"You will feel grinding and shaking" the endodontist told me as his drill's high pitched screeching undulated under the varying pressure he applied to it. All I thought about was the smoke rising into my field of view as it wafted toward the ceiling. I imagined my tooth bursting into flames and the dental assistant dousing it with the little hose she held in one hand. But then what if she hit the flaming tooth with a burst of air instead of water? I'd be breathing fire like a dragon. Whether or not my tooth burst into flames, I will never know, but the smoke rose steadily for most of the time he drilled on it. Then the drool spilling out of the numbed side of my mouth filled my left ear until it overflowed and ran down my jaw — from there it started dripping onto my collarbone in the space between my neck and my shirt's collar. Neither the dentist or his assistant were aware of the drool ponding in the space between my trapezius and collarbone, because they had a piece of latex in and around my mouth catching the debris that were flying from my tooth. Before the hour of drilling, picking and scraping at my tooth was over, breads of drool rolled down my chest where they were caught and soaked up by my shirt. "Bite down, grind your teeth back and forth and feel it with your tongue." he commanded. "How does it feel?" he asked. "Hot!"