2 June 2027
Wednesday. A new patient arrived in the Northbridge cell yesterday, uninvited, with a reading chair and a blanket. He says he is management. They all say that.
Presenting complaint: cold. He claims the padded cell is the warmest room in the building, which is true, and that he is only here for the insulation, which is what every patient tells themselves at first.
I have opened a file. Wears a top hat indoors. Refers to coffins with affection. Becomes agitated when the word “cosy” is used. Insists he is not a patient. I have added a question mark after “management” and underlined it twice.
A note for my real patients, since it is the season for staying in: my cell is snug, and that is not for everybody. Confined corners, long dark stretches, crawling. Anybody who finds small spaces hard should choose another room. And I am sorry to say the cell cannot take a wheelchair at all; the front desk will happily suggest a practice down the hall that can.
The gentleman has fallen asleep in his chair. I have lowered the lights. Therapy can begin in the morning.
— Your Therapist
