Olive oil. Cloying, tongue-gucking stuff. Nothing a Sallysweet River family would ever spoon over its food.

One of my school friends saw the results first — Sharr Crosbie, daughter of two miners. Sweet girl, no harm in her, though I couldn’t stand being in the same room with her ever after. To my shame, I’ve inherited my father’s talent for sulks. But it rankled my heart, the witless way she told her story over and over, to me, to our parents, to the full news media.

"I was with this poor old man, in precious bad shape…" (False, Sharr-girl, false; he’d only just come in, and had some motion in his toes as well as a hint of bowel control — better condition than most of our patients.) "… and I was washing him off, you know, a sponge bath, the way he liked…" (All our Ooloms hated sponge baths; they grumbled and whined how the sponges tickled.) "… so I was wiping round his face when I spilled a dab of soap in his eye…" (The clumsy cow.) "… and he closed his eyes. He closed his eyes!"

Sharr squealed. People raced in, then went wild. Pook came close to breaking the patient’s chart, punching buttons to see what the man’s medication was.

Olive oil. Olive oil.

Dads came running from his office. "Who’s hurt, what’s wrong?" Then he ordered everybody to clear the hell back while he did some tests. Blood samples. Tissue grams. A needle-point biopsy into the man’s huge shoulder muscle.

By then, the whole town was standing nearby, watching, holding each other’s hands, crossing fingers or making a show of praying — everyone but me. I was sitting on Zillif’s empty cot, telling myself there was no blessed way I’d join that crowd of fools, believing anything important could happen in Sallysweet River, now or ever…

Shrieking cheers of victory. Bedlam. Piss-wetting hysteria. When people began to stampede, hugging and kissing everyone in sight, I scuttled to the angry sanctuary of my room.