The doctor came around from behind the horse. “How much does he weigh? Unless the liver is bad, I will give him morphine. I am not Superman. I haff not got X-ray vision. Maybe the liver is bad. Parasites. Who knows?” The doctor dug in his bag and removed a large hypodermic syringe. He filled it with morphine and injected it into the horse’s shoulder. Then he took the same syringe and filled it with antibiotics and injected these into the horse. After this, he picked up the brush and again began working on the large, putrescent sores on the horse’s skin. Ad Magic’s arms began to hurt from holding the bottles of liquid.

The doctor looked at him. “You are an American? Jah? Who was scratched your face und black eye?”

“Huh? Oh, that,” Ad Magic said. “I forgot that. Last night, I gave some money to this street person. A woman with eleven kids. I gave her some money as they were laying down a cloth to sleep on the street—”

“Yes?”

“Well, after I gave her the money—these men had seen me pass it to her, and they took it away from her. Slapped her around. I hit one of them, knocked him down, but there were so many of them. I just couldn’t fight them all. They tried to steal my watch. I got drunk—or I was drunk. I can’t remember exactly.” Ad Magic leaned over and looked at his face in the side mirror of the Mercedes. He did have an incredible black eye. No wonder the tour party found him peculiar.

The doctor took the glucose bottles from Ad Magic and propped them on the inside of the rear door, rolling up the window until they were upright and secure. “In my bag is green bottle. Take two und lie down in the back seat.” As Ad Magic rummaged in the bag, the doctor came up alongside him and grabbed his wrist. He examined the little stainless-steel bracelet.

“Epilepsy,” the doctor said. “Mmm.” He presented Ad Magic with a little flask of gin. “Swallow this und lie down,” he said. “Horse will take time.”