Let me tell you a story of my experience with my bone-cracker -- I mean -- chiropractor. It shows how empaths never seem to escape.
I was lying on my stomach, face smashed between the two cushions on the adjusting table, and just happened to ask how my chiropractor's arm was doing. My chiropractor had fallen a week or so before, and this was the hand he used in doing the adjustments. Our conversation went something like this:
"So, how's the arm?" Crack. Ooff.
"Oh, better. I still favoring it, but it doesn't hurt so much."
"That's good." Crack. Moan. A little voice in my left ear mentions dogs. "And how are all your puppies?" My chiropractor has a whole platoon of dogs, from very aged to a few months old.
"Funny you should ask. Two of them went at each other the other day and I got the worst of it." He puts his heavily bandaged thumb under the hole in the face rest for me to see. "They got off without a scrape."
"Well, I hope it doesn't slow you down too much." Crackity-crack. Owwwww.
"Nope, not a whit."
No escape for me. Too bad.