[Norton places a fist on his hip, the book still clutched in the other, still scowling at his maker.]

If I were turned into a patient, you'd never find out. [He'd even put it in writing by his bedside. What are they going to do, tattle on him? He's a youngblood, he doesn't need his maker to provide blood for him anymore or hover near his sickbed like a dog wagging its tail.

Moving on...]

You will get credit if I manage to find something, or even track down the cause.

Little chance of that, though.