George Brainbridge rubbed the corner of his nose, blew his nose, adjusted his glasses for the tenth time in ten minutes, sat down, and threw out his nearly pudgy arms in astounded dismay. “Well, if it happened, it happened! I mean, no dentist could have fixed those gums in ten years, much less two days. There’s no way you could have tricked me.” He said this last to Gregory, but with a desperate question in his voice as if wishing that he was being tricked. Indeed he said, “I’d almost rather it was a trick than face—well, what those healed gums imply….” He took the cellophane off a fresh patient’s glass, filled it with water, and drank it down quickly.

Gregory just watched him. He was trying to recover his own composure. Then he said, almost apologetically, “That’s not really all. But my whole body’s felt terrific since. I mean, fantastic. And well, I’m not so, you know, paranoid about people.” He looked embarrassed.

With a sudden rush of despairing humor George said, “Well, every silver lining has a cloud.”

Gregory managed a wan grin and glanced toward Seven. “I’ve done some things I’m not so proud of,” he said, with a slight question in his own voice.

Now that he’d told his story, he began worrying that Seven might tell Brainbridge about the attempted robbery…. But Seven gave Gregory a brilliant grin and said, “Put all that behind you.”

Seven had been so quiet that George almost forgot he was there. Rather startled, brought back from his own thoughts, he said emphatically, “Right, right.” Then, after a pause, he shook his head again with new perplexity. “Had to be suggestion. It’s the only answer. I mean, that guy John Window is a nut. At least he certainly isn’t Christ. But suggestion—shit—how can suggestion heal gums in a minute that were in the shape yours were in? It can’t.”

With more courage than he knew he had, Gregory said, “That guy may not be Christ, but he’s okay. I mean, he knows that he thinks he’s Christ sometimes. And he’s harmless. But not only that, man, think of how many people he could cure. Maybe he could even cure cancer!”

“Whoa, whoa. Super!—a whisk of the hand and you’re cured—” George planked his hands on his hips. “I can’t quite see that,” he said, almost vehemently. Then, with true exasperation, “Open your mouth again, will you? And Seven, get me this kid’s dental records from the file there. I want to see that diagnosis in black and white….”

Seven got out the records. George flipped through them, holding up Gregory’s with the tip of his fingers as if it were made of fire; he eyed it gingerly, unbelievingly. He shook his head again and said, “Well, there you are. Dated four days ago. Advanced periodontal disease.”