"You want me to help," said the doctor, using his professionally schooled style of repeating the obvious.

"Yeah. I'm lost."

The doctor relaxed in his chair. This was too easy. "Feelings of isolation are common."

"No, I mean LOST lost. I lost my herd."

"You've lost your herd," said the doctor, nodding in a fatherly way.

"I'm a zebra." The man stopped pacing and turned his head to scan the horizon.

"Hmmm," said the Doctor. This was another skillfully developed method of sounding encouraging but not really saying anything. After all, the patient may be unable to afford a lifetime of costly therapy and expensive medications. "How long have you been a zebra?"

"I was born a zebra."

"You're not a zebra."

"I have stripes," insisted the man. He shook his head side to side. "I have a mane."

The doctor contemplated the ethics of aiding a person of unknown financial worth, and boldly chose to risk a few more words.

"Please. Help me help you." The doctor paused, relishing the clever turn of phrase. "What has driven you to escape reality?"

"That's it! I want to escape."

"Excellent," responded the doctor. Damn, he loved the way he said the word.

"Let's explore this," he continued. "Why did you come to me for help?"

The doctor had been briefly distracted by how to exploit this patient into a best selling book, television appearances (him, not the zebra man), and lots and lots of money.

"Remember? I'm a zebra. Are you going to help me find my herd or not?"

"I can only help you if you want to be helped," said the doctor.

The man stepped out of the office and sniffed, searching the air for a scent.

The doctor imagined his book and television appearances and lots of money walking away.

"Don't go. I'm certain after painfully protracted and expensive therapy we..."

"You're no help. I'm leaving!"

"You are NOT a zebra."

The man trotted out of the office and glanced side to side to scan the African plain. That was when the lion leapt with a roar from the potted plant, dragged him down and ripped open his throat.