[WP] In this world, being so happy you could explode can literally happen. You're a paradepressor, tasked with making people sad in an emergency.

I was having my lunch when the alarm went off.

Whomever decided that 'Cry me a river' was a good song to announce an emergency obviously never thought about the mental state of the staff.

But doing my job for the last ten years have taught me one thing – being moderately miserable every day kept the paradepressor away.

That was me – I made people miserable on purpose so they wouldn't explode.

'Dr. Blue,' Diana had her tablet ready, 'we must hurry, the patient is critical.'

I nodded, biting one more piece of my chicken sandwich before I skimmed through the data.

Diana was in charge of gathering the information about the patient we could use in a emergency. Since the information were mostly gathered from the social media or their family members there was always some degree of unreliability.

So I mostly improvised.

Diana had finished reading me the description of patient's state and the possible implications when I pulled over in front of patient's house.

A young man opened the window.

'Doctor, hurry,' he said, 'uncle is in his library.'

I rushed up the stairs, regretting my decision to drink that second soda before I left the station.

I found Mr. Robertson sitting in an armchair, with a glass of whiskey in his hand, lively tapping his foot with the sound of Sinatra's 'You Make Me Feel so Young.' He looked as merry as an Easter bunny.

'Mr. Robertson,' I said, 'no need for so much enthusiasm.'

Old man glanced in my direction, his eyes dreamily distant.

'What do you know about joys of life, son?' He took another sip of whiskey and winked.

'I know that too much of it can make you explode like a firecracker,' I warned.

People were so careless with their emotions. I could never understand such lack of care. I was drowning in gloom for the majority of my fifty years and I was perfectly fine.

Mr. Robertson gave me a second look. 'Timmy put you up to this?'

I nodded. 'You nephew is worried about you,' I said, 'I'm here to help.'

Diana showed me the tablet. Parameters of Mr. Robertson's vital functions were critically high.

His pressure was high, his serotonin levels were through the roof, his heart was pumping faster and we were going to lose him if I didn't do something – and fast.

'Mr. Robertson,' I said, sitting in the chair next to him. 'You know that, after paying the taxes, you'll end up with just half of the money.'

Mr. Robertson was still smiling. 'There will be still enough left for one glorious journey with Marlene.' I could almost smell the oxytocin rushing through his body. But I wasn't going to allow that damn optimism to take another life. Not on my watch.

'Have you, per chance, met Marlene before or after you won the lottery?'

That was the moment I was looking for. That split of the second when their heart skips just one beat and the shadow crosses their face. That one moment that decided between life and death; that one moment that whispered 'he can be saved if you keep going.' That was all the encouragement I needed.

'Off course she miraculously appeared just after you won the lottery. Suddenly you thought – look who my luck is changing. I'm in love again, there's light at the end of the tunnel. But no Mr. Robertson, the truth is that you were better off without any of it. Happiness only leads to a swift, painful death.'

Mr. Robertson put down the glass and adjusted his glasses.

'Why are you even here?' He was now looking at Diane and me, but his look was different. Those were the eyes of a realistic men. And, as my father said – Realistic man is a saved man.

'We're here because your nephew called us. You were having all symptoms of, what we call, Felicis Acuta and he was worried for your life.'

Mr. Robertson stood up. 'The only this that kid is worried about is who's going to inherit the painting collection when I'm gone.' He suddenly grinned. 'But he has no idea me and Grace had sold all the original paintings when she fell ill. These are only replicas. So, tough luck.'

I glanced in Diana's direction. She looked at the tablet an nodded. Mr. Robertson was finally stable.

We said our goodbyes and found young Mr. Robertson in the hall, his eyes resting on a large oil painting.

Once a paradepressor always a paradepressor they say. I was always on duty. And when I sensed that bright spark of hope in youg Mr. Rovertson's eyes I felt a moral obligation to help, even my shift was over fifteen minutes ago and even we wouldn't get even an extra penny for the overtime.

'Your uncle is fine,' I said, 'and each of these paintings is just an replica.'

His face fell.

I smiled. 'Take care of yourself, Mr. Robertson and please, remember this moment if the happiness tries to get the best of you.'