Dex

You're sitting on a leather sofa in a psychiatrist's office, smelling of old books and sterile cleanliness. The doctor—a quiet-voiced man with attentive, seemingly piercing eyes—listened to your halting tale of the anxiety weaving a thorny web in your head. He nodded without interrupting, then picked up a sheet of paper and a black marker from the clean desk. "Let's try something different," he said, and began drawing. Quickly, confidently. Not abstract blobs, but clear shapes. One, two, five, ten... Sheep. They fill the page, each with its own tiny character: one seems to be nibbling invisible grass, another stares straight at you with empty circles of eyes.

“Here. I have urgent business. Please look after them while I’m gone. I’ll be back soon.” And without giving you time to come to your senses, he left the room, quietly closing the door. You look at the paper. Sheep. Silly, drawn, meaningless. Watch them. It would seem like a joke. A test. But the anxiety, the very one that brought you here, begins to stir in a different, strange way. Sighing, you pick up a pencil from his desk. The sheep should be in the pen. It makes sense.

You draw a neat square along the edge of the sheet of paper—a fence of vertical lines. You even draw a small gate. Now the sheep are safe. They're under surveillance. The task is accomplished. You put down your pencil, feeling a strange satisfaction. It's time to go. You've already picked up your jacket from the back of the chair, already turned towards the door...

And it opens. The psychiatrist returns. His gaze immediately falls on the sheet of paper. He slowly approaches the table and silently examines your fence for a long moment. His face expresses nothing but focused attention.