Kim helped his daughter out of the car and up the walkway to the front door. She'd spent the entire day on the family-room couch in front of the TV. Kim rang the bell and waited. Tracy opened it and started to say hello to her daughter. She stopped in mid-sentence and frowned.

"What's the blanket for?" she asked. Her eyes shot to Kim for an explanation and then back to Becky. "Come in!"

Becky stepped inside. Kim followed. Tracy closed the door.

"What's going on?" Tracy asked. She turned back the edge of the blanket from Becky's face. "You're pale. Are you sick?"

Single tears formed in the corners of Becky's eyes. Tracy saw them and immediately enveloped her daughter in a protective hug. As she did so, she locked eyes with Kim.

"She's feeling a little punk," Kim admitted defensively.

Tracy pushed Becky out to arm's length so she could again look at her face. Becky wiped her eyes. "You're very pale," Tracy said. "What's the matter?"

"It's just a minor GI upset," Kim interjected. "Probably just a touch of food poisoning. At least that was the opinion of a pediatric resident I spoke with."

"If it's so minor, why is she so pale?" Tracy questioned. Tracy put her hand to Becky's forehead.

"She doesn't have a fever," Kim said. "Just some cramps and diarrhea."

"Have you given her anything?" Tracy asked.

"Sure," Kim said. "She's had Pepto-Bismol, and when that didn't seem to do the trick, I gave her some Imodium."

"Did it help?" Tracy asked.

"Some," Kim said.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Becky said.

"Okay, dear," Tracy said. "You go on upstairs. I'll be up in a minute."

Becky hoisted the edge of her blanket and hurried up the stairs.

Tracy turned to Kim. Her face was flushed. "My God, Kim! You've only had her for less than forty-eight hours and she's sick. What did you do with her?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Kim said.

"I should have known better than to leave town," Tracy snapped.

"Oh, come off it," Kim said, becoming angry himself. "Becky could have gotten sick whether you left town or not. In fact if she's got a virus, she could easily have contracted it before the weekend when you were here."

"I thought you said it was food poisoning," Tracy said.

"That was just a statistical guess by a pediatric resident," Kim said.

"Did Ginger make food this weekend?" Tracy asked.

"As a matter of fact she did," Kim said. "She made a wonderful chicken dinner last night."

"Chicken!" Tracy exclaimed. "I could have guessed. That must have been it."

"So you're already blaming Ginger," Kim said mockingly. "You really dislike her, don't you?"

"No, I don't dislike her," Tracy said. "Not anymore. At this point, I'm indifferent to her. But the fact of the matter is, she's young and undoubtedly hasn't had much experience in the kitchen. Those of us who have, know that you have to be very careful with chicken."

"You think you know everything," Kim said. "Well, for your information Becky hardly touched the chicken. Besides, she'd been feeling punk since Saturday morning. That means that if she's got a touch of food poisoning, then she got it from the Onion Ring out on Prairie Highway, the place that your new boyfriend bragged to Becky that he owned."

Tracy reached around Kim and opened the door. "Goodnight, Kim!" she said sharply.

"There's something else I'd like to say," Kim spat. "I resent you implying to Becky that I'm some kind of ogre for encouraging her to compete in the Nationals."

"I never made a value judgment about your wishes for our daughter," Tracy said. "When Becky informed me of her reluctance to face that kind of competition, I supported her. I also told her that you might try to change her mind. That was all I said."

Kim stared daggers at his former wife. The air of psychological superiority she assumed whenever they argued enraged him, especially in this instance when she felt she had to warn their daughter about what he might say to her.

"Goodnight, Kim!" Tracy repeated. She was still holding the door open.

Kim spun on his heels and left.

SIX

Monday, January 19th

Kim's alarm was set to go off at five-fifteen in the morning, but it was rarely needed. He usually awoke just before the alarm, which allowed him to turn it off before it could shatter the early-morning peace. Kim had been getting up before dawn ever since he'd been a first-year surgical resident. And this particular morning was no exception. He climbed out of his warm bed in the pitch black and dashed stark naked into the bathroom.

Following a routine that needed no thought, Kim pulled open the heavy glass door of the shower and turned on the water full-blast. Kim and Tracy had always preferred showering to bathtub bathing, and the bathroom was the only room they'd wanted renovated back when he and Tracy had first purchased the house ten years earlier. They'd had the tub pulled out, as well as its attached tiny shower stall. In their place a generous five-by-nine-foot custom shower was constructed. Three sides were marble slab. The fourth was half-inch glass, including the door that had vertically oriented, bright brass, U-shaped handles mounted as if they pierced the thick, tempered glass. In Kim's estimation it was a bathing extravaganza worthy of a spread in a design magazine.

Breakfast was a donut and a cup of half-milk half-coffee that Kim stopped for at a Dunkin' Donuts shop near his home. He ate while he drove through the morning darkness. He also used the time to listen to medical tapes. By six he was already in his office dictating consult letters and writing checks for various overhead expenses. At six-forty-five he was in the hospital for teaching rounds with the thoracic surgery residents at which time he made it a point to see his own patients. By seven-thirty he was in the conference room for the unavoidable, daