The doctor leaned back on his counter, folded his arms and an air of smugness wafted from him.

“It's a great way to visualize one's patients, don't you agree?” Dr. I added and gave his goatee a few pets over.

Hugh found a chair opposite of the doctor and sat down. He wasn't sure if wanted to scream in horror at the image the doctor presented to him or laugh at the absurdity of the doctor's confidence in such a framework for understanding his patients.

“To be honest, I don't really like it.” Hugh started, wanting to both challenge Dr. I's framework and to cease the doctor’s over compulsion for touching his beard when expecting a response from Hugh. “It brings up a lot of strange questions. These chicks of yours on the conveyor belt, where are they going in the first place? I just have this mental imagery of them being sent off to be pounded into chicken nuggets. On top of that, what happens to the ones you pull from the conveyer belt? Will they be rehabilitated and then chucked right back to their doomed future of becoming chicken nuggets? Seems like it's better to be pulled off the conveyer belt during your inspection, for it gives the baby chick a few more moments of non-nugget existence.” Hugh leaned forward in the chair, rested his elbows on his thighs and continued his train of thought. “Furthermore, I really don't like to think of myself as this baby chick, which you describe. It sounds as if I am caught up in a giant machine within an even larger factory that cares not for me as an individual but only insofar as I pass a test and become something that can be useful, sold, and bought. It makes me think that your metaphor for your patients is more so a metaphor for life, that we are all destined to die within a larger system and become metaphorical chicken nuggets. I don't think that I'm this metaphorical baby chick or future metaphorical nugget. Neither do I think that people are like this. Frankly speaking Doctor, this framework of yours is a bit jarring.”

Dr. I pushed himself away from the counter, collected his clipboard with notes and approached Hugh. No signs of offense or anger were present on his face, unlike Hugh's previous interaction with Dr. Carni. Dr. I's eyebrows and mouth seemed to obey the commands of the brain.

“Well, Mr. Mechta, I like my metaphor. It's simple, elegant, and concise. I find it to be akin to Newton's laws of gravity or Heidegger's writings on existentialism.”

“I think we should move onto why I came here today.” Hugh said, not wanting to debate the topics of physics, philosophy, and baby chicks. “Before we start, do you need to take my biometrics, like my height?”

“Your height?” The doctor laughed. “Are you expecting a growth spurt sometime soon, Mr. Mechta?”

“Nope, I have fortunately passed that stage of my life.” Hugh gave the doctor a smile, restraining himself from taking a detour in their conversation and detailing his experience with Dr. I.

“Then I believe we can just skip right to the reason you are visiting today.” Dr. I said.

Hugh took a deep breath and got right to the point.

“I have hallucinations. Believe it or not, they are triggered only when I come in contact with the news. When people are speaking about the news they turn into fantastical creatures and beasts. When I hold a newspaper the ink drips with poison, seeps onto my hands and sears my skin. Dogs start to talk, the sun becomes sentient, and the world around blends into an unreality.”

Hugh sat back in his chair and was surprised at how easy it was to speak about his hallucinations.

Hugh decided to continue with his monologue.

“Even though my hallucinations and reality overlap with one another, I'm able to distinguish what is and what is not fiction. If a cat stands up on his two legs, pulls out a soap box, leaps onto it, waves around a crusty old walking stick and starts to criticize the news on how they are fear mongers, I have no doubt that this cat is a projection of my mind.”

“Mr. Mechta, if I'm correct, you haven't spoken to anyone about this before.” Dr. I said after half a minute of silence and contemplative mustache rubbing. “Why have you decided now, of all times, to seek professional assessment?”

Hugh wrinkled up his nose and traced his finger across the bridge. His nose was a tad crooked, but he had never seen that as a flaw. It was a part of him and made him who he was. The hallucinations, on the other hand, Hugh found harder to not view as flaws because everyone had a nose, but not everyone had hallucinations.

With that thought in mind, Hugh proceeded to answer the doctor's question.

“I've chosen to speak to someone about this because I have a burning desire to know why this is happening. Is there something fundamentally wrong with me? I don't mean neurologically, but as a person, as a member of society. Am I a broken baby chick or does my curious condition reveal something special about me?”

Hugh was confused about his emotions. He wasn't sure if he felt proud and strong for speaking about his inner self. He felt that he had spoken about it confidently. On the other hand, he also felt vulnerable for exposing himself. So, should he feel confident, vulnerable, a concoction of both? Or something else altogether?

Hugh brought his hands to his face and rubbed where a mustache and goatee would have been if he had ever decided to grow one. He knew that he'd have to wait for the doctor's response to get a better sense of how he should feel about what he had just said.

And wait Hugh did, because the doctor spent about five minutes rubbing, massaging, caressing, and twirling his facial hair in silence. Every time Hugh opened his mouth to speak the doctor held up his hand, signaling Hugh to remain silent and not to break his train of thought. It seemed like the doctor was processing all the information that Hugh provided him with and was waiting to download a response from some external server that would tell him how to respond.

The doctor's answer was not one that Hugh expected, and evoked disappointment more than anything else.

“Mr. Mechta,” Dr. I said with a deep exhale, “I find you to remarkable baby chick. With that said, I cannot help you personally, but I can pluck you off the conveyer belt and ship you off to someone who can. I'll jot down some contacts, who specialize in neurology, and you can schedule an appointment with them.”

The doctor wrote down his mentioned contacts and tore out the sheet of paper from his clipboard.

“Doctor, I know that there are different medical specializations, and you may not specialize in people who have hallucinations, but can you give me some feedback based on your own medical training?” Hugh asked, glad that Dr. I could refer him to some other specialists, but still wanting the doctor’s take because he was the first-person Hugh had opened up to about his hallucinations. “Other than me being a ‘remarkable baby chick.’”

“No. I cannot.” Dr. I said curtly as he folded up the paper and passed it to Hugh.

Hugh tucked the paper away into his breast pocket and gave it a reassuring tap even though he knew there was no way it could fall out.

“That seems to conclude our appointment Mr. Mechta.” Dr. I said. Hugh half expected him to starting playing with facial hair again, but he didn't. All he did was give a shrug. “My next patient won't be here for a while, maybe you would like to stay a little longer? We can chat more about my vacation if you'd like.”

Hugh stood straight up from his chair, eager not to fall into the trap of a one-sided conversation, and fumbled out a fib that needed to care for his niece and tend to his garden.

Dr. I brushed his goatee and gave Hugh a dubious look that said that he hadn't believed one word about the niece nor the garden. Not wanting to test to what extent the doctor had believed him, Hugh expressed his thanks for the list of references and hurried out of the room before Dr. I's hand could transition back to mustache twirling.