“Please don’t do it! Mom, please!” the boy screamed, pleaded, begged. “He’ll kill me! Mom, please!”

The lady gave the dentist an apologetic look – the kind that said, “Sorry about this.”

The dentist smiled sympathetically. “He’s just scared, is all. But I’ll have him under anaesthesia in a mo’, don’t you fret.”

“You sure I can’t just—?”

“‘Fraid not. It’s a rare man who’ll work with someone breathing down his neck!” He barked out a laugh, then grew reassuring. “Ma’am, I promise to have him out in half an hour. Everything’ll be right as rain. My word.”

The lady, with one last anxious smile, went out.

“All right!” said the dentist, briskly. He turned to the semi-conscious form in his dentist’s chair. The boy struggled gently, murmured “…no, no, I don’t wanna.” But then he was already under.

Where do we begin? the dentist wondered, looking down at the peaceable, agreeable form of the boy. He rubbed his hands in anticipation. Smiled.

Pacing over to a drawer, he withdrew something: a vial of something vile.