“Mr. Hershey, how do you feel?” asks Dr. Hirschstein entering the room with a large leather bag emitting small metallic clinks and clanks.

“Not well,” Hershey responds. “Terrible. Absolutely terrible.”

With his brain smiling and his visage maintained, Dr. Hirschstein inspects Hershey as he poses questions. Heartaches. . . headaches. . . stomachaches. . . body aches. . . were words Dr. Hirschstein was glad to hear—but not glad to hear toothaches, he’s a doctor, not a pathetic dentist like his useless cousin who didn’t want to study—don’t compare me to that, I’m a doctor dammit. On the wooden stool near Hershey’s bed, Dr. Hirschstein records notes on a clipboard: sheets of music. As if he is writing his seventh symphony, he makes many notes.

“Mr. Hershey, have you been eating a healthy diet?” monotonically asks Dr. Hirschstein.
“No Doctor, I haven’t,” Hershey admits.

“Well sir, this is to be expected when you eat so much chocolate. God gave us fruits and vegetables for a reason.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Hershey concedes. “I’ll follow your rules.”

In an unwavering humble visage, Dr. Hirschstein is satisfied. He goes down the run-down typical advice of what to eat, the seven vegetables, what to avoid eating, the benefits, etc etc.

Like a detective praised for his finished business solving another’s unfinished business, Dr. Hirschstein cracks his knuckles, adjusts his coat and exits through the backstage door. Dr. Hirschstein walks down the stairs, but just as he rests his foot on the eighth, an abrupt unintelligibly-muffled shout disrupts—a heart-beat dropping caesura. Hirschstein quickly escalates and bashes into Hershey’s room.

“Mr. Hershey!” shouts Dr. Hirschstein. “God, what happened!?”

Hershey is not in bed. Dr. Hirschstein darts his head around the room. Nothing. He looks out of the high window. Nothing. BPM rises, vessels tenses without a pause! His blood quickly pulses in staccato jolts. His brain hears a rising crescendo. The door opens behind him.

“Thomas,” Ushers Dr. Hirschstein. “Did you see where Mr. Hershey went!?”

“Was he not with you a moment ago?” Thomas slowly asks.

“He was,” Dr. Hirchstein responds, erratically pacing his tempo. “I was walking down the stairs after our appointment finished before I heard a shout. I came here to find his bed empty.”

They both slowly look towards his empty bed in silence. Except, it wasn’t empty. There, laid a chocolate bar. It was in this silence, a small muffled noise emits from the bed. Dr. Hirschstein looks at Thomas and Thomas looks at him.

“Mr. Hershey,” softly called Thomas. “Are you under the bed sir?

The two crouches low enough to see if Hershey had somehow fallen under the bed. Only darkness. Dr. Hirschstein, like a limbo dancer or like a child that had face-planted, the doctor hesitantly lays low to check underneath the bed, only to hear the quiet grunts above his head. His bent brows cave deeper as he slowly stands back up. He looks at the bed, flips over the flat sheets expecting some sort of visual magic. Empty. He tosses the pillow from its resting spot. Blank. He sets down his leather bag and pulls out his scalpel and excavates the mattress. Nothing. Still both Dr. Hirschstein and Thomas in silence, hears the murmurs of an old man. Dr. Hirschstein looks at the chocolate bar. Dr. Hirschstein leans in towards the noises’ source. Thomas then looks at the chocolate bar. Dr. Hirschstein grabs the chocolate bar labeled “Hershey.”

“You don’t suppose he…” Thomas worriedly said. “Turned into that.”

Like a conch shell, Dr. Hirschstein puts the bar next to his ear, not expecting to hear a voice. He silently gestures Thomas to hear. Picking up the bar, he holds it up to his ear.

“Dear god.” gravely said Thomas. “How is this. . . possible?”

Thomas sets down the chocolate bar and slowly steps away from it. Thomas hesitantly fidgets his fingers as the doctor opens his leather bag and locates his stethoscope. He laid the plunger directly onto the Hershey bar. There was a heartbeat, but subtle enough to barely hear. The thought of opening the bar crosses his mind. The wrapper could be Mr. Hershey’s skin and under it may be the organs –to open the wrapper would be too risky.

Seeing the doctor look at the chocolate bar intensely was surprisingly relieving for Thomas, prompting him to ask, “Do you think you can cure him?” This question never occurred to Dr. Hirschstein. He ponders for a moment’s second.

“Ah yes,” The doctor extemporaneously responded. “Certainly if there is a way to become chocolate, there must be a way to “un-become” chocolate. What’s it called—it’s the matter of reverse engineering.”

Like a mother correcting her child’s misinformation on Santa’s authenticity; like a father informing his child that a certain curse word he shouted at a car meant something pleasant; like a doctor telling his dying patients they’ll be fine; Dr. Hirschstein assures Thomas with extemporaneous chatter. He is a doctor, a Hirschstein, and Thomas is the patient’s guest. Though the question of whether he could cure Hershey never occurred to him due to the absurdity of it, the idea slowly grew on him—after all, he is a Hirschstein, the heir to the Hirschstein head—so he is the Hirschstein to be. What was an accepting white flag flowing with a battlefield’s surrender became unwavering. His right foot rhythmically taps as he begins writing his eighth symphony.

His hands become animated as he explains the procedures that’ll cure Mr. Hershey; his composed, maestro-like hands smoothly dance in rhythm to Dr. Hirschstein’s soothing voice. His slow, calming tempo in speech had Dr. Hirschstein seem like a therapist. After the two settle down from his cantabile, one more knowingly calmer about the situation, Thomas excuses himself to leave to do his butler duties. Before he left, Dr. Hirschstein, in a strict tone tells him to not squeak a single word of this incident. Thomas obligingly nods.