Professor Layton and the Devastating Withdrawals

It was another bright and cheery morning at the quaint mental health institution in London. Professor Hershel Layton had a vague, but distinct, impression that today's yet-to-be-had adventures held the great promise of something marvelous.

At breakfast, Professor Layton noticed his baked beans were arranged in an odd pattern on his toast. "Ah!" he said. "This reminds me of a puzzle! If a British bean begins crossing the piece of toast at eight o'clock in the morning, and an American bean began crossing the piece of toast at the same time in its own Eastern time zone, by what time will they..."

He wasn't talking to anyone in particular, though there seemed in him some faint, desperate hope that one of his tablemates would answer. But this morning, much like every morning, he was met with bleak stares from everyone—with one exception, of course.

"AMERICANS DON'T EVEN EAT BEANS ON TOAST FOR BREAKFAST!" His self-proclaimed nemesis Jean Descole hit him over the head with a broom.

The staff rushed in immediately to confiscate the broom from Descole, but it was too late—Layton had already received a right nasty crack on the head.

"What time will they..." he muttered dizzily. "But Americans... I didn't even account for daylight savings..."

Suddenly, for one horrifying second, he could not remember how the puzzle went. He put his head in his arms and began to cry.

At group therapy, Professor Layton noticed that the circle of chairs had a slight gap in it. "Ah!" he said. "This reminds me of a puzzle! If we were to give every third person in the circle a balloon, but counting the gap as a person, and skipping everyone with blue eyes, and adding a new round of balloons every time we get to someone with ear piercings, how many balloons..."

"AND WHERE ARE ALL THOSE BALLOONS GOING TO COME FROM?" The masked terror Jean Descole swept in through the door, his cape billowing dramatically behind him. "ARE YOU FOOTING THE BILL, LAYTON? DO YOU HAVE THE BUDGET FOR THAT?" He came at Professor Layton with a broom held aloft.

The staff got to Descole before he could hit Layton this time, frantically questioning how he'd obtained another broom, and how he'd heard Layton talking despite being in a completely different group therapy session down the hall. But the damage had been done—Layton began to question himself yet again, in great distress.

"It... it was purely hypothetical," he said. "It was to challenge your minds... isn't that what a true gentleman does?"

But as his fellow patients stared back at him blankly, for another horrifying second he saw the world through the eyes of those who did not want to challenge their minds and did not want to be true gentlemen. A world without puzzles—it stretched before him in a dark, cold void of meaningless eternity. Professor Layton began to scream.

"I think you need some time to yourself," the psychiatrist told him. "I know just the thing—an empty room with white walls. That won't remind you of any puzzles."

Off they went. The room was indeed empty and painted only in white. The psychiatrist told Professor Layton he might feel better if he stayed there for a while.

"But look, Doctor," said Professor Layton. "The meaningless nothingness..."

"Yes, Professor?"

"It reminds me of a puzzle..."

"Professor, please. Don't you see the pain you cause yourself? Your puzzling days are over, but there's more to your life—you're more than the puzzles."

The Professor was silent. He did not understand. He did not want to understand.

The psychiatrist left him alone. In the white void of the empty room, he began to speak quietly to himself.

"If one small wall takes half a gallon of white paint, and the large walls perpendicular to the small walls are twice as big, how much—"

"SHUT UP! SHUT! UP!" Jean Descole's furious voice boomed from the other side of the wall, accompanied by a loud pounding and the swishing of a broom brush as it hit the wall.

As he clambered into his bed that night, Professor Layton felt defeated. Another day gone by, and he was still no closer to understanding how to stop his addiction to puzzles. Or why he needed to. Or whether he truly must. Which of those was the question he should really be asking?

That, he supposed as he dropped off to sleep, was the greatest puzzle of all.