Opening my own dental practice was the highlight of my adult life. Yes, more than the ability to eat cake for breakfast. Which I don’t, because I’m a dentist.

            Anyway, it was the highlight of my life, until he appeared. One might call him Patient Zero. Or rather, Patient V.

            It was the Friday evening after my first full week of my own private practice. As I switched off my office lights I could hear one of my neighbors doing some hammering. As I reached the waiting room, I realized it wasn’t hammering. It was knocking.

            Someone stood outside, pounding on the glass front door so hard I thought they might break it.

            “Hey!” I shouted, hurrying forward. I unlocked the door and opened it a few inches. “We’re closed, sorry.”

            A man, holding his non-glass-door-pounding-hand over his mouth, said, “Please, it’s an emergency.”

            “Come back tomorrow morning. It’s Saturday, but I’ll come in—”

            “I can’t come tomorrow morning,” he hissed. “It has to be tonight.”

            A chill went through me. I didn’t want to be alone with this person after dark in the office. Or anywhere. “I’m sure you can find another dentist, one that has late hours—”

            With one quick motion he shoved the door—and me—backward. “It’s a business,” he said as he stepped inside, “not your home, so I can come in.”

            I narrowed my eyes. “I’m pretty sure trespassing laws are the same whether it’s a home or a business.”

            “Not for me.” He gave a small laugh behind his hand.

            I fished in my bag for my phone. “I’ll just call 911 and see if they think you’re as special as you obviously do.”

            “Wait.” He put one hand on my arm. So gently, it felt almost sensual. “Didn’t you have to pledge the Hippocratic Oath? Do no harm?”

            “That’s doctors. Not dentists. Plus, you’re not my patient.”

            “Please,” he said, still speaking behind his hand. “I’m in so much pain. I can’t even drink anything. I’m starving.”

            I looked him up and down. He was taller than me, by just about four inches. So around six foot one. He wore a brown suit and camel-colored wool coat that lent him a timeless quality. Yet he did have a hollowness to his cheeks, and his eyes looked a little sunken. His face and hands were pale, almost bloodless.

            Even though I knew it was a bad idea, I relented. It would only take one hateful review on Brooklyn’s Buzzin’ to torpedo my chances of claiming the Best Local Dentist award. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do. You have insurance?”

            He shook his head. “Cash will do, I presume?”

            “Great,” I said, trying to keep the eagerness out of my voice. “What’s your name, anyway?”

            “I am called Harry Seong.” He made a half-bow of quaint, charming formality.

            I nodded my head once. “Marjorie Vlad.”

            I led the way to the first treatment room. “Take a seat.”

            As I took off my coat, I turned to see him hesitating in the doorway.

            “Do you…. You can’t reveal anything you learn about me, right?” he asked.

            I cocked my head. “That’s lawyers, not dentists.”

            “But you can’t reveal any medical information about me without my consent,” he whispered. “Right?”

            “That’s true,” I said as I scrubbed my hands. “But why are you so shy? A few minutes ago you were banging down my door. Believe me, there isn’t anything you can show me that I haven’t seen before.”

            “Oh,” he said, “I doubt that.” He lowered his hand and stepped into the light.