The doctor pulled the stethoscope ear tips out and hung the device around his neck." Mr. Weatherby, all of your tests have come back negative and my examination shows nothing abnormal." Adam knew what was coming next. "I'm not crazy, Doctor." "I'm sorry, but there is no physical reason for why you occasionally lose control of your hands. A psychologist can help...""I don't need therapy. I need answers. They seem to have a life all their own. I can't hold a job. I'm under investigation for assault. I almost killed my neighbor. This can't go on. I'll try anything at this point." After two weeks on a new medication, Adam saw no progress and grew increasingly depressed. He was convinced that despite what the doctors said, it was not a psychological problem. That night, a frustrated and angry Adam sat in a chair and drank bourbon. Drunk and hopeless, he stumbled to the garage and started the table saw, then slowly lowered his wrists toward the screaming blade. Detective Armstrong entered the garage where several uniformed officers stood over the blood-soaked body. "So what do we got?" he asked, taking in the blood-splattered scene. "This is a weird one, Detective." "How so?" "Take a look at the body. He apparently chopped off his hands with the table saw and bled to death." Armstrong knelt down. "And?" "And we can't find his hands anywhere."
