Harry lays back and closes his eyes. One week. No more tooth. A look into his mouth this morning had confirmed it. The tooth is gone. His mouth looks normal. No problems at all. Harry sighs and drifts off to sleep, his last thought to call Dr. Samson in the morning and ask about removal.

2 AM. Harry’s eyes bolt open. His mouth throbs. His screams are choked by the reservoir of blood in his mouth. He jerks about spraying blood everywhere as he claws at the sheets, trying to wake up his wife.

She wakes up screaming. “Harry! What’s the matter?”

“Ow, my mouth is-gack-killing me! The pain! Jesus Christ, the pain!”

“What should I do?”

“Call Samson, the dentist! Call him!! Oh, my god!”

“Harry!”

“My heart! Oh, dear god, this hurts so much!” Harry slumps back into bed, blood running from his mouth in streams, mixed with bone and saliva. The pain is horrendous and like nothing he’s ever experienced before, not even that kick to the groin from little Sue Martin in the sixth grade. Nothing compares. Harry writhes atop the sheets while his wife screams into the phone for an ambulance.

If he can just hold on until they get here and gas him unconscious or give him a shot of morphine or something-anything to quell the agony he’s going through.

Just a little while long-

***

“We’re very sorry, Mrs. Molarni.”

She sits there, mute, listening to the policeman. His hand is heavy on her shoulder.