This isn't weird.

The Messenger

The consultation was scheduled for the early afternoon. They rode together in Indigo's car. For Ben, the drive was long, anxious, and awkward in its silence, but he greatly appreciated that Indigo didn't try to pass the time with small talk. This was just something to get over with. He half hoped that he wouldn't actually qualify for treatment. At least then he wouldn't be disappointed if it didn't work, and he wouldn't have to swallow his pride to accept Indigo's exorbitant offer of charity.

Either way, he was none too eager to discuss it, so the lack of conversation suited him just fine. Even as they arrived, Indigo didn't say a word as he parked the car and stepped out.

Ben had expected the place to look like a hospital, cold and sterile, but this was something else entirely. The building looked closer to a resort, a lavish, palatial, tuscan style villa with elegant arched doorways, tall windows and sloping terracotta roofs. It was surrounded by luxuriously manicured grounds, full of lush greenery and flowering trees, and at the center of the courtyard was a towering, white marble fountain, graceful cascades of water flowing down over its four tiers and into a crystalline pool at its base.

"This can't be the right place," Ben said, but Indigo didn't reply, and continued his purposeful stroll to the entrance. It was a struggle for Ben to keep up. He had refused, up to this point, to use the crutches he had been given at the urgent care center when they stitched up his foot. He regretted his pride now; the lack of practice made his hobble to the building far more humiliating than it had to be.

It felt like stepping into some sort of extravagant Hollywood spa—vaulted ceilings hung with opulently rustic chandeliers, shiny tiled floors, and two perfectly symmetrical staircases with filigreed wrought iron handrails that swept around the foyer to meet each other on a looming upper floor. He followed Indigo straight through the center into a richly furnished reception area, where he was immediately offered a glass of sparkling water garnished with a delicate spiral of lemon peel by a pretty, smartly dressed woman with a wide smile and distractingly white teeth. He stared at it blankly until she took it away.

Ben felt utterly disoriented and entirely out of place. People were talking all around him, but he couldn't understand anything being said. It was almost alarming to see the ease with which Indigo carried himself in this environment; he was talking to the well-dressed woman with an unselfconscious air of prominence that she seemed singularly eager to accommodate.

They were escorted to a comfortable seating area. Ben sat down in daze, and didn't even notice that someone had handed him a clipboard until Indigo waved a hand in front of his face and tapped his finger against the paperwork.

"Oh." Staring down at the page, Ben suddenly questioned whether he had ever actually learned how to read. His overwhelmed mind couldn't make sense of anything on the page, and the light in this room seemed painfully bright. For the first time he found himself seriously entertaining the notion that he was, in fact, brain damaged.

"Ben?" Indigo looked at him quizzically. "Do you need help?"

"No—no, I just—" Ben turned his head back and forth, taking in his surroundings. "This just... isn't what I expected. I feel like I don't belong here."

"You belong here if my checkbook says you belong here," Indigo replied nonchalantly. Ben was pretty sure Indigo was trying to make him laugh, but the glib comment only made him feel more uncomfortable. He closed his eyes hard, took a deep breath, and counted to ten. When he exhaled and opened his eyes, the words on the paper slowly came into focus. Finally, he picked up the pen and began to fill in his information.

"You seem... comfortable in a place like this," Ben said as he finished the paperwork.

"What do you mean?" Indigo asked.