"Manual Disimpaction," Silva says.
Behind him, Mama Ortiz snorts loudly. She looks me up and down, her eyes narrowing as she assesses the loafers. "Good luck,Princess," she mutters. "Wear a splash guard."
"Who is the patient?" I ask, refusing to let my smile falter.
"Mr. Bromley," Silva says. "He’s a frequent flyer. He has a recurring issue with... gravity. And household objects."
"I don't follow."
"You will," Silva smiles. It isn't a nice smile. It is the smile of a man sending a gladiator into a pit with a lion, armed only with a spoon. "Go on, York. Don't keep the patient waiting. And try not to scuff the shoes."
Bay 4 is curtained off. I can hear polite, hushed humming coming from inside. It sounds like Mozart.
I pull back the curtain.
Sitting on the edge of the gurney is a sweet-faced elderly man wearing a beige cardigan and reading glasses on a chain. He looks like a librarian who got lost on the way to a tea party.
"Good morning," I say, stepping inside. "I’m Dr. York."
"Oh, hello," the man says, beaming. "I’m Mr. Bromley. So sorry to be a bother. It’s just... it’s happened again."
"What has happened, Mr. Bromley?"
"A mishap," he sighs. "I was rearranging my study. FengShui, you know. Very important for the energy flow. I felt the Chi was blocked in the corner."
"Of course," I say, flipping open his chart. "And?"
"And I slipped," Mr. Bromley says tragically. "I was on the step stool, reaching for a first edition of Dickens, and I lost my footing. I fell backwards."
I look at the X-ray on the tablet.
My eyes widen. I zoom in. I zoom out. I tilt the screen.
There, lodged firmly in the patient’s descending colon, is a perfect, black sphere.
"Is that..." I squint. "A Magic 8-Ball?"
"It is," Mr. Bromley confirms. "Standard size. I landed right on it. Terribly unlucky. I was actually consulting it about my stock portfolio right before the accident occurred."
I stare at him. "You landed on it."
"With force," he nods. "I tried to get it out myself, but it seems to have created a seal. Like a cork in a wine bottle."
I take a deep breath. I look down at my hands. These hands have held champagne flutes. They have held steering wheels of Italian sports cars. They have never held a lubricant-covered toy inside an elderly man.
I could walk out. I could quit. I could go to the Board meeting, drink the scotch, and live a life of hygiene.
Then I think of Silva’s face.I assume you aren't planning to do any actual work.
"Right," I say. "Nurse!"
A nurse pokes her head in. It isn't Ortiz. It’s a terrified-looking student.
"I need lube," I say. "All of it."
"How much?"
"Imagine you are greasing a pig for a wrestling match," I say grimly. "And then double it."
