When you call his mother, give yourself time. A half hour, at least. Give up on the idea of beating rush hour traffic home. Swipe your badge and enter through the doors of the inpatient psychiatry unit, the one with the conference room you know will be empty at 4:00 p.m. Settle into the sparse room with its echoes and afternoon sun at a low September angle. See the light descending toward the parking structure, casting sharp lines through the metal blinds and a glare on your computer screen.

…

When you call his mother, describe the day’s events. Her son asked for a liver transplant to get rid of the foreign tracking device that’s been plaguing him. He believes he is a spy and is targeted by foreign governments. At least he’s talking to staff. Perhaps a bit less paranoid. He’s getting along with the other patients.

Read more in Cleaver Magazine.