THE DOCTOR COULD NOT CONCENTRATE.

              “Still worrying about the splinter, Doctor?” Donna asked.

              Donna possessed the annoying quality of saying things extremely respectfully, so much so that the doctor often couldn’t determine whether or not she was mocking him.

              “Yes,” he answered truthfully.

              “I see.”

              The doctor frowned deeper. Was she teasing him? But he decided not to ask. Donna was sterilizing scalpels with strong rubbing alcohol, and the doctor had no wish to be stabbed.

              “What should I do?” he asked.

              Donna did not answer.

              The doctor rubbed put his hand in his pocket, rubbing the glass vile he kept there. He had been testing to see if warmth would change the properties of the object. There seemed to be no change. The doctor still wanted to do a few other tests before melting  the object though.

              “I’m going to leave early. The smell of alcohol is making me dizzy. Lock up after you leave, Donna. There aren’t any appointments early tomorrow, right?”

              “No, doctor.”

              “Alright. I’m heading out. Goodbye.” The doctor waved, as he stepped out of the room. Donna waved back, a scalpel in her hand. It was a frightening sight.

              The doctor made his way to the garage, his mind still on the object. He kept on thinking in loops, his train of thought always ending up at, What should I do? What should I do? He never got an answer. He pulled out of the garage and headed for the road, just making two green lights before being stopped at a red one.

              The smell of old bananas never left the car. The doctor had complained that the smell of rubbing alcohol had made him dizzy, but bananas were even worse. Finally, after making it through a short stretch of highway, the doctor was forced to roll down a window.

               He never liked rolling down car windows. There was never something good outside. Always the smell of gasoline, if you could smell anything at all through the freezing breeze. But it was better than bananas. The doctor tried to concentrate on bananas. He didn’t want to think of anything else.

              But the doctor had already begun to pick up another, well-worn train of thought.

              What should he do with the vial? Should he try another testing facility? It would cost money, of course. That wasn’t good. Should he send it to some other science department that specialized in odd materials? That may cost money too, but if he really discovered a new metal, it could be named after him. He would gain fame and, of course, a lot of money.

              But would he really? The doctor had heard medical horror stories of plagiarism and theft. Maybe the credit wouldn’t go to him. Maybe someone else would pretend to discover it. After all, perhaps the tailor should really be the person who discovered the new metal. Or the cat.

              I’m getting ahead of myself, the doctor thought. More likely than not, it wasn’t some new material. All materials had already been accounted for. The periodic table looked complete already. There can’t be another substance squeezed between. But still, what was the metal?

              And what should he do?

              Just then, a woman with messy hair sprint across the street. The doctor was barely able to brake. The woman stumbled and fell. Paper was strewn across the road.

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              Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. The doctor thought, panicked. He was about to get out of the car, but the woman had stood up abruptly and gathered as many pieces of paper she could. Then she ran across the street as if nothing had happened.

              “Hey!” the doctor called, “If you value your life, use the crosswalk!”

              The woman had already stumbled off.

              The doctor sighed, and returned to his car. Others were beeping him. The doctor quickly pulled off the road, into a gas station parking lot.

              His heart was pounding at an undoubtfully unhealthy pace. The doctor reminded himself that it was these idiots that allowed him to have a job. But, despite the revolting smell of gas, the doctor knew he was not yet ready for the road. He went inside the gas station, which, for some reason, smelled strongly of cheese, and bought a bottle of water. By the time he reached his car again, he had already guzzled half of bottle. Much better.

              But the doctor knew he’d better determine what to do with this strange splinter. This time he had barely been able to stop himself from causing a fatal accident. Even though it was the woman to blame, the doctor hadn’t been concentrating on driving either. Who knew what other dreadful things could happen?

              So, doctor, he thought, sounding like Donna, what are you going to do?

              He’ll try to find the source of this material. Which mean he’ll have to go to the tailor.

              It was the first tangible plan he had made so far.

              The doctor picked up his phone and called Donna.

              “Yes, doctor?” she asked.

              “Donna. You know the little tailor with the splinter?”

              “The splinter you’re still worrying about?”

              “Yeah. Can you get me his address? I know he left it in his contact information.”

              “Would you like me to email it to you?”

              “Yes, please.”

              “I’ll get it to you in five minutes.”

              The phone call was ended again.

              In five minutes, the doctor was back on the road, gunning for 42 Funnel Street.

----------------------------------------

              “YES?” A TINY, PORTLY MAN WITH A SMALL TOUPEE OPENED THE DOOR.

              “Hello,” the doctor answered.

              “Ah, yes, doctor,” the tailor spoke, his voice unnaturally high, “Is there anything I can do for you?” He eyed the doctor carefully. “Was my blood bad? Do I need to be tested? I knew it! I had an infection! I was dizzy the whole day. It must be too late to recover now. You come bearing bad news. I must contact my family. Oh! What a tragic death I shall suffer! Death from a feline’s fang.”

              “Actually, your cat never bit you. Your cat licked you. A cat has a barbed tongue, and the splinter was caught in one of the barbs. That’s all.”

              “It’s called poetic license, doctor,” the little man replied with contempt, “I don’t want my cause of death to be ‘licked by his cat.’”

              “Don’t be so dramatic. You’re not going to die.”

              “Then why are you here? My contact information was listed under ‘emergency’. I’d hardly believe you’d be the sort to pay your dear patients a visit.”

              The doctor hesitated. Half of him wanted to argue that he was a very nice doctor. Half of him agreed that the tailor was right. “It’s mandatory,” he lied.

              “I highly doubt that. The waiting room was full that day I went. I don’t believe you really went to all those people’s houses.”

              “You misunderstand. You have a special case. The object I found in your finger is quite rare, and can be quite deadly to some people. You are lucky to be immune. I just want to know where it came from, and if there are more. If so, it would have to be taken care of immediately to prevent larger accidents.” It wasn’t a complete lie, after all. The doctor hadn’t determined if it was deadly or not yet. But he had learned that anything that was green, and glowing was usually nothing good.

              The tailor glared at the doctor, not quite believing his story. Finally, he let out a sigh. “Very well. My cat was in the woods I believe, when she licked the metal. The woods over there.” He pointed a pudgy finger toward the woods in his backyard.

              “Thank you,” the doctor replied graciously, “You may have just saved a dozen lives.”

              “Hmph,” the man snorted, and slammed the door shut.