The house of the legendary Doctor Flannel sat at the edge of the village. Every day, a commoner came to call with a broken toe, an animal bite, or some sort of strange skin disease. Doctor Flannel was fine with that, because it largely meant that his business was profitable. He charged a healthy five dollars for his services, and by the gods it was worth it.
Therefore, he wasn't surprised when one day the butcher came wheezing up to the door, with a pale, unconscious young man in his arms. Doctor Flannel espied the butcher through his small four-pane window, and hastened to open the door as the red-faced fellow shuffled to the step.
"Good morning," he said, to the frantic butcher. "And it's a rather early morning, too. 1:30 AM, my word! Come in, come in. What's the problem?"
"Well, you see," said the butcher, sweat beading across his scarlet forehead, "my apprentice is... well, just look." He pulled back the boy's sleeve. There, on the deathly-hued wrist, was a small incision. It was black and green around the edges, and oozed some sort of clear foul paste.
"Good grief," he exclaimed. "When did this happen?"
"Just this morning, doctor," replied the butcher.
"It's already dreadfully infected," informed Doctor Flannel, wiping his hand on his rough leather pants.
"Oh dear."
"Lay him down on the table," suggested the doctor. The butcher set him down on a surgeon's table made of a large plank of wood draped in fresh-cleaned leather. Flannel was looking at the apprentice with concern. His forehead wrinkled, and he stroked his bald head with a nervous hand.
"This'll take... a long time, sir," he said. "I know how to deal with infections, but this one's pretty serious."
"Will he be alright?" the butcher pleaded, wringing his hands.
"To tell you the truth, master butcher, I don't know," Doctor Flannel admitted. "You should leave, sir. Operations like these rarely leave a clean table."
"I suppose not," said the butcher, and departed. Doctor Flannel was left alone by the side of the infected boy. The patient's face was screwed up in an expression of pain, and Doctor Flannel didn't dare to contemplate what fresh horrors awaited in his fevered psyche.
"Right," he said to himself. "Towel, anti-infection ointment, surgical tools... woodcut of adorable cats... I think that's all I need." He produced a leather sack, in which lay all sorts of sharp metal objects used to either puncture the skin or shunt organs out of the way as doctors delved for the source of all misery. Taking out one such tool (a pair of reverse-tongs, which are like tongs only that they open rather than close), he inserted the ends into the wound and opened it. The inside was unspeakable.
"Having fun, Doctor?" said a voice from the crypts, inches from his left ear. He turned his head, and then dully registered the newcomer.
"Oh, it's you," he remarked. "Death, isn't it? We've met before."
"On-spot, as usual," said Death. "I'm here for the child."
"I'm afraid I'm working," said Doctor Flannel impatiently. "Please wait around the back until I'm available for an appointment."
"Don't use sarcasm with me, Doctor," Death said silkily. "The boy belongs to the dead."
Doctor Flannel sighed. "Alright," he said, throwing up his hands. "Can I at least have a chance?"
Death appeared to consider this, although emotion was invisible in what was essentially a shadow given human form. Finally: "Alright. But here's my condition. After ten minutes, if you haven't finished your job, I collect his soul. Got that, Doctor?"
"Yes, yes," Doctor Flannel said, annoyed. "Just let me get on with it."
"I'm waiting," said Death.
Flannel nodded. In his heart of hearts, he knew that Death was only doing his job, but that didn't stop Flannel from despising him. He set to work, inserting the bottle of anti-infection ointment into the wound and letting it sit for twenty seconds as the liquid slowly drained out of the volume-controlled nozzle. Removing the bottle, he winced as more infected fluid spurted out. Quickly mopping it up, he set to work stabilizing the edges of the wound. After two minutes of applying ointment, Flannel prepared to close the wound with a stitching needle. Just as he was preparing to do that, however, his shaking fingers jerked suddenly, and the needle fell to the ground.
"Oh, come on," he moaned. Scrabbling around on the floor, he was unable to find his missing needle. It had rolled into the drain that was normally used to expunge biologic waste.
"No, no, no..." He searched his shelves for another sewing needle. A sense of dread enveloped him. The doctor realized in horror that he had lent his entire box to a neighbor who was teaching a sewing class in the next town over. He didn't have time to run all the way over to the next town!
"DEATH!" he called.
"Oh, it's you," said Death, materializing on the other side of the patient. "Flannel, isn't it? We've met before."
"Do you happen to have a needle?" Doctor Flannel asked hopefully.
"No," said Death. And then: "It appears I'll be taking his soul in three minutes." He checked a golden pocket watch to confirm this. "Yes, about three minutes."
Doctor Flannel sighed.
He had failed his one mission in life: to be an effective doctor. Because of his lack of a needle, this patient would succumb to Death's grip, his soul tossed carelessly into whatever cruel land existed after the end. Plus, Flannel would be held responsible. He could see it now: his business would plummet, and nobody would trust him. The village would become infected, just like this poor fellow lying supine on the operation table.
Flannel wished, just for a moment, that he could take the patient's place.
Death chuckled.
"Well, you've been standing there for a minute already. I should get to whatever work you can do."
"But I cannot," Flannel burst out. "I lack a needle!"
Death clasped his fingers together below his chin. "Then he's mine. Just doing my duty, you understand." He reached a hand out.
Flannel suddenly had an idea. It was a mad idea, one that would send him to the top of the celestial hit-list; but it might just work. Grabbing a scalpel, he surveyed Death's fingers (which were thin and pointed) and gave the index a good whack with the blade.
"Ouch!" said Death, rather anti-climactically.
"Perhaps I do have a needle," muttered Flannel. He grabbed the ball of twine while Death clutched his hand, and began to sew the wound. With a minute-thirty to go, he had already completed stitching half of the wound. The skin was knitting with strokes of his hands, the hands of healing, a needle flashing through the skin with a string following. The wound closed with a snick! and Flannel sighed in relief.
Death was looking at him reproachfully.
"You just had to cut my finger off, didn't you?" he asked mournfully.
"Always think of the customer," quipped Flannel. "Here, take it. You may want to wash it."
Death took the finger. He placed it in a hidden pocket of shadow.
"Next time you have a near-death patient, I'll wear gloves, shall I?" he growled.
"Off you go," said Flannel, pouring cold water over the boy's forehead. "Have a nice day."
Death sighed and vanished in a puff of humiliation. The boy opened his eyes, and lifted his head. Flannel smiled, and taking off his brown vest draped it over the boy's dripping shoulders.
"Where am I?" the boy rasped.
"Safe," replied Flannel.