This chapter ran a little long, so I had to cut it in half, meaning the scene that begins here will be continued in the next chapter. Also, as long as I'm here, I'd like to post some propaganda for an extremely cool challenge that Qoheleth is hosting. It's called The Great AFI Screen Characters Challenge.

Here's what happens- you e-mail Qoheleth and tell him you're interested. Then, he chooses a random name from AFI's list of the 50 greatest heroes and 50 greatest villains in American cinema. You then write a story about whomever he chooses. Sound fun? The challenge, as well as Qoheleth's e-mail, can be seen on his profile.

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"I just don't understand it." Stephens declared.

Near him, Dr. Greensleeves leaned over a man in a light paper gown and muttered. "I've tried every procedure I know, taken advice from every doctor that's put pen to paper." He paused to scratch the back of his head, which had an uneven look, as if someone had taken a scissors to it. "I've thrown every pill at it, every serum, and I can't get rid of those headaches. I'm through."

Mr. Stephens wrung his hands impatiently. "Surely there's something you haven't tried." He glanced at the grey-haired gentleman seated on the table. The expression on the man's drawn face showed that he was unaccustomed to the compromise in dignity that hospital gowns afforded.

Greensleeves shook his head. "There's no cause I can see. I've been telling you for weeks that his symptoms are psychosomatic, but you refuse to listen." He made no attempt to keep the frustrated anger out of his voice. "I'm telling you right now, anyone willing to treat this patient any further is either possessing of singular compassion, or complete lunacy!"

The instant Greensleeves had finished his sentence, another loud voice came from down the hall.

"This place has got more dead ends than a game of shoots and ladders." Dr. Penknife said, gliding past the door.

Stephens managed to keep himself from doing a double take. "One moment…" he said to the sick man, moving into the hallway. He grabbed Dr. Penknife by the arm. "You're just the man I want to see…"

"Thank you, you're quite a sight yourself."

"Here, follow me." Stephens replied, pulling him into the room.

"Now hold on here, I've got a house call to make at the nearest bar! What's the idea?"

"Please, just take a look at this patient."

"I'm really in a hurry, can't you send me a photo?" By this point he had been led next to the patient. He turned and whispered to him. "Don't look now, but I think you're being talked about."

"Come now, doctor, I'd think someone with your skill could discover his problem in moments." Stephen's tone was half-sarcastic, and suggested that the matter of Penknife's skill was very much up for debate.

"Of course I can discover his problem. Why, I've cured thousands of people sicker than him- sicker than you, even!"

"Well!" Stephens snapped, most offended.

"No, not well at all, that was the problem. They even named a disease after me, called it Arthur-its."

"Arthritis." Corrected Greensleeves.

"Gesundheit." Penknife replied. "Now where was I? Oh yes. A mighty fine doctor I'd be if I couldn't help this guy, right?"

"I couldn't have put it better myself." Stephens replied.

"Not with that mouth anyway. Yes, a fine doctor I'd be then…" Penknife turned to the sick man and cleared his throat loudly. "Now, what's wrong with the man, besides having me for a doctor?"

Mr. Stephens opened his mouth to describe something, but Greensleeves cut him off. "He's a hypochondriac," he said with some satisfaction.

"Funny, I'd have pegged him for a Presbyterian." Penknife replied. He cleared his throat again. And again. He continued clearing his throat for quite some time, bouncing gently on his heels as he did so. After several minutes he addressed the patient.

"All right now… uh, stick out your tongue," he said. The sick man obeyed. "Now put it back in, don't you know that's impolite?" he cast a hasty glance to the other two men. "Now raise your right hand." He paused while the sick man did so. "Now your left hand. Now put your right hand in, put your right hand out, put your right hand in and shake it all about."

It was about this moment that Harrison walked in, having been lost somewhere behind Penknife in the hall.

"Ah, glad you could make it Harrison," Penknife replied, "we're examining a patient, and at the rate you're moving you should be ready in time for the funeral."

"Yours or his?" Harrison whispered to Penknife.

"Keep sassing me like that and we'll make it a hat trick." Penknife whispered back. He then returned his attention to the patient and began clearing his throat once more, much to the annoyance of everyone.

"Maybe you should ask him to describe his symptoms." Harrison suggested.

"If I need your help, Harrison, I'll ask for it," said Penknife. "Now then, what are your symptoms?"

"Well," the patient began, "I've been getting the most unbearable headaches lately…"

"Your head hurts, eh? Well, keep off it." Penknife turned to leave. "There we are, patient's cured…"

Dr. Greensleeves caught him on the way to the door and, with a clashing of voices, Penknife was turned around.

"All right, all right." Penknife continued. He turned back to the patient. "So your head hurts. Well, does it hurt when you go like this?" He held up two fingers and waggled them in the air.

"No." was the patient's reply.

"Good, then you can hail me a taxi because I'm leaving." He turned around again, to be stopped again by Stephens and Greensleeves. Their voices were mingled incomprehensibly in an argument, when Vorreli and Knock burst in.