Meanwhile, William Harvey was starting to wonder if Galen’s theories were a load of nonsense. He thought it didn’t sound quite right that your body immediately used up all the blood that flowed through it and you then had to make new blood out of food: if that was true, then everyone would have to eat around eight hundred hamburgers every lunchtime to stay alive. Nobody eats that much (if you’re having eight hundred hamburgers for lunch, I strongly advice you to cute down) and we don’t all collapse because we’ve run out of blood, so he proved that Galen was making it all up. So that’s a custard pie in the face for Galen.
Three objects sat upon the carpet in Cleo Porter’s living room: an apple, a human skull, and a package wrapped in red.
It was the last of these that had Cleo well and thoroughly vexed. She lay on her stomach, bare feet waving in the air behind her and chin digging into the back of her hand. Her belly was starting to get itchy from the carpet fibers poking through her shirt, but she just wriggled a bit to scratch it. She’d stare at the glossy box for another hour if she had to, until it either disappeared or made sense.