Mukherjee set his transparent clipboard aside. He probed the interior of Van’s mouth with his white-gloved fingers. "There is no sign of infection," he reported, staring intently and feeling his way over the aching pulp. "The facial bones will knit quickly in a man who is so fit." The latex-coated fingers left Van’s mouth. Mukherjee gave Van’s solid left bicep a reassuring pat. "You are military, eh? A training accident."