Good Dr. Patel (Chapter Selection: Rough Draft)

 "Did you really think you would get away with it?", asked the man whose badly-burned face was scarcely covered by what appeared to be a mismatched set of prosthetics. The voice, unusually gravelly, was no doubt the result of heavily-damaged vocal chords. "Your first mistake was coming back. You left me for dead here", lamented a man who used to be recognized as Dr. Patel. "I suppose it's ironic to call any room in this morgue home, but after the oxygen explosion and subsequent investigation, they stripped me of my license. I'm screwed all the way around, kid". Patel fired up a Winston. "I tell myself that these things will eventually kill me. Probably a good thing. Hey, with any luck at all maybe I'll satisfy a nicotine fit one night and set off a methane pocket in here. Kill myself and collapse the old building down onto me. Kind of a two-for-one deal, and easier to explain to the insurance company. You know, my kids won't come anywhere near me, not that I blame them. Still, they are my kids and I want to provide for them -even if you took that option away from me by not following protocol." Carl could barely glance upon the former surgeon without feeling a wave of revulsion.

"Did I tell you Winick hangs around here these days? You remember him. He lost half of his right hand in the accident. Said something about returning the favor. I don't recall him mentioning anesthesia, though.