"The marathon approaches quickly," he says to himself. "You know," he explains, "the one in which I must stay still in a reclined chair, mouth open to the florescent light for 26 minutes and 12 seconds."

He allows one week and starts by inflicting just the slightest bit of discomfort. A little floss near the upper right canine produces blood. He collects it in a vial as a measurement, a reminder of his progress. Three days later his gums, once weak and vulnerable, remain almost unfazed when provoked. This time he uses his micro-pipet to collect the suffering, as so little evidence could be easily swallowed and forgotten otherwise. He calculates. He extrapolates. Indeed, his progress graph is promising.

When the day arrives, the silouette above congratulates him. "You are very healthy. You will live." He returns home and empties his vials. He circles the date six months in advance with a red pen.