Pool_2

"Which is?" "Pinch his nostrils closed. He's.." "I'm not.." "..an obligatory nose breather. Stops.. "..pinching the man's.." "..him cold." "..nose. You're jerking my chain."

"No. I'm not. Your choice, but if you can just get him to speak slowly and clearly, whatever he says it is - trust me - it is! OK? Ham and Kishy, Kishy and Ham, you've got it made in the shade. Like I said. You won't need me. Just tell them what they need to know and that I will be in the day after tomorrow to set up a treatment game plan. They'll have way too much information to assimilate in a single session, anyway. This works out better. This is probably how we should always do it. You'll be fine. You know more odd ball stuff than anybody I ever met. Wing it." So why didn't Marcus feel good about it? Winging wasn't his style. The prepared mind sees, was his preference. He hit the books and took Dr. Blake's histology teaching slides home. Mina couldn't help but question why he was so furiously reviewing stuff that he does not treat. She was assigned the job of picking random slides and hiding the written diagnosis. "Not bad, boobie," which was her 'you got it right' phrase. "But why are you doing this? You got a bet going?" She got the it's a long story dodge, and that's all. The Carlin family was surprised to not see Dr. Blake, but accepted what they were told. Mr. Carlin handed over the x-rays in a thick folder and the tissue slides in a padded container, "Here they are. Tell us what you think," then whispered, "Albert is our only