“They’ve got short sewer pipes. You may not think that’s a problem, what with not thinking of the sewers and all, but problem is, snakes have been crawling up those pipes. And you know where most of them lead?”

“Where?”

“They lead to toilets, Daughtry. The pipes lead to toilets.”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh,’ is not a good enough exclamation for the amount of snake bitten taints I’ve seen in the past five weeks. ‘Oh!’ Is barely the bottom level shout someone might make if a coral snake were to spring out of their sewer pipe and latch onto their tender garden. Now, Daughtry, I know you’re trying. But please understand that we’re dealing with matters of life and death. A snake bite can be dangerous. But the embarrassment of being bit in the private parts in your own home? That can be fatal.”

“Oh.”

“Hell, some folks won’t even pick up the phone to call the ambulance. They’d rather die in agony than admit there’s little snakey sleuths crawling through their pipes and bitin’ they’re ‘you know whats,’ But that’s not matter for me. I still gotta investigate them all.”

“All of them?”

“All of them. Not what you expected in medical school, huh?”

“Not at all.”

“This is it. The glamorous life of a mortician. Well, once you get to it. But for now? You’ll be doing the cutting and capping. Someone’s gotta write those reports up. And after the horror of identifying the sorry sons of bitches, it ain’t gonna be me.”

“So… it’ll be me?”

“See— I knew you were a streetwise kid once you stepped in here with those scuffed penny loafers and a dangle ring bowl cut. We’ll make a hell of a team, boy.” Doc gave Daughtry’s limp hand a quick pump and turned towards the door. “And remember— best not to use the facilities here. Save that for Murdoch county.”