Doc Aberdeen looks more like a bricklayer than a doctor. In the front hall he hangs his hat on a spoke. His hair is center-parted so exactly that his white scalp shows through. I try not to look. Instead I fix my eyes on his leather kit of torture instruments, the black-brown handle worn pale from his grip. Once when he was in the john I opened it and saw its innards: hooks, scrapers, syringes, gauze. I guess I like him okay.
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