Primly, she held it forward like a parole officer might hold a specimen just surrendered by a sketchy suspect soon to be cuffed and sent back to stir in the sheriff’s van before all tests had been completed and verified.

"We have a problem," repeated my long-suffering lady, now directing her regard of impatient disappointment and resigned superiority towards Abey–and then again back at me.

"Looks like a jar of tiny green kidneys," I offered weakly.

"Not funny," she said, dismissing me before training her hard glare at poor old Abe.