"Gary, you've got a tick," says my longtime B.C. friend Dean, back East for a visit. We've just returned from a half-hour afternoon walk along the old Dominion Atlantic Windsor-Truro rail line near my house."I do? Where?""Above your right collarbone." He points. Chin's in the way, so I can't see it. But the bathroom mirror says it's a Deer tick all right - an adult, its head already buried in me.
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