"Your time is up. Better run!"

Ronald bolted into the nearby park, his breath ragged, heart pounding. The sun hung low, casting long shadows as he pushed himself harder, the words looping in his mind.

He glanced over his shoulder, expecting dark figures in pursuit, but saw only the empty park and his own pounding footsteps. His mind raced, trying to piece together what had led him here, fleeing like a hunted animal.

It started with Caroline. She was warm, kind, a bit mysterious—qualities that drew him in. They had spent hours together, exploring the city, sharing stories. She had mentioned a minor incident from her past, something she shrugged off. But now, as Ronald ran for his life, that trivial detail seemed to hold ominous weight.

He struggled to remember specifics, but adrenaline blurred his thoughts. Caroline had spoken of a place, maybe a person. She had mentioned a friend, someone who helped her through a dark time. Who was that? He had been so absorbed in her, so caught up in their time together, that he hadn't given it much thought then. Now, every word felt loaded with meaning, as if he had missed something crucial, something dangerous.

As he weaved through the trees, his legs burning, his mind flashed back to the moment this madness began. He was in Dr. Riccola’s office, discussing Caroline, how she made him feel alive but also anxious, like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

That session was supposed to help him understand his feelings, but instead, it led to this. The last thing Dr. Riccola had said, just as Ronald was leaving, now came into focus:

“Your time is up, Mister Ron!”

Ahh! “Ron, not run!” It had been just a simple statement to indicate their session was over. But lost in thought, half-listening, those words had twisted into something sinister, fueled by his anxieties.

He had bolted from the office, paranoia snapping something inside him, sending him running without fully understanding why. And now, here he was, in the park, fleeing from an imagined enemy. Relief washed over him as he realized how absurd it all was. He could already hear the teasing he would endure for this—a funny story to tell, nothing more.

But then, it clicked. Caroline had mentioned a friend, someone nicknamed "Cough Drop," who had killed someone—a secret Caroline had kept. The friend had blonde hair and wore an "apple cap." These details, vague at the time, now loomed large in Ronald's mind. In a leap of irrational logic, his subconscious had linked "Riccola" with Ricola throat lozenges, which he had recently seen in a commercial. Could Dr. Riccola be that friend?

The idea was ridiculous, absurd even. But in his panicked state, it had seemed plausible enough to send him sprinting from the office. He laughed at the thought—Dr. Riccola was blonde. Had that been enough to trigger this? Now that his rational mind had caught up, he couldn’t believe how foolish he had been. Determined to clear the air, Ronald turned and made his way back to Dr. Riccola’s office.

When he arrived, he burst through the door, slightly out of breath but relieved. He quickly explained to Dr. Riccola what had happened, how his mind had twisted innocent details into something sinister. They shared a laugh, and Dr. Riccola, still smiling, walked him to the door.

As he was about to leave, something caught his eye. There, on her left ankle, was a small apple tattoo.

Ronald's heart skipped a beat. The smile faded from his face as he looked up at Dr. Riccola. She noticed his gaze and followed it to her ankle, where the tattoo was plainly visible. A strange, knowing look passed between them. Ronald felt a chill run down his spine. He forced a smile, nodded awkwardly, and stepped into the hallway.

As the door clicked shut behind him, his mind raced. The apple tattoo—just a coincidence, he told himself, but it gnawed at him. She wasn’t wearing a cap. He forced a smile, trying to dismiss the unease creeping up his spine. But as he walked down the hallway, the laughter they had shared felt forced, the warmth in Dr. Riccola's eyes tinged with something he couldn’t place. He paused, glancing back at the closed door, his pulse quickening. Maybe it was nothing, just a harmless tattoo. But as he turned and headed for the stairs, a cold knot of uncertainty tightened in his chest, refusing to let go. “Tat, not cap!”