"Do you think the whole world's brains are dangling from your scrawny head?" A heavenly voice weighing three hundred and forty pounds shattered all of The Pouting Siren's plans.
Sean Lowell had a conditioned reflex to this voice.
Like a high school senior who missed his morning alarm, the master was almost frightened into sitting up in bed.
Then he suddenly noticed the "evidence" of a drip attached to his hand.
Instinctively, he wanted to hide his hand under the quilt.
In his rush, he moved too quickly, nearly pulling out the needle.
The whole set of actions took merely two seconds, yet somehow this patient turned it into a bit of a "comedy."
Gordon Sterling walked to Sean Lowell's bedside.
He remained silent.
He began flipping through the admission records hanging from the doctor's headboard.
"40 degrees? Do you think you're a three-year-old? How have you managed to get yourself to 40 degrees?"
His pleasant voice, combined with his agitated tone, seemed a bit off.
