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Dr Carr had chaired the morning staff meeting, rolling on through the summary of news everyone needed to know and broaching the latest ministerial economist-driven medical misstep with the staff. He’d been glad he could assure everyone that it was still only an opposed proposal. The meeting over, it was time to see actual patients. In the corridor outside the conference room, he said to Dr Adesina, “I notice you continued Miss Filomen’s antipsychotic as a standalone medication.”

“I believe it’s in her best interests, sir.” The younger doctor dropped into step beside his clinical supervisor.

“You’re probably right. Policy rarely deals well with peculiar circumstances,” the older man acknowledged. “Did you find out any more about her condition?”

“The only Watford I could find who might be relevant is Professor August Watford who was at the University of Westerbridge, before he was sacked for unethical experimentation on students. He’s currently in custody, although it’s not clear if he’s in a high security prison or a psychiatric facility. Miss Filomen was at Westerbridge.”

“Not iatrogenic then. Rather worse.”

“Yes sir.”

“And now her blood tests show that the rest of that obscure little cocktail is out of her system, it’s time to review her.” Dr Carr stated as he opened the door to Aristaney Filomen’s room.

Once inside, with the door closed behind them, both men looked around, surprised not to see the occupant but noting as encouraging the room’s cleanliness and tidiness. “Perhaps she’s in the bathroom,” Dr Adesina was offering when suddenly, in a silent rush they felt rather than saw, she was behind them. One arm was across the door as if to bar them from it.

“Oh good,” Aristaney extended the retractable nails, no, retractable claws on the hand splayed on the door, “I’ve been waiting to talk to you two.”

Aristaney had reported for her mandated check-up but instead of Dr Marcos, she was facing a new government doctor. “I’m surprised to see that your medication has an addictive component,” Dr Carr, an older, fair-skinned man, sounded more like he was thinking aloud than that he wanted an answer.

“Well, yes,” Aristaney replied anyway. “They’re my suppression meds, people really wants me to keep taking them, forever.”

“Suppression theory is bunkum,” he snorted. “We’ll get you off those, find out what’s really wrong with you and get you some proper treatment. You’ll have to stay here in the detox ward, of course.”

He jotted a few notes and was turning to his dark-skinned assistant when Aristaney said desperately, “What’s wrong with me is Watford Syndrome. Call Dr Marcos, call the Public Health Control Desk with my case number, but don’t take me off my meds!”

Dr Carr sighed. “Dr Marcos is dead, a car crash and a great tragedy, and I don’t think I need to bother the Control Desk for an addict pleading for her drug.”

The assistant asked, “Excuse me, what’s Watford Syndrome? I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s what that bastard, Watford, gave me – I didn’t want it named after me. Also, I’m not pleading for my meds, I’m warning you. Don’t take me off the medication.”