Doctor

Well, Pat, I've got the test results back.

And?

What's the problem?

Advanced tuberculosis of the right upper lobe, with consolidation and a small cavity.

We need to admit you to Providence Hospital immediately for treatment.

The doctor read the paper the patient had scribbled on.

It was barely legible, written in the shaky script of one who could not see.

He wanted to smile at the man's steadfast resolve, a reminder of the human will to survive.

But he knew that the patient was completely delusional.

After all, a sane man would have fallen for the deception long ago.

The doctor wanted to smile.

He wanted to whisper words of encouragement to the delusional man.

He wanted to scream.

But the nerve filaments wrapped around his head and into his eyes made him do otherwise.

His body walked into the cell like a puppet and told the patient once more that he was wrong and that there was nobody trying to deceive him.

Wine, Doctor?

I'm sweating through the sheets.

I'm not getting better.

You're not getting better.

And that disobedient novice is at fault.