Ours, and it's a very special edition of the DSM V.

Ted sneezed three times in a row and tried to inconspicuously wipe his nose. He loved used bookstores, but they always messed with his sinuses. He was browsing the fiction section when he noticed a slip of red leather peeking out from between two bookshelves. Looking around furtively, he gently nudged one shelf a few inches to the side and pulled the tome from between them.

It was a really fancy, high-end copy of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. He had heard of it before - some kind of reference book for psychiatrists. Flipping through the pages, he felt a strange compulsion to buy it. It quickly became overwhelming, and he briefly noted the irony of having an intense fixation on a book that describes intense fixations. He brought the book to the counter and the clerk examined it for a price tag.

"Hmm, I've never seen this book before. We get old copies of the DSM from time to time, but never like this. I can't imagine why someone would make such ornate version of a dry reference manual. I don't know, let's say twelve bucks."

Oddly, that was exactly how much cash Ted had on him. Even more oddly, the book was plainly worth a good deal more than that. Before the man could change his mind, he hastily paid and took his book with him. He had been hoping for a good novel but this was even better. It might even be a special edition that could fetch a good price on eBay.

He felt a sudden, powerful revulsion. It reminded him of the smell of rotting meat, but it wasn't from any smell or sight. It was the idea of selling the book. He almost retched at the thought. He couldn't possibly sell this book! He put the manual in his bag and hopped on his bike, eager to get home and take a closer look at it.

Back at his apartment, Ted was slightly disappointed as he thumbed through the tome. It was just what he expected. It was dry and stale, the contents far less interesting than the elaborate binding. He flipped through hundreds of pages of dry descriptions of everything that could be pathologized about the human mind.

To his surprise, though, the final section was empty. The header simply read, "Conditions not yet discovered." There was no subhead or any further descriptions. Looking at the page, he realized that it was all but begging to be altered.