonically. She disapproved of it, of course. Any time I open up the subject, she is strongly against it.
“Does your wife know how important your work here is?”
What is wrong with this guy? “Why are you so interested in my wife now?”
“Just curious.”
“About what? What’s she to you? Hey, stay the hell away from my wife, you freak.”
“Wait,” Samuel raises his hand in a defensive gesture, but I ignore him. “I am just asking, nothing more.”
“Liar,” I laugh; a wired, hard laugh. “Lying through your teeth. Stop lying to me. How many times a day does she call you, huh?”
Samuel doesn’t reply.
“What are you two talking about? That I haven’t noticed anything yet?”
I think of her for a moment and realise I might have been wrong about her all along. All those times she convinced me not to quit, that we need the money, that she doesn’t want to change the neighbourhood because she likes it. She likes our home. Clearly, she likes Samuel as well. Would explain the entire chain of lies she’s been telling me.
This sudden insight makes me livid and turns my entire body hot with anger. In my periphery, I can see Samuel observing me with a sort of detached anticipation like he finds my anger somewhat fascinating. It makes me want to hit him. For a moment, I really consider it, but then I think it’s probably not worth it. The fuss, the consequences. It will stress me out even more.
I give up on it, and force myself to eat something instead. Ignoring his presence helps me immensely. I am significantly calmer now. Even more so, when Samuel gets up and leaves my table in silence.
***
I can’t believe I actually did it: I handed in my resignation last week. Today I only came to take some of my stuff from the office, I tell the secretary on my way out. I know it will be much better for me and for my health to leave. My wife is upset about it, but I think it’s the right decision. This place has been draining the life out of me. It was about time I did something about it.
“I won’t miss it, really,” I say, and she shakes her head dismissively. She’s never liked my sincerity.
Earlier, I found out Noah had been transferred to another clinic. That’s too bad. I felt we had a connection and could make a lot of progress on his issues. He showed potential, and he was even interested in working with me. It’s a shame we have to part ways like that.
As for Lora, I contacted her two days ago, and broke the news to her. She didn’t take it well. I think I might have worsened her anxiety. It’s a thing with a lot of clients, it can’t be helped. They get too attached to their therapist and think he’s going to be their crutch through all problems in life, and stop trying to figure it out on their own. I did apologise for the inconvenience my departure will cause her, but I encouraged her to not give up and keep writing down her experiences and habits.
The weather is lovely: the air is warm and the fallen leaves paint the yard in a spectrum of golden colors. I walk out, at last, and think about my new freedom. At least until I reach the gate and find out it’s locked. I look about, confused. Maybe they’ll come unlock it for me. I wait.
A man in a light-blue uniform leaves the building and I anticipate they’ll open the gate for me. I know him. His name is Peter, and he works here, like me. Not a therapist, though. He’s from the staff. Peter would sometimes disturb me and my clients in the middle of sessions. I tried to like him, but couldn’t bring myself to. Honestly, the work ethics of this place are non-existent. One of the many reasons I decided to quit.
Peter comes up to me and takes me by the arm. “Come inside,” he says, but I wrest away from his grip. He is surprised.
“I am leaving,” I tell him. “Unlock the gate for me, please.”
My determination makes no difference. Peter takes a deep breath, and continues calmly,“Let’s talk about it inside, it’s cold.”
“One thing that it absolutely isn’t is cold,” I argue, laughingly. “I demand to leave.”
“You can’t leave, sorry,” Peter shakes his head. Then he turns around and makes a beckoning motion to someone I can’t see. Another man comes out and approaches us.
“What is this?”
“We need you to calm down and come back inside with us,” Peter said, gesturing at me. “Will you do that?”
“Why are you treating me like a prisoner? I have the right to leave.”
“You do,” assures me the other man. He’s tall. I don’t know him. At least, I don’t remember seeing him around. He must be security. I never look too closely at security. “Just not today.”
“Why? Did Samuel tell you to stop me?”
The men exchange looks, and I scoff at them. Of course he did. He’s actively been trying to ruin everything in my life.
“He just thinks you should stay for a while longer. Reconsider your decision to quit.”
I don’t want to reconsider anymore. I hate this place, and I don’t want to work here anymore. And my wife is probably sleeping with my supervisor. What better way to destroy their chances of meeting than to quit the job and find a new one somewhere far away? I refuse to budge, and so do they.
“I won’t move until you open the gate for me.”
This seems to trigger the two men as they both step up to me and grab me by the arms, coercing me to walk back with them. “Let me go!” I struggle to pull away, and I almost succeed, but they grip me tighter and I am forced to fall in step with them. “I’ll call the police on you. This is a violation of my rights. Not to mention the psychological abuse of keeping me against my will.” I look up, searching for the window of his office on the second floor. Samuel, you bastard.
***
It discouraged him. He thought he was making progress lately. The whole board did.
“That’s a very despairing look on your face, Samuel,” came a voice from behind him and he looked over his shoulder to see his colleague come closer to the window, and join him in his observation. There was a good view of the yard and the gate. “Oh. I see.”
Samuel furrowed with disapproval. “I don’t know if I should keep encouraging him or try to convince him of the truth. Encouraging him clearly doesn’t help.”
“You’re doing the merciful thing,” his colleague shrugged. They both followed the scene in the yard in thick silence. His colleague hummed.“What are you thinking?”
“I need to change the dosage.”
“The therapist nonsense is not that bad lately. Doesn’t scare off the other patients as much. I have to say, though, the depth of it is fascinating. Some of them actually believe he can help them.”
“I’m not sure we should let him do that anymore.”
“Why?” his colleague prodded.
“It’s getting worse.” Samuel sighed, his hand coming up to rub at the bridge of his nose tiredly. “His delusions have expanded. He thinks he’s married now, too.”