That sheepdog is a sweetheart, but everyone fears the other, thanks to its breed.

Of course all this incited reproaches from Barry, who declared, “I’m trying to revive your brother. Why don’t you control these animals. Especially that one,” glowering at the Doberman.

Chuck rose to the dog’s defense. “Gunner never hurt anyone. These are the sweetest creatures on God’s earth. Leave Gunner alone.”

“Here, boy,” Chuck said to his Gunner, dispensing another treat into the mouth of the black-and-cinnamon purebred. Gunner’s eyes shone maniacally. He was all pent up. As were we all in that long moment while the sun went down outside and lamp-thrown shadows lengthened across the darkening walls of the enormous red room.

Dogs chewed. Barry felt around for intimations of Maxwell’s vital signs. Siegfried, Christopher, and Milton stood awaiting doctor’s orders to assist if need be. Rolfe, the woolly sheepdog, sniffed, affably, Maxwell’s clothing. No one seemed to notice Rolfe sniffing the mysterious green branch coming out of Max’s breast pocket. A stick! Rolfe gathered leafy stick into sopping mouth and off he trotted with it. Gunner eyed this. Nearby, someone sneezed. A reaction to dogs? It is impossible to keep track of who is allergic to what around here. All of us get skin rashes, and someone is always sneezing, and someone else always has a cough or the flu, and someone else is forever about to throw up. How much can you truly know about other people’s afflictions?

“Would someone please bring me my bag?” Barry asked in his usual authoritarian manner—as if speaking to an orderly.

The bag was over by the fireplace. Hiram was closest to it. Christopher fetched it.

“Oh, God, please don’t let him give Max a shot,” whispered overwrought Virgil, who buried his head in his hands and absolutely would not look when Christopher brought the bag to Barry, who opened it up and extracted latex surgical gloves, cotton, various utensils. Gunner, being a dog, could not resist investigating with his nose. “Get the dog away,” said Barry, hoisting a small vial containing what turned out to be an opiate antagonist administered to counteract respiratory depression induced by narcotic overdose. How did a general practitioner happen to stock a bottle of something like this in his doctor’s kit? The answer is simple and pitiful. Over the years, Barry has had to bring many of us—including Virgil here—down from bad trips.

Max’s face was ashen. His brothers in a ring peered down at his staring eyes. “Why’s his tongue green?” asked Siegfried, still clutching porcelain fragments. Fielding with his eight-millimeter circled the scene, trying different angles. Finally Chuck dragged Gunner away by the collar and leashed him to an art nouveau armchair; this space vacated by the dog allowed Fielding a clear alley to shoot through. “Uh, can someone move that coffee table a tad to the left? My left. Back a little. Watch the edge of the carpet. Perfect. Don’t anybody move, okay?” Fielding cautioned his brothers. Meanwhile Chuck humored his animal. “Sorry, buddy, I have to tie you up,” Chuck said. The Doberman, restrained, started barking. The dog’s loud noise caused Virgil to look up surprised. At that moment Barry did the things doctors do with vial and syringe, the flourish of bottle and needle as the liquid is drawn into the hypodermic payload.