Fifel had, what his mother described, as a sensitive heart. The sort of excuse a parent gave when their child didn’t have too many friends and tended to avoid sports. The only brag-worthy quality he could offer his parents was his grades and excellence in math, but in comparison to a linebacker, winning the Gramdale’s Math-a-thon Award for the third time hardly got you any pats on the back at the bar. Still, it was better than having a drug addict or an underachiever for a son, and for that reason, Fifel skated by. Math saved him, and numbers were the only true area he could excel in.

While he felt this was a good sense of a crisp, logical mind, he worried. Had worried, as his parents once had worried when he was young. Before then, telling your mother or father about monsters was adorable and one of those chuckle-worthy situations that put a smile to their face. It was adorable, but something that had to be cleared. There was no such thing as monsters, ghost, and other shapeless forms that he had no name for. The last type were the ones that bothered him the most. The unknowns. The variables that he couldn’t quite figure out.

As the years progressed, what was adorable was a nuisance, and a food had to put down many a time to bring him to attention. This was a fact of life. A rule. Monster and reality (Monster + Reality) was never to be put in the same equation. Because this was a rule he learned early on, as solid as 1 + 1 = 2, he filed it away. However, there was a situation that they arose. In the dark, either alone or lingering behind a study group, he’d see them. The unknowns. The variables (x = ???) that had no name, sometimes no face, no record or set rules. They’d melt into walls, fizzle in the light, linger in the shadows and dart before a friend would notice he had stopped, look down whatever corridor he was fixated on, and set a concerned hand on his shoulder.

Fifel was weird. He head it once or twice, and like the rules before, set another one in his book. Looking at strange figures made you strange. You were something people couldn’t figure out, and if that happened, they looked at you like he looked at those variables. The X’s. The X’s, Y’s, and numbers that had just needed to fit in some place to figure out. Not animal. Not human. Never sure. He tried using clues to venture a guess, but math wasn’t about guessing. You used what was in the equation, but he never had a solution. He was missing something.

It frustrated him to no end, and like any question, he asked a professor.

And that professor handed him to a professional.

To sit at a psychiatrist office was saying that while you were bright, you were wrong. You had figured life out incorrectly. Somehow your version of 1 + 1 = 2 wasn’t really coming out as 2, but 13 or 56. You sucked at figuring out life. This certainly did not bode well with his parents, because bright was grand, but add mental problems to the equation and you could equal out to be a serial killer or some delinquent who ate pigeons.

But since his mind was flawed, he offered up what he knew.

Sitting in Mr. Richardson’s office, he calmly, what he hoped was rationally, explained what he saw, but then he failed. How did you talk about a variable when you didn’t know what it was?

“They…these….other things, are sometimes lurking about. No one else can see them, and I don’t see them all the time.”

“They? Can you describe them?” His voice wasn’t mocking him, but seemed just curious and wanting to know what they were talking about. An easy conversation with a person who was experienced in it.

“I can’t. They’re not all the same. Some are small, some are big, some look….odd. None are the same.” Y’s. X’s. A’s. B’s. Endless numbers that added to nothing.

“Fifel. I’d like you to keep a notebook, and when you see these things, I want you to write where, what they look like, and anything else you want to add. Keep a record. Can you do that for me?” He asked, to which Fifel nodded.

His parents were hopeful, but knew better than anything to keep this hushed. From that point on, he kept a notebook. At first, he tried describing them, but he came up blank. His skill wasn’t in words. His sister was better set on that. They were nothings, and his entires started out horribly.

After five pages ( a nice number ), outside of a Sapphire Saturday’s, he noticed a pair of x’s by a set of cars. He waited for his parents to pass by before slipping out the notebook in haste. They hated seeing him bring it out, and always looked concerned, glancing around. They never saw anything.

HE wrote quickly. Friday: 8:23 pm. Parking lot. Dark. Just ate dinner. 3 x’s. He paused at the number, feeling a strange relief. Quickly, he shuffled the notebook back in and caught up. On the ride home, he went through his entry. Time. Place. Number.

He was unaware that he hadn’t really counted how many there were before, but now that he did, things felt better. Whatever they were, there was 3 of them. 3 he could work with. 3. Odd. 6, 9, 12. 3 sets of 1.

His entries continued with more ease, and he designed a number for types. Friday: 2:43 pm. Walking home. East 4th street. 2 Y’s. 1 pair. 2. Even. 2, 4, 6, 8, 10.

Tuesday: 12:51am. Pearl Blvd. Walking Rufflin. 4 Z’s. 2 pairs.

The numbers eased him like nothing had before, and soon the somethings had a place. If they could be counted, they could possibly work in this world. Yet still…….they were somethings, and he still was unable to shake of the unease.

His visits with his doctor continued, proving no real progress but allowing an outlet. They talked. Traumatic histories = 0. Childhood repressed memories = 0. Recent fears or withdrawn urges = 0. Mr. Richardson continued, keeping his record as Fifel kept his, both providing no real meaning. No sum of collected data that mattered to anything.

He waited in his seat. 4 legs. 1 of 3 chairs including the one Mr. Richardson sat. He liked when the seat was occupied. 2 people. 1 pair. There was a sense of unity and completion in pairs.


But when the door opened, it was someone else. A stranger who, upon closing the door smiled. 1. Fifel hated 1. 1 was alone. It was hard to work with and didn’t any pairs or system that was known. Odd number. Starting off. Single. Small. Loner. Fifel was a 1 and this person was a 1, because he could feel they were not the same.

“I’ve been looking over your papers.” The stranger said, moving to slid into Mr. Richardson’s chair.

“Are you working with Mr. Richardson?” Fifel asked, looking to the door and wondering where his doctor was at. He didn’t like strangers, and now felt uneasy. At least if Mr. Richardson was here, they’d make a pair. 2 + 1.

“No. I don’t work for anyone here.” That alone set Fifel on edge. Why was he looking at his papers then? Concerned, he started to rise but Mr. Single gestured for him to sit. Strangely, he did.

“I have an offer for you. You seem to have a lot of questions about your visions. Well, I have an answer.”

The last word alone gripped him. Answer. A solution to an equation. A long equation that spanned over year.

“An answer? Do you know why I’m seeing things? Can you make them go away?”

Mr. Single leaned back, assessing the worn leather of the chair as if appraising if he wanted to take it with him or not. Not bothering to look up from squeezing on the arms, he smiled. “I can, but so can you. You can make them go away, and if you come with me, I can show you how.”

“Where are we going?” It wasn’t smart to go to some unknown place. Some unknown number of miles. Mr. Single with his unknowns bothered him greatly, but the answer was held in his hands.

“A place far from here and from everything, but where you can get your answers and where you can take away those troublesome pests you see.” The Leather squeaked as Mr. Single leaned back and turned back and forth on the chair, swiveling as he waited or an answer.

The teenager watched his digital watch tick by, watching the numbers as he processed the decision. How many years he would live divided by how many of those would be miserable counting unknowns till the final conclusion of his life would remain wondering about these accumulating number of unknowns. He wanted the world back in order, and he would never solve that without the answer.

Mr. Single rose from his seat. “I’ll leave you to think about it. I’ll come back at your next appointment. Mr. Richardson should be in soon.” Before Fifel could say anything, Mr. Single was gone with his answer.

The clock ticked, and soon the door opened again. His psychiatrist looking happy as he walked in. “Sorry I’m late. The elevator was stuck.” He moved over to sit in his seat, nothing Fifel’s expression.

“Is everything okay?” The teenager said nothing. “Fifel, did something upset you?”

“No. I think….I just found an answer.”

Surrpised, the older man went to look for his notebook. “…and what did you find out?”

Looking away from his watch, he caught his doctor’s gaze. “…I’ll tell you next week.”