“I wonder if the earth was ever truly harmonious?” the man inquired of himself.

“The scar is so ugly. What could it mean?”

A heap of slick magazines suddenly poured from his desk and onto the floor. “Must it mean something? Why does a wart appear, Frances? Why did the dinosaurs, so long ago? And why did the dinosaurs die, anyway? Where did the earth and its moon begin?” A small thrill of peril passed through Frances, for the chaos of it.

“Illnesses and other phenomena arrive without explanation, like miracles,” the man huffed, his longish face growing longer, “or anti-miracles. And of course, there was the day that each of us arrived, too.”

She was quiet.

“And to know the meaning of it? The meaning is a waste of time,” he said.

“If people,” she remarked slowly, calmer now, thinking, “get mysterious illnesses . . . well, maybe entire towns can acquire illnesses, too!”

He smiled slowly, revealing rows of teeth which, she noticed for the first time, were disturbingly small. “Oh, Frances, you are a delight. Yes, indeed, an entire town may be ill, in its way. I do agree!”

Doctor and patient now looked at one another with bright interest.

“Palmer,” she began. “About the treatments I received from old Doctor Frann . . . the ones I still get from you. For example, last month . . .”

“Yes?” He swiveled around in the chair.

“Well, I don’t like them!” she said, surprising herself. “They hurt, and they’re embarrassing too. Can’t we stop?”

The man giggled. “Well, certainly! That procedure is outdated and useless, anyway. Why did you want it in the first place?” He switched on a small transistor radio.

She was dumbfounded. “But, Palmer . . . why did you agree to perform the procedure, if it’s useless?”

The doctor gazed downward with a troubled expression, as if lost.

“Have you changed recently, Frances?” he asked at last, in a faint voice.

Frances knew she had. It was many years ago when she first attended the old physician’s office, holding her mother’s hand, packed with a burning, nervous worry she worked hard to ignore. Afterward, at home, she had gone into her parents’ cellar, lay on a cement pallet, and stared through the numerous holes of a pegboard, willing an unnamed injury, a rawness inside her, to fly through the peg-holes and away from the earth.

With a timid smile, Palmer spoke again. “I wouldn’t worry about this scar business, Frances. I don’t think the condition will worsen. Don’t show your scar to the townspeople, though: that’s my advice. It may make them uneasy. Besides, what are you going to do? Walk downtown and shout, ‘Hey, does anybody have a big scar?’ Oh, me.” He laughed, slapping the desk edge, wiping tears. Shuttering his eyes then, he rocked with feeling to the thin, tuneless radio music, wiping his hair.

Frances stood.