"You threw that at me!" Chilton rubbed at his throat again, keeping a careful rhythm to soothe it; after all, as a psychiatrist, he greatly depended upon his throat -- and tongue, as it were. Something that escaped neither Hannibal nor Abel.

"You practically assaulted me with it, I wasn't even looking your way."

Indignation brought back the usual pitch to his soft voice. The drama didn't stop with a brutal Frisbee battle, it seemed: there was plenty of stage for a martyr.

"Goodness -- you're Gabriel." After the wash of adrenaline subsided, Chilton was able to focus on his companion the details therein. "I suppose I should have been expecting a trumpet, rather than a Frisbee."

A dog-chewed Frisbee at that.