“I know I’ve asked you this before, Foster.” Dr. Cornelius Armstrong decided it was best to bite the bullet early in this morning’s session and face the monster head-on. “Why are you so certain that the world is going to end this week?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “I’m sorry?” Dr. Armstrong said flatly.

  “Doc, you’re killing me. I thought psychiatrists were supposed to be trained listeners.”

  “We are.” Dr. Armstrong shifted his gaze to a digital clock hanging from a drab, beige wall. He did some quick calculations and was horrified to confirm that he was only ten minutes into this meeting. Why had he only drunk two cups of coffee this morning? He thought about grabbing another one when his patient responded.

  “Then why did you say that’s what I said?”

  “My apologies, Foster.” For a brief second, a tinge of exasperation was audible in the middle-aged man’s voice. But he quickly reigned it back in. “Of course it wasn’t”

  Sitting back in a faded mahogany recliner, Dr. Armstrong vaguely recalled how seven years ago he had been a confident, gifted doctor who ran his various practices, not to mention his life, with an unwavering certainty. However, since accepting the position of chief resident at Wilson Psychiatric Hospital, all traces of that confident person and his ordered life had begun to crumble away slowly.

  Why? Because this job brought him in direct contact with Foster Evers.

  “Give me a second.” The weary psychiatrist looked down at the computer tablet resting awkwardly on his lap. With a flick of his finger, a series of patient files were sent flying across its small screen. Within a few seconds, he settled on the dossier he had been keen to find.

  The case summary was as follows: Foster Evers, age 31, six feet tall, sandy blond hair, was originally committed to Wilson Psychiatric Institute in early 2006 for psychotic depression with a sub-diagnosis of homicidal rage. No further episodes of aggression since being admitted.

  Dr. Armstrong sighed at the history packed into those couple of sentences. Then, like performing his own mental autopsy, he read on.

  For the first three years of his stay, Foster displayed textbook symptoms of a paranoid schizophrenic. Then, in year four, Foster’s mood suddenly changed from delusions and paranoia to almost entirely withdrawing to his room for days speaking to no one.

  During his fifth year, Foster went to full on chicken little as he pleaded with anyone who would listen that the world was in danger. He wouldn’t specify the threat beyond vague references to a sound in the sky that few heard and even less people understood.

  These ramblings continued until the beginning of his sixth year when it suddenly didn’t seem important that anyone believed his fantasies. To him, the truth would eventually come out, and all he needed to do was prepare for the inevitable.

  Finally, for the past year, Foster has slowly become calmer and more focused. Almost eerily focused. If he hadn’t still clung to the idea of the world ending in a couple of days, Dr. Armstrong might have been inclined to think that by some miracle, a healing process had begun. However, he knew this was not the case because Foster still fervently held to his delusions.

  Now, the only thing important to his patient was a date.

  January 3, 2013.

  Near the bottom of the summary was a reminder he had written to himself in longhand. Witten at a time when a glimmer of hope had been brave enough to enter his thoughts. It read:

  The real work begins on the 4th of January.

  Dr. Armstrong smiled at this hopeful thought. Though, he found himself wincing a moment later when his eyes darted to another notation written at the very bottom of the summary page.

  Foster is so convinced of his sanity that I don't think any argument, rational or otherwise, can dissuade him from his path. I don’t think I can fix him. I feel like a failure.

  “You’re right.” He did his best to keep his tone dry and clinical. “You believe the world is going to end on…” he double checked his tablet to make sure a day hadn’t escaped him. Surprisingly, it hadn’t.

  “On January 3rd, 2013. Precisely two days from now.”

  The doctor added sarcastically, trying to get Foster’s attention. “That doesn’t leave you much time.”

  Sitting directly across from Armstrong, Foster Evers sat hunched over in a worn-out white prison robe. Playing with an old Blackberry smartphone, it appeared that he was deliberately ignoring his obvious attempt at interjecting some much unneeded sarcasm. Well, he wasn’t going to let that reaction fester.

  “Foster?” Dr. Armstrong hated how attached he was to that phone. “I believe I asked you a question.”

  Over the last three years, he’d been tempted many times to take it away. Especially when the orderlies would make comments about catching him talking to it late at night. But in a place packed with the criminally insane, such an idiosyncratic habit fell very far down the ladder of concern. In fact, since the device was inoperative, such a thing amounted to little more than an inanimate crutch.

  “Foster?” He prodded his patient once more.

  As usual, Foster failed to respond right away. But a few light chuckles and guffaws escaped from the other patients gathered around them. After all, the committed inmates of Wilson loved a good conspiracy theory. And this group was called: Conspiracy Theories: How They Only Destroy Your World.

  “That date seems very specific, Foster.” He continued to pry away at the issue like a sculptor trying to chip away marble with a butter knife. Only this marble was annoying and hard as hell. “I know I’ve asked you this before, but how did you come up with it?”

  Suddenly, one of the stranger looking patients in Meeting Room 4, a man with the numbers 666 tattooed across his forehead, began screaming at the top of his lungs, “2012, 2012, that’s the date it all comes to an end!”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “It’s already 2013, idiot!” Another patient with a shaved head quickly corrected him in disgust. His hand slightly twitched as he spoke. “I think you’re a bit late on that one, idiot.” Idiot was one of his favorite words, and this group always afforded him ample opportunity to use it.

  Almost on cue, an angry looking man with shoulder-length black hair and a tiny little Hitler mustache named Nick decided it was his turn to join in on the group ribbing. “It’s not like you can go back in time, Foster. That’s impossible. Everyone knows it’s impossible.”

  Sitting right next to Foster, Nick stared unblinkingly at him, a dark look of menace unwavering on his face. This form of intimidation used to bother Foster immensely. But after years of being exposed to Nick’s threatening demeanor, he paid him even less attention than anyone else in the group did, that included Dr. Armstrong.

  On the far curve of the half circle, a patient who usually remained quiet during these sessions seemed to find Nick’s statement personally hurtful. “Time travel is possible,” he whispered slowly with real conviction. “I’m from the past. I am from the future.” Tears streamed from his bloodshot eyes as he yanked at his greasy gray hair. “I am everywhere and nowhere. And we are all up the stream of time without a paddle, Nick. Even you!”

  Nick ignored the comment and continued not to blink at Foster.

  Sensing the group slipping into further mayhem, Armstrong signaled to a rather burly looking orderly named Chet. Chet, a man whose obvious steroid problem made him feared throughout the ward and loved by hot water cycles everywhere, lumbered a couple of steps toward the circle. Instantly, the sight of his approaching massive biceps made the group rethink their outbursts.

  After a couple of tense moments, Armstrong became satisfied order had been restored. He tried to return to reading his notes, but a small red battery icon had begun flashing in the middle of the tablet’s screen warning him that the battery was dying. This thing never stays charged, he thought to himself, as the momentary silence was broken by laughter.

  “Is there something funny, Foster?”

  “Not really,” Foster fumbled with his phone for a second before replying. “It’s just amazing how many crazy people there are in this room.” He looked around to see half the group looking mortified at his observation while the other half nodded in silent agreement. Truthfully, none of them could argue his point. “Beyond amazing.”

  Armstrong stopped fiddling with his tablet long enough to adjust his glasses. The look on Foster’s face was giddy, almost maniacal. “We don’t like to use the term “crazy” in the clinical setting, Foster. You know that.” Armstrong corrected him. “We prefer to use the term ‘emotionally unstable’.”

  “Unstable, huh?” Foster found this statement oddly sad, so his wide grin softened. He looked at Nick, whose eyes were beginning to water from the constant staring. “Sorry man, I guess that human pyramid we were going to build after lunch is out of the question.”

  “Really?” Nick’s body seemed to deflate. “Why?”

  “Because you’re crazy.” Foster looked at the doctor and laughed. “See? No difference at all.”

  “Foster,” Armstrong rolled his eyes and tried to remain calm as the group erupted into a short burst of laughter. He looked sternly at each patient before returning his attention to Foster. “When you live in a glass house, you shouldn’t own a rock collection.”

  “Well?” Again, Foster cried out in laughter while Dr. Armstrong continued to watch him play with the broken phone. “That would entirely depend on the glass.”

  “Of course it would.”

  Over the years, Foster’s odd behavior was so recurrent that he’d almost become numb to it. But for some reason, today’s outburst had begun to unnerve him.

