The last time he was here, he broke a piece off the Southwestern Indian ring he had bought in the mountains a year ago. He tried to glue it back on--and got some of the dreaded toxic stuff on his fingers. He sat at the sink scrubbing his hands, growing more and more aghast. "As soon as that glue touches your skin," he said, "it kills the skin." By now he had peeled off some of his skin, and was bleeding. He kept scraping at it. He asked me to read the cautions on the bottle of glue for him as he stood at the kitchen sink with his hands under the water. It just said to rinse for 15 minutes. It didn't really say much else, other than not to swallow it or get it in your eyes. "It killed the skin on my fingers!" he was saying now. "Your skin just looks dead because you're scraping it off," I said. "Show me where the glue got, where you haven't scrubbed it." He showed me a white, pruned fingertip. "All your fingers look like that," I said; "it's 'cause they've been in water so long." Finally he relaxed, and went to bed with the ring not yet mended.