William Joseph Eddington walked from chaos to tranquility. Be it all but for a moment, the spinning door of the MSB Building in downtown Los Angeles allowed him an opportunity to leave the hubbub of city life and enter a Shangri-La of silence.

He knew calamity would come calling when he stepped into the lobby. Still, the young woman in the vermilion tweed business suit was a welcomed visit.

“Mr. Eddington?”

“Please, call me Bill.” The moment of peace still lingered on his lips. Who was this alluring woman that knew his name? Why couldn’t he remember hers? “And you are?”

“Call me Abigail.”

The ostentatious nature of a middle-aged, socially defunct, divorcee returned. “Well, Ms. Abigail. What can I do you for?”

“I work for the D.O.D.,” she said unaffected. “We are aware that you suffer from bouts of schizophrenia. It is because of your condition that we request your services. In return, we offer you a cure.” Bill took a small orange bottle with a white lid from her hand. “Don’t call us. We’ll call you.”