“These are wild, irresponsible accusations,” said Harold evenly. “I should tell you that Recycle, Ltd. is a marginal operation of Breur Chemical Corporation and they maintain this facility because they feel they are doing the community a service. I can assure you that if they thought otherwise, they would close the factory down themselves.”

“Well, it goddamn well ought to be closed,” shouted Charles.

“One hundred and eighty workers in this town might disagree,” answered Harold, losing patience. “If you cause trouble, mister, I can guarantee you’ll get trouble.”

“I…” began Charles but he realized he was holding a dead phone. Harold Dawson had hung up.

“God!” Charles shouted as he furiously shook the receiver.

Cathryn took the phone away and replaced it in its cradle. She’d only heard Charles’s side of the conversation, but it had upset her. She forced him to sit down at the kitchen table, and she shooed her mother away when she’d appeared at the door. Her face was streaked with tears, but she was no longer crying.

“I think you’d better tell me about the benzene,” said Cathryn.

“It’s a poison,” fumed Charles. “It depresses the bone marrow somehow.”

“And you don’t have to eat it to be poisoned?”

“No. You don’t have to ingest it. All you have to do is inhale it. It goes directly into the bloodstream. Why did I have to make that playhouse out of the old ice shed?”

“And you think it could have caused Michelle’s leukemia?”

“I certainly do. Apparently she’s been inhaling benzene all the time she’s played there. Benzene causes the rare kind of leukemia that she has. It’s too much of a coincidence. Especially with Tad’s aplastic anemia.”

“The benzene could have caused that?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you think Recycle has been putting benzene into the river?”

“I know they have. That’s what I found out tonight. And they’re going to pay. I’ll get the place shut down.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll talk to some people tomorrow. I’ll get in touch with the EPA. Somebody is going to want to hear about it.”

Cathryn studied Charles’s face, thinking of Dr. Keitzman’s and Dr. Wiley’s questions. “Charles,” began Cathryn, marshaling her courage. “This is all interesting and probably important but it seems to me that it’s a little inappropriate at this time.”

“Inappropriate?” echoed Charles with disbelief.

“Yes,” said Cathryn. “We’ve just learned that Michelle has leukemia. I think that the primary focus should be taking care of her, not trying to get a factory shut down. There will always be time for that, but Michelle needs you now.”

Charles stared at his young wife. She was a survivor, coping in a difficult situation with great effort. How could he hope to make her understand that the core of the problem was that he really didn’t have anything to offer Michelle except love? As a cancer researcher he knew too much about Michelle’s disease; as a physician he couldn’t be lured into false hope by the panoply of modern medicine; as a father he was terrified of what Michelle was going to face because he’d gone through a similar situation with his first wife. Yet Charles was an activist. He had to do something, and Recycle, Ltd. was there to keep from facing the reality of Michelle’s illness and his deteriorating situation at the Weinburger Institute.

Charles recognized that he couldn’t communicate all this to Cathryn because she probably wouldn’t understand it and if she did it would undermine her own hopes. Despite their intense love for each other, Charles accepted that he’d have to bear his burdens alone. The thought was crushing, and he collapsed in Cathryn’s arms.

“It’s been a terrible day,” whispered Cathryn, holding Charles as tightly as she could. “Let’s go to bed and try to sleep.”

Charles nodded, thinking, If I had only worked faster…

By a process so gradual as to be imperceptible, Michelle became aware that her room was lighter. The shade over the window now appeared dark with a light border rather than white with a dark border. Along with the gradual increase in illumination, the coming day was also heralded by the increased activity in the hallway. Michelle’s door was open about six inches and the shaft of yellow incandescent light that came through had been a meager comfort for her during the interminable night.

Michelle wondered when Charles or Cathryn would come. She hoped it would be soon because she wanted, more than anything else, to go home to her own room, her own house. She couldn’t understand why she had had to stay in the hospital because after her dinner, which she had barely eaten, no one had done anything to her other than look in and check that she was OK.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Michelle pushed herself into a sitting position. She closed her eyes and steeled herself against a rush of dizziness. The movement exacerbated her nausea which had troubled her all night. Once she’d even gotten up when her saliva had pooled beneath her tongue, and she was afraid she was going to vomit. Holding on to the sides of the toilet, she’d retched but hadn’t brought up anything. Afterwards, it had taken all her strength to get back into bed.

Michelle was certain she’d not slept at all. Besides the waves of nausea, she also had pains in her joints and abdomen, as well as chills. The fever, which had gone away the previous afternoon, was back.

Slowly Michelle slid off the bed onto her feet, gripping the IV pole. Pushing the pole in front of her, she began to shuffle to the bathroom. The plastic IV tubing still went into her left arm, which she kept as immobile as possible. She knew there was a needle on the end of the tubing and she was afraid that if she moved her arm, the needle would pierce her in some damaging way.

After going to the toilet, Michelle returned to her bed and climbed in. There was no way she could feel any more lonely or miserable.

“Well, well,” beamed a redheaded nurse as she came bustling into the room. “Awake already. Aren’t we industrious?” She snapped up the window shade unveiling the new day.

Michelle watched her but didn’t speak.

The nurse went around the other side of the bed and plucked a thermometer out of a narrow stainless steel cup. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” She flicked the thermometer, examined it, bent down, and poked it into Michelle’s mouth. “Be back in a jiffy.”

Waiting until the nurse was out the door, Michelle pulled the thermometer out of her mouth. She did not want anyone to know she still had a fever in case that might keep her in the hospital. She held the thermometer in her right hand, near to her face so that when the nurse came back, she would be able to put it into her mouth quickly.

The next person through the door was a false alarm. Michelle got the thermometer back into her mouth, but it was a man in a dirty white coat with hundreds of pens stuffed in his pocket. He carried a wire basket filled with glass test tubes with different-colored tops. He had strips of rubber tubing looped through the edges of his basket. Michelle knew what he wanted: blood.

She watched, terrified, as he made his preparations. He put a rubber tube about her arm so tight that her fingers hurt and roughly wiped the inside of her elbow with an alcohol swab, even the tender spot where they’d taken blood the day before. Then using his teeth, he pulled the cap off a needle. Michelle wanted to scream. Instead, she turned her head to hide silent tears. The rubber was unsnapped, which caused about as much pain as when it was put on. She heard a glass tube drop into the wire basket. Then she felt another stab as he yanked the needle out. He applied a cotton ball to the puncture site, bent her arm so that it pressed against the cotton, and gathered up his things. He left without saying a single word.