All my teeth are falling out, not whole, but in little pieces. I keep spitting small chunks out of my mouth. As soon as I spit out one mouthful, I have to spit again. In one hand, I am carrying a Ziploc baggie full of bits of my teeth, so full, in fact, that it seems impossible that I could have any teeth left in my mouth, but I do. This all started yesterday, when I was visiting a new dentist. I was telling him about some troubles I had been having with my teeth, and as I spoke, they started breaking and loosening from my gums right in his office as I was trying to explain my difficulties. It was his assistant who gave me the baggie. He couldn’t help me right at that moment. He had other clients. I made an appointment for a later time, and left. I rode my bicycle to my former dentist’s office, and parked it in the alley under the second floor walkway. I remember parking it carefully, taking easily stolen items off it to thwart thieves, putting them in my small backpack, locking it securely to the iron pole that supported the stairway. I was still spitting tooth fragments as I climbed the narrow staircase. At the top, outside the single-paned glass door to the clinic, an assistant stood on the landing, peering with concentration through the door, as if watching some proceeding inside. She looked up as I approached, and said I couldn’t go in. But I showed her my baggie full of teeth, and she let me in. My old dentist was surprised to see my teeth in fragments in the baggie, but as we spoke, I became aware of someone behind me. I turned. It was the new dentist. Smiling. It occurred to me that he looked like the real estate agent who had come to my door earlier in the day. He said he figured this was where I was coming. I shrugged. So I wanted a second opinion. It was my right. He smiled, still, but said if I let my former dentist treat me, not to expect that he would help me. Fine, I said. Whatever. I left that office, too, with my teeth in a bag.