Actually, one doesn't exactly "see" The Doctor. He's too busy, too far away for that. But we talked. And I'll tell you, I liked his voice. I guess that's pretty important in the Doctor business. Just that deep, sure, sympathetic tone. Like he feels my pain with me, you know?

First he said I had a malaise. I asked if this was going to be any better than Specific Ailment.

"No," he said, "no better at all."

I was nervous and forgot my manners. "You're shitting me."

I could almost hear him smile, an easy smile that settled over me like an oversized coat. "I wouldn't 'shit' my patients. But as long as we're on the subject, are your bowels sore?"

"Yeah," I said, "It's like..."

"Tiny poking and prodding, like something's digging at you," The Doctor finished.

"Uh-huh."

"Something is," he said.

All the waiting, the months of preparing questions, sharpening my remarks, bemoaning my Specific Ailment—it was worthless.

I grabbed hold of his voice.

"We investigated blockages in your circulation and respiration. They are real. And they are related. Your skin problems are acute. The rashes are further symptoms of the same problem. Your oxygen level shows slight but definite signs of deterioration—so far. Your mineral deficiencies are in a little worse shape, but not critical by any means. We are more concerned with radiation far in excess of normal.

"But you see, these are only symptoms. While the symptoms are difficult enough, they are not so terribly dangerous. We discovered the true nature of your ailment."

He stopped, the worst thing he could have done, leaving me breathless holding on for the answer that could come only from The Doctor. These moments while he focused his thoughts were longer than the year I had waited. I had so many questions, but I managed to ask only one. "Is it going to kill me?"

He didn't answer right away. For a moment I thought he had vanished, that the appointment was over, that my rudeness had culminated in asking the wrong question.

His voice returned, and I heard the tension beneath the velvet tones. "Not deliberately it won't kill you. But it could."

"Deliberately? My malaise has a will?"

"Of sorts. You have a parasite."

That stopped me. All my exotic images of what might be tearing me apart had never included this. He waited for me to ask a question. I waited for him to tell me more.

"The year you waited, I directed the examination. The parasite is complex and aggressive. Much of your problem stems from your having been so vibrantly alive and healthy to begin with. Organisms found you a warm, wet, hospitable place, and indeed you are. They multiplied rapidly, often in great clusters, which are the rashes that plague your skin. It's perfectly normal, even desirable to have life within you. Your health was vigorous enough to sustain millions of species, and their growth contributes to you vitality. I've seen it time and again."

The Doctor seemed off on a tangent. "But in my case?" I begged.