I, Robot To Protect

year-old black male with morbid obesity, ADHD, oppositional defiant disorder, severe depression, and obsessive- compulsive tendencies, particularly in regard to food.”

The thudding sounds ceased as someone apparently restrained Diesel, but the threats grew louder and more vicious. Susan heard someone say, “Get him into the Self-awareness Room.”

Susan told the group, “He seemed quite normal this morning. I’m not sure what happened to him.”

One of the nurses, a petite blonde, spoke up. “He broke into the med room and plundered the snack cart. Ashlynn confronted him, and he just went crazy.”

Most of the nurses disappeared to the other side of the staffing area to watch through the one-way windows.

Another string of swear words rent the hallway; then came the sound of a large door closing. Silence followed until most of the nurses returned with Stony Lipschitz. Blood covered the front of the R-3’s dress polo, the stethoscope around his neck, and the papers in his pocket.

Bainbridge looked alarmed. “What happened? You didn’t have to hurt him, did you?”

Stony looked himself over. “It’s nasal blood, sir. Apparently, when Diesel gets upset, the blood vessels in his nose burst. The more he fusses, the worse it gets, and he won’t let anyone stop the bleeding until he’s calmed down. In fact, he seems to delight in spreading it as far and wide as possible.” Stony kept his hands away from his body. “Do you mind if I clean up?”

“Please do.” Bainbridge flicked a hand dismissively. “In fact, why don’t we all take a short break?” He looked at his Vox. “We’ll reconvene in an hour, at nine fifteen. Does that work for everyone?”

A tangible wave of relief flooded through the residents as they realized they could continue studying and examining prior to presenting their patients. They scattered in an instant. Susan hesitated, watching a janitor appear to clean up the blood-splattered hallway and the torn hunks of paper scattered in Diesel’s wake. She wondered what had come over him. She could scarcely imagine the stout, quiet little boy becoming a terror in an instant, as though he had swallowed Dr. Jekyll’s potion. She wondered what it must be like to live with a child so volatile, to be his parents or, worse, his younger sibling.

Curious, Susan followed the blood trail to the massive white door reading SELF-AWARENESS ROOM in bold black letters. Two male nurses stood there, one peering through a small but thick polycarbonate window.

“May I see him?” Susan asked.

The nurse stepped aside wordlessly.

Susan leaned into the glass. Diesel stood near the door, bashing his head against the padded walls, leaving smears of blood and snot that betrayed his tears. He wore a T-shirt, cut in the latest triangular-sleeve style, and olive green sweats with the trendy T’chana label and its signature parrots. Short and round, he looked more like a bowling ball than a child, especially bouncing from wall to wall.

“I’m going in,” Susan said, her hand on the knob before anyone could stop her.

“You can’t — ,” one nurse started.

“It’s not allowed,” the other said simultaneously.

Susan pretended not to hear them, turning the handle and opening the door. It was heavy, thicker than she expected, and also covered with padding.

Diesel ignored Susan, banging his head repeatedly against the wall, nose blood splashing in surreal patterns each time he did so.

The door closed behind Susan. She could see one nurse watching them through the window, and she guessed it had less to do with curiosity and more with protocol. The rules, perhaps state or national law, demanded someone placed in isolation be watched every moment. Susan imagined the other nurse running for assistance. In the end, she doubted anyone would bother her. To do so would only agitate Diesel, and the purpose of the Self- awareness Room was to give him a safe place to vent and calm himself.

Susan approached the boy. “Diesel?”

“Leave me alone,” Diesel growled. He stopped banging, grinding his head into the padding.

“Okay.” Susan stepped back, then sat cross-legged on the floor. She retrieved a wad of tissues from her dress pants and laid them in a dense pile beside her. She also had some Slookies, hard sour candies; but she knew better than to offer them to an obese patient on a strict diet.

The blood from Diesel’s nose dripped onto the floor beneath him in a steady patter, no longer squirting. Apparently, he had calmed a bit, at least enough to drop his blood pressure to a more normal level. She took that as a positive sign.

“What do you want?” Diesel said into the padding.

“Nothing.” Susan tried to keep her voice absolutely neutral. She had no idea what might calm Diesel and what might provoke him into another wild tantrum. “What do you want?”

Diesel hesitated. He seemed as uncertain as she about how he felt like behaving next. “Got any tissues?”

“Right here.” Susan patted the floor beside the piled tissues. “Come join me.”

Diesel turned slowly, studying the situation as if he expected her to leap up and net him. Finally, he came over, picked up the tissues, and clamped them to his nose. Tears and blood streaked every part of his face.

Susan’s training rushed to the fore. She should be wearing a gown and gloves and staying as far as possible from a biohazardous patient. It helped that she knew from his chart he did not carry hepatitis, HIV, or CIV; and she was legally vaccinated against everything contagious and known to science. “Sit,” she said, not expecting him to obey. “Please.”

To her surprise, Diesel sat. He kept the tissues clamped to his face with one hand, the other flat on the floor. He also sat cross-legged.

For several moments, they sat quietly on the floor together, neither saying a word. Susan kept her gaze from the window. Whether or not Diesel knew they were being watched, he did not need to be reminded of it. She let him speak first, knowing instinctively anything she said would only inflame him. Through the years, he had faced the inquisition whenever he acted in an irrational manner: “Why did you do this? Are you insane? What were you thinking?” She wondered what he might say if he had the opportunity to get in the first word.

“I’m a monster,” Diesel said softly. “I hate myself, and I want to die.”

And there’s the depression part. Susan wished she had had more training. Her immediate thought was to disabuse him of such a terrible notion, to assure him he was a sweet boy with a problem, not a monster, that killing himself would only create more problems for all the many people who loved him. But she was sure he had heard it all before, and anything she said in this vein would only shut down a conversation that had just begun, one she suspected had the possibility of yielding important information. “Why do you say such a thing?”

“Because I am. And I do.” Diesel hid behind the wad of tissue, not bothering to look at Susan.

That was useful. Now, Susan worried she had not only shut down the conversation, she had also left him believing she thought him a monster who ought to kill himself. What made me think I could handle this? Susan tried again. “Tell me more. What kind of monster are you?”

Diesel rolled an eye in Susan’s general direction. “I’m a food-hogging monster. If I could, I’d eat Tokyo.”

Susan could not help laughing. “What part of Tokyo?”

Diesel slipped into baby talk. “All of it. Da cakes. Da pies. Da can-dee.” He paused. “Da bui-dings, da people, da can-dee.”

“You said ‘candy’ twice.”

Diesel managed a smile around the tissues. “That’s my favorite.”

Susan could not resist. She slipped a Slookie into his hand and whispered conspiratorially, “Careful how you put that in your mouth. And don’t tell anyone I gave it to you.”

Apparently, Diesel did know about the nurse observing because he peeked sideways at the object, then made a casual motion of moving the tissues and sneaking it into his mouth. “I’m hungry all the time, Dr. Susan. I’m hungry right after dinner. I’m hungry in my sleep. I’m hungry while I’m still eating.”

Susan thought of all the psychiatry she knew about hunger. Most believed it a substitute for something missing, usually love. Nothing in Diesel’s chart suggested inadequate parenting. He had a married mother and father, at least one of whom visited him at every opportunity. They had cooperated in every way with his therapy. They had two other children, an older boy and a younger girl, who seemed normal in every way. From his dress and