“What do you mean you can’t stay in your apartment anymore?” Michael said over the phone.

“I just can’t.” I paused to take a deep breath, attempting to slow down my exploding heart rate.

The full-blown hallucination I’d previously experienced in my apartment had catapulted me to a new level of hysteria. After a six-foot-tall goat-demon with the voice of Anthony Hopkins tells you to get psychiatric help, there’s little else to do but take his advice.

“You sound crazy, Sam,” Michael said with a tinge of disappointment.

“I know,” I said in stale tone.

“Come spend the night at my place. We’ll figure something out in the morning,” Michael replied.

I made it to Michael’s with such fear-driven quickness that when I arrived at his door, it felt as if I’d simply teleported there.

The first thing Michael did when he opened the door was put his index finger to his lips, signifying silence. “Alvin just got to sleep,” he half-whispered, half mouthed to me. I nodded and walked inside.

We walked past the wooden staircase of his brownstone and through a small corridor that led to the kitchen. We sat down at his circular dining table that was still cluttered with the miscellaneous mess that I remembered from last time.

“What happened?” he whispered.

“I’m not getting into it,” I said.

“Do you think Dr. Wright can help?” Michael asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Do you think anyone can help?” Michael replied.

“I’ll have to go back to the Wright Clinic. I’ll have to just be honest with her,” I said, as if it were a punishment.

“Him,” Michael commented.

“What?”

“You said her,” Michael continued. “It sounded like a man when I called.”

“Maybe more than one doctor works there. That’s how Dad’s practice was.”

“Maybe there’s two Dr. Wrights,” Michael shrugged. “You know, like a husband and wife running the same practice.”

Before I could respond, Michael started laughing. “You know what’s funny? The voice on the phone when I called sounded like dad’s old partner, Terrence. British guy, you remember?”

“Yeah,” I smiled. “He was the guy who gave you that Principles of Business textbook when you said you wanted to start your own company.”

“I was like seven years old,” Michael said, laughing.

I smiled, trying to lighten up.

By morning, I’d made up my mind. I was determined to go to Dr. Wright and tell her everything from the hallucinations, to the stress, to the insomnia. It wasn’t about getting sleep or getting a job anymore; it was about staying sane. I needed answers, and there was only one way to get them.

I had to be honest with Dr. Wright. It was time to face the music.