  “Still, excluding widow construction for now, you shouldn’t attack the people trying to help you, Foster.” Again, he glanced down to see the blinking battery icon foreshadow the tablet’s impending death. “Or maybe you just need your medication?”

  Instantly, Foster stopped laughing. “Attack?” his grin slowly became a smirk across his unmedicated face. “That’s close to what I said, I guess. The earth will be attacked in two days.”

  “You still believe that?” Armstrong said.

  “Yes,” he replied in a light, non-committal tone. “At least a slightly modified variation of that. After all, seven years of watching a never-ending rerun of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” can change any person’s perspective on the end of the world. Plus, sanity is in the eye of the beholder. Isn’t it, Doc?”

  Suddenly, Foster’s tone shifted from playful to serious. “You see, in the beginning, the code was a little bit too advanced for me. I’ll concede that now. But I think this time we’ll crack it. You see the genesis of the whole thing…”

  It was at this point in the session when Foster would normally begin to drone on about his usual nonsense of EM levels and binary codes. And like normal, Armstrong just tuned his delusional, yet highly specific scientific musings out. Instead, the doctor wondered why his tablet was always dying in this group. Hadn’t he left the stupid thing charging all morning?

  Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, he noticed that Foster had stopped talking.

  “That’s progress, I guess.” Sliding seamlessly back into their conversation, Armstrong tapped the tablet’s screen again in a desperate attempt to shut it down before the power was completely drained. But with each tap, Foster busted out in another fit of laughter.

  “Thai hookers Doc?” He touched a few of the buttons on his broken phone. Then, as if he were being prompted by some unknown voice in his dead, he said, “lady boys and rubber toys, that’s the golden ticket.”

  With that very odd statement, the group became restless again as Nick finally blinked.

  “Was that a joke, Foster?” The doctor asked a little too nervously.

  “Yes,” Foster stared at him like a man who knew more than he should. “It’s just not my joke.”

  With that cryptic response, the tablet finally gave up its fight. Armstrong took it as a sign for him to end the session ten minutes early. “Excellent progress, everyone, just excellent. Same time next week?”

  The question was rhetorical of course because a group of prisoners constantly under guard by a small army of well-trained security personnel had no real discernible choice in the matter of their routines. They only followed the orders they were given.

  “Foster,” Armstrong signaled for his uncooperative patient to remain behind as the rest of the group silently followed Chet back to their rooms. “You can’t let the past define you.” His highly practiced professionalism gave way to something close to concern. “I’m hoping that once your deadline has passed, we can start making some meaningful changes in your life. Maybe together, we can begin to fix your problems.”

  Foster slipped the defunct phone into his pocket then smiled broadly. Armstrong had sometimes seen this look of sanity before, and it always scared him a little bit.

  “Doc,” Foster folded his arms across his chest. “It’s not the past, but the future that defines me. Two days into the future to be exact. And I expect that future will change my life and the planet in many ways.”

  “The future?” This statement made Dr. Armstrong uneasy. “Then you still think that the world is going to end in two days. You know how disturbed that sounds, don’t you?”

  Of course, Foster was clinically insane. So, maybe he didn’t. In response to the thought, Armstrong gripped his dead tablet a bit tighter.

  “I can see how it would look that way to you, Doc.” The smile on Foster’s face broadened like the sun cresting over a sullen horizon. “But most people’s view of reality is simply wrong. Especially in a place like this. And besides, just because something ends doesn’t mean it will necessarily die.”

  “True,” Armstrong took a long pause to wonder how the smile he once pitied now seemed to annoy him beyond words. “But that’s just your opinion, Foster. And unfortunately, reality doesn’t share it.”

  “You're probably right about that, Doc.” Foster spun around, then quickly bolted from the room. As he retreated, Foster said something which completely unsettled him. “Unfortunately, you’ve just been trying to fix something that isn’t broken.”

  “Fix?” He thought back to his notes and that hand-written phrase at the bottom of Foster Evers’s summary sheet. “I can’t fix him.”

  Bewildered, Armstrong stood there in silence.

  As Foster disappeared, another, more disturbing question forced its way into his ordered mind. How in the hell did he know about the Thai Hookers? Suddenly, Foster’s future didn’t seem to matter at all. What did matter at this moment? The charger buried somewhere under the mess on his desk.

  That, and a powerful need to delete his browsing history.