“So any way, we had this guy on the ward once. Kinda reminded ya of Two Face from Batman comics…except his face wasn’t messed up and his odds weren’t always fifty-fifty.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, see, he carried around this little pouch and in the pouch were two percentile dice…ya know, like in Dungeons and Dragons?

“Right. Right.”

“This guy would all of a sudden, ya never really knew when it was comin’ see…he would make these odds in his head; chances of him doin’ somthin’ then he’d have ta roll to do ‘em!”

“I don’t follow you.”

“See Doc, he would say like, I mean, out loud and all, “There’s a fifteen percent chance that if I go through that door, I’m gonna drop dead. Then he’d roll his dice see and he better roll under a ninety five or he aint gonna budge! Or say, he come up ta ya and go, “There’s only a forty percent chance that I should talk to you today!” He’d roll a forty six or somethin’ and ya got the cold shoulder from him all day! He was a riot!”

“How did he determine the odds of a particular event?”

“That was the real funny part. He told us guys that the Dungeon Master told him! He had all these maps and charts of the ward and he could only move so far “per round” he’d tell us! I swear Doc; ya meet some characters here on the ward!”

“Well, instead a finding it amusing, perhaps we should see the real tragedy of his illness. Hopefully the staff at the time was able to…”

“Oh, they wanted to help the guy and they almost had the dice away from him when it happened.”

“What happened?”

“Well, somethin’ musta busted the odds good because they found him in the corner. He had swallowed the dice and little pouch into his windpipe and had choked ta death. Game over, huh Doc? Say Doc, about my smokes? How’s ‘bout it, huh? Come, on, have a heart for once.”