DOCTOR ELLIOT'S MYSTERY

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Mind if I take a quick philosophical detour, Ethan, before tackling your question?"

Ethan shrugged.

"Go for it—make it a long one if you want. I'm into philosophy."

"Really?"

Doctor Elliot's eyes lit up.

"That's not in your file. Though it does mention you're a bit… unique for your age."

"I'm not some kid, Doc. I'm sixteen," Ethan snapped.

"My apologies! It's my old-man brain at work. To me, fourteen, seventeen—it's all the same blur."

"Yeah, I get it," Ethan cut in again. "Can we skip the age lecture? I'm plenty sharp, and I'm not the only one who thinks so."

Doctor Elliot let out a tired sigh.

"Fair enough. No more age talk. But if we're playing at this level, no kid gloves either. Hang on—I'll grab some coffee. Cappuccino sound good?"

Ethan gave a nod. Doctor Elliot disappeared behind the door to his duty room. Kitchen, Ethan figured, catching the hum of a coffee machine—gears whirring, water steaming through fresh grounds.

A few minutes later, Elliot returned balancing a tray: two steaming cups, a couple of chocolate bars, and some glossy-wrapped cookies.

"Sugar's a must," he said with a grin. "Keeps the brain firing. Did you know your neurons run on glucose? Sugar's basically their fast food—other cells can handle fats, but not those picky little brain cells."

Ethan didn't bite. He'd read about glucose before. He was holding out for something more interesting. Elliot took a sip of his coffee and launched into a quirky question-and-answer session, pulling Ethan into a deep, winding philosophical chat.

"Let's kick off with a heavy hitter: What's the most important thing in the universe, Ethan?"

"Uh… humans?" Ethan offered, hesitating.

"Pfft, how full of ourselves! Why humans? You think we're the only smart ones out there? That's a stretch."

"You don't?" Ethan shot back.

"Not a chance. The universe is buzzing with life—smart, dumb, you name it. But I'll give you a pass… kinda. A conscious observer? That's the key. Without someone to notice it, the universe is just… nothing."

"How's that work?"

"Simple, Ethan. If no one's around to see it, does it even count? Until life wakes up and looks around, the universe is invisible. It needs that spark of awareness to be real."

"That's a weird take."

"Only until you chew on it."

Elliot ripped open a cookie packet and crunched into the chocolate-filled goodness.

"Grab a chocolate—don't hold back."

Ethan followed suit, taking a bite.

"Okay, since observers matter so much, next up: How old's the universe?"

"Easy. 14 billion years. Something about quasars zooming away, right?"

"Nope, that's a fairy tale. The Big Bang's been the big story since World War II—blame a monk named Lemaître and that Hubble guy with his telescope. Me? I say the universe has no start date. It's eternal. Logic 101: nothing comes from nothing. It's always been, or it's zilch."

"I can buy eternal, but why are you so sold on alien 'brainiacs'?"

Elliot chuckled, cradling his coffee.

"Picture this, Ethan: you're on a foggy beach, weather's awful, can't see past half a mile. No fish in sight, but they're out there—tons of them, swimming deep. You stand there an hour, one fish jumps. Do you figure that's the only fish in the sea?"

Ethan nodded, catching on.

"The sea's the universe. Fish are the smart life."

"Exactly! Life's everywhere out there—can't avoid it. And brains? Just the next step up."

"Fine, I'll roll with that. But what's this got to do with us?"

"Everything. If the universe goes on forever, eventually a Super observer pops up—someone with wild powers. It's got no choice; it's baked into the system."

Ethan squinted, half-hiding behind his cup. "You talking about God?"

Elliot slammed his coffee down hard enough to crack it.

"Hell no! God's the guy making universes from scratch—pure nonsense. A Super observer's got god-level tricks but didn't build the place. He's a product, not the architect."

"So… could we reach this Super observer? Ask for something wild?"

Ethan felt a chill, the idea sinking in. A mind like that could pull off anything, he thought.

"I see that spark in your eye," Elliot said. "Here's the kicker: this isn't my theory. I stumbled on it online—a nut job's website. Said if you ace his quiz, he'd grant any wish through some 'Super controller.' Total scam, obviously… except it's already taken lives."

Elliot's voice trailed off, heavy with thought.

"That creep hooked our patients. Back then, we let them have free rein with gadgets—phones, tablets, whatever. He dangled their dream worlds in front of them—anime stuff, fantasy lands. They told me about this 'hilarious' guy, and I figured I'd shut it down. Piece of cake, right?"

He sighed deeply.

"They dragged me to a computer. I typed into his chat, took his dumb test, scored 93%. He said my wish was good to go. Smirking at the kids, I asked for 10 million euros in my account by morning."

Elliot's face tightened, the memory sour.

"And?"

"It showed up. Next day, right on cue."

"What?!"

Ethan gaped, coffee in one hand, chocolate in the other, frozen in shock.

"Yeah," Elliot said. "Some bored Dubai sheikhs and their betting games—losers wire cash to random accounts. More fun when you're so rich it's not about winning, just wasting it on crazy bets. Could've asked for a billion, maybe. 93% wasn't the max score, he said. Imagine me facing the kids after that. But the real mess came later.

"That night, we huddled around the computer again. The guy had 'office hours' for his little game—no clue why. My credibility was tanking; I had to explain it somehow. What kind of shrink am I if they don't trust me? Then Reinhardt—a patient from six months back—stepped up. Short kid, wild red hair, sharp like you. He'd found the site by fluke. Took the test, hit 94% with my help. I told him, 'Go big—10 billion, 100, bust this fraud wide open.' Felt stupid saying it—a scammer who delivers millions? Insane. But Reinhardt wanted his own wish."

Ethan, hooked, nodded. "I can guess."

"Yep, same vibe as yours. He was nuts for Tolkien—hobbits, elves, the whole deal. 'Tolkien-mad,' we called him. That's why he landed here. Not just anime fans end up with us—any fantasy obsession can tip you over. He typed it out: wanted to live in Middle-earth, be a warrior-mage, no shame, right there with us watching. The kids laughed; I grinned. Then the site hit back: 'Wish approved, closest possible universe—but there's a catch.'"

Ethan shivered despite the stuffy room. "What catch?"

"Jump to your death. Said you've got to 'erase' yourself here, time it perfectly when this Super controller lines up the universes. Gave exact coordinates and a countdown—GPS-friendly. Emailed it to Reinhardt."

Ethan swallowed hard. "How many?"

"Rene made five."

"Police?"

Elliot snorted bitterly. "Good luck. Guy's overseas, a tech ghost—proxies in Iran, they think. Legally, it's just suicide; he's not pulling triggers. Like suing a movie for inspiring dumb stunts. We got the site axed after the third jumper, but the damage stuck."

"Why, if it's gone?"

"Too late—some had their 'instructions.' Rene got his by email on an e-reader."

Elliot's fist hit the table.

"The money—what did you do with it?"

"Sent it back."

"Why?" Ethan blinked, confused.

"Why keep it? Thirty-one years as a doctor, decent pay, half a million saved—I don't need some sheikh's pocket change. It stung, though, and not for the cash."

"Stung how?"

"That's where I stop, Ethan. You've got the story. Back to your room. Might be our last chat."