Norman was a doctor. He was a doctor because he was good at fixing things, and at some point in his life he determined that the most important things that needed fixing were human beings. So he became a doctor.

He looked rather doctor-ish, in his trenchcoat, his traveling case of medical supplies and his pattern baldness. He was friendly, having the bedside manner that everyone expected of a good doctor.

The day that the sun became sick, people all over the world panicked. Some rioted, looted, killed one another, for in a world that was nearing its end, one might as well take whatever one could find and damn the consequences. Some sat back and despaired, or killed themselves, rather than face the horror of the impending doom of the human race itself.

But some examined the problem and wondered if there was a solution. There was none, of course, at least none that were obvious, and most of these gave up too, and went the route of the above categories. But one of their number did not. And that was Norman.

Norman simple packed his bag and strode into the sunset, like he would when going to see any other patient. Norman knew he could fix the sun. He could fix anything.