George just nodded, trying to act as normal as possible. It was the gas, he decided, that gave the patient such a … a … sublime expression; he was euphoric, for God’s sake, nothing mysterious about that. Except that George was feeling euphoric, too, and he hadn’t taken anything; didn’t even get a whiff. And how could you explain that? “You can get down now,” he said, after checking the hole in Christ’s gum; it showed slightly and he said, “We’ll fill in that hole somehow. Don’t you worry.”

Christ spat out a little more blood and hopped out of the chair as agile as a boy. He paused, turned to George and said, “Bless you again, my son,” and made the sign of the cross. And this time George just stood transfixed. He literally felt as if his entire body had been tuned up, adjustments made here and there, circulation quickened and cleansed; as if he’d been breathing pure oxygen for years. Despite himself the words were out of his mouth: “How do you do that?” he sputtered.

“I’m Christ,” the man said, gently enough, and though George reminded himself that this guy was some nut in the mental institution, the words made sense. Not sensible sense, George thought, but some kind of sense.

Mrs. Much chortled: “He gave you the whammy too, huh?” Her broad face looked amused but kind. “Suggestion,” she said. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

“I’ll take a shot of that any time,” George said. He made a long, drawn-out whistle and watched with unaccustomed awe as Christ waved goodbye and went out the door.

“Ciao,” George said.

George took care of several more patients, but he didn’t joke as he had earlier and he forgot to say “Super” to encourage his patients and reassure them. Everybody wanted to be a “good” patient, after all.

But George was upset about the Christ patient and he wasn’t sure why. And that worried him. It was okay to be depressed because, say, a tooth hurt. So you had it pulled. Or your blood sugar was down. Or someone said or did something to anger you. Or somebody rubbed you the wrong way. Like this guy, George thought glumly. Because the patient, a young man named Gregory Diggs, was staring belligerently into his eyes.

“Open up further, please,” George said, and he took a good look at the man’s face just before he slid his gaze to his open mouth. “Feel this?” he asked, tapping, exploring the gum tissue, “You had a wisdom tooth out at the reformatory.” He bent back up. “It’s your gums, not your teeth, I’m afraid. Hurt quite a bit sometimes, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” drawled the young man angrily. He scowled resentfully. “How’d you know?”

“The gums tell all,” said George, washing his hands. “They never lie. They’re falling apart. They’re—”