“I’m prepared to meet your demands, provided they are reasonable,” said Dr. Ibanez.

“And what do you want from me?” asked Charles.

“Only that you won’t embarrass the Weinburger. We’ve had enough scandal.”

For a second, Charles was not sure what Dr. Ibanez meant. If nothing else, the events of the previous week had impressed him with his own impotence and vulnerability. Isolated first in his house, then in intensive care, he had not realized the extent to which he had become a media figure. As a prominent scientist who had risked his life to save his daughter, the press would be happy to hear any criticism he might have of the Weinburger, particularly after the bad notices the institute had already received.

Dimly Charles began to assess his negotiating strength. “All right,” he said slowly, “I want a research position where I’ll be my own boss.”

“That can be arranged. I’ve already been in contact with a friend in Berkeley.”

“And the Canceran evaluation,” said Charles. “All the existing tests have to be scrapped. The drug has to be studied as if you’d just received it.”

“We already were aware of that,” said Dr. Ibanez. “We’ve started an entirely new toxicity study.”

Charles stared, his face reflecting astonishment at what Ibanez was saying. “And then there’s the matter of Recycle, Ltd. Dumping of chemicals into the river must stop.”

Dr. Ibanez nodded. “Your lawyer’s activities got the EPA involved in that affair and I understand the problem will be solved shortly.”

“And,” said Charles, wondering how far he could go, “I want Breur Chemicals to make a compensatory payment to the Schonhauser family. They can keep their name out of the affair.”

“I think I can arrange that, particularly if it remains anonymous.”

There was a pause.

“Anything else?” asked Dr. Ibanez.

Charles was amazed that he’d gotten so far. He tried to think of something else but couldn’t. “I guess that’s it.”

Dr. Ibanez stood up and placed the chair back against the wall. “I’m sorry that we are going to lose you, Charles. I really am.”

Charles watched Ibanez as he closed the door silently behind him.

Charles decided if he ever drove cross-country again, it would be without kids and with air conditioning. And if he had to choose between those two conditions, it would be without children. The three had been at each other’s throats ever since they left New Hampshire, though that morning they had been relatively quiet as if the vast expanse of the Utah desert awed them into silence. Charles glanced in the rearview mirror. Jean Paul was directly behind him, gazing out his side of the car. Michelle was next to him, bored and fidgety. Way in the back of the refurbished station wagon, Chuck had made a nest for himself. He had been reading for most of the trip—a chemistry text, of all things. Charles shook his head, acknowledging that he was never going to understand the boy, who now said he wanted to take a summer session at the university. Even if it were a passing fancy, Charles was inordinately pleased when his older son announced that he wanted to be a doctor.

As they crossed the Bonneville Salt Flats west of Salt Lake City, Charles hazarded a glance at Cathryn sitting next to him. She’d taken up needlepoint at the beginning of the trip and seemed absorbed in the repetitive motion. But sensing Charles’s stare, she looked up and their eyes met. Despite the annoyance of the kids, they both shared a building joy as the harrowing experience of Michelle’s illness and that last violent morning faded into the past.

Cathryn reached over and placed a hand on Charles’s leg. He’d lost a lot of weight, but she thought he appeared handsomer than he had in years. And the tension that normally tightened the skin around his eyes was gone. To Cathryn’s relief, Charles was at last relaxed, hypnotized by the rushing road and the numbing blur of scenery.

“The more I think about what’s happened, the less I understand it,” said Cathryn.

Charles shifted in his seat to find a position that accommodated the fact that his left arm was in a cast. Although he had yet to come to terms with most of the emotions engendered by the affair, there was one thing he had acknowledged. Cathryn had become his best friend. If nothing else, that made the experience worthwhile.

“So you’ve been thinking?” said Charles, letting Cathryn pick up the conversation wherever she wished.

Cathryn continued pushing her bright-colored yarn through the canvas mesh. “After all the frenzy of packing and actually leaving, I’ve never really sorted out exactly what happened.”

“What is it you don’t understand?” asked Charles.

“Dad!” called Jean Paul from the back seat. “Do they play hockey in Berkeley? I mean is there ice and all that?”

Craning his neck so he could see Jean Paul’s face, Charles said, “I’m afraid there’s no ice. It’s more like continuous spring in Berkeley.”

“How stupid can you be?” groaned Chuck, tapping Jean Paul on the top of the head.

“Shut up,” said Jean Paul, twisting in his seat to swipe at Chuck’s boot. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“All right, pipe down,” yelled Charles harshly. Then in a calmer voice he said, “Maybe you can learn to surf, Jean Paul.”

“Really,” said Jean Paul, his face brightening.

“They only surf in Southern California,” said Chuck, “where all the weirdos are.”

“Look who’s talking,” retorted Jean Paul.

“Enough!” yelled Charles, shaking his head for Cathryn’s benefit.

“It’s all right,” said Cathryn. “It reassures me to hear the kids bicker. It convinces me that everything is normal.”

“Normal?” scoffed Charles.

“Anyway,” said Cathryn, looking back at Charles. “One of the things I don’t understand is why the Weinburger made such an about-face. They all couldn’t have been more helpful.”

“I didn’t understand it, either,” said Charles, “until I remembered how clever Dr. Ibanez really is. He was afraid the media would get hold of the story. With all those reporters milling around, he was terrified I’d be tempted to tell them my feelings about their brand of cancer research.”

“God! If the public ever knew what really goes on,” said Cathryn.

“I suppose if I were a real negotiator, I should have asked for a new car,” laughed Charles.

Michelle, who had been vaguely listening to her parents, reached down in her canvas tote bag and pulled out her wig. It was as close a brown to Cathryn’s hair as she had been able to get. Charles and Cathryn had implored her to get black, to match her own hair, but Michelle had remained adamant. She had wanted to look like Cathryn, but now she wasn’t so sure. The idea of going to a new school was terrifying enough without having to deal with her weird hair. She’d finally realized she couldn’t be brunette for a few months and then become black-haired. “I don’t want to start school until my hair grows back.”

Charles looked over his shoulder and saw Michelle idly fingering her brown wig and guessed what she was thinking. He started to criticize her for stupidly insisting on the wrong color but checked himself and said mildly: “Why don’t we just get you another wig? Maybe black this time?”

“What’s the matter with this one?” teased Jean Paul, snatching it away, and jamming it haphazardly on his own head.

“Daddy,” cried Michelle. “Tell Jean Paul to give me back my wig.”

“You should have been a girl, Jean Paul,” said Chuck. “You look a thousand times better with a wig.”

“Jean Paul!” yelled Cathryn, reaching back to restrain Michelle. “Give your sister back her wig.”

“Okay, baldy,” laughed Jean Paul, tossing the wig in Michelle’s direction and shielding himself from the last of his sister’s ineffectual punches.

Charles and Cathryn exchanged glances, too pleased to see Michelle better to scold her. They still remembered those dreadful days when they were waiting to see if Charles’s experiment would work, if Michelle would get better. And then when she did, they had to accept the fact that they would never know whether she had responded to the immunological injections or to the chemotherapy she had received before Charles took her out of the hospital.