There’s a scalpel and a pair of pliers and a fresh syringe and needle.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask, but with this thing in my mouth the words are undecipherable.

Tobias says, ‘Are you curious? I’ll fill you in. Tuva, are you familiar with the term allotransplantation?’

I move my eyeballs from side to side to signal ‘no’.

‘Exactly,’ he says. ‘And neither is the rest of the world. Not even most mainstream dentistry. But they will be after today.’

I tense my ankles but the tape is secure.

‘Live transplantation of a living tooth, complete with blood supply, from one human to another. The Pharaohs used to receive teeth from their slaves in ancient Egypt, did you know that? And wealthy Europeans even received teeth from domestic workers. It fell out of fashion but, in my opinion, with modern 3D scans and so on, it represents the future of sound dentistry. We transplant corneas and skin grafts. Livers, kidneys, and hearts. So why not teeth?’

I start to choke and Julia unscrews part of my mouth retractor so I can close and open my mouth. I swallow and say, ‘You can’t do this. I can’t have a dead man’s teeth.’

Tobias looks offended. ‘Tuva, you misunderstand. For a start, this patient is not deceased, merely heavily sedated. It’s essential that his teeth have living nerve tissue and blood flow. And secondly, you won’t be receiving his teeth. He only has infant teeth. It’s he who will be receiving yours.’

62

I scream and they hold down my head.

They insert the mouth retractor again and screw it open. Not as wide as before, but still too wide.

I make a solemn pledge to save Emil somehow. To overcome this pair. When I move my wrist I can feel the tape stretch and tear. There is hope. Not much but there is some.

‘Insert the speculum into the mouth of patient C, please, nurse.’

She walks away leaving me here with Tobias.

I listen as she inserts the retractor. I listen to the plastic scrape against his teeth. I hear her turn the screws to lock it into position.

‘He won’t be needing suction, nurse. This part won’t take me more than a few seconds.’

Tobias leaves my field of vision but he’s taken the scalpel and pliers with him on that clingfilm-wrapped tray.

I can’t see what they’re doing.

‘Hold the patient’s head steady, please, nurse,’ says Tobias.

What are they doing?

‘One,’ says Tobias. And I hear metal on metal. A quiet groan of exertion. ‘Two,’ he says. ‘All done.’

He glides over to me on his wheelie stool. In his hands is the small metal tray. The scalpel is clean and looks unused. The pliers have blood on them. The needle is unused. There are two small teeth lying next to the needle.