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20 Marie Laurent Pasteur Watches Louis Walk to the Kennels after His Stroke Once I wished his brain would remain unhitched, and the world would go on ignorantly without him. I asked him questions — How old are you, Louis? I’m a boy. Aren’t you a great man of science? A great man of science? Have you had a lapse, have the doctors come? The doctors won’t come. They’re afraid. And what are they afraid of? The others. Hear them? Sick with mad-wolf disease, they scream through the streets. Are you a little boy living in Arbois? Yes, of course. But dutiful logic returned, good dog with a stick, and Louis is not crazy or dead, only scarred, left hand pinned to his chest. From the window by the sink where I scrub my hands, I watch him drag his gimp leg across the yard like a weighty hoe. His brain, once again, folds and unfolds like a hand cupped with silkworms, oh, the fine threads of thought. He will light the alcohol lamps, flame the syringes and tend to his rabid dogs. ...

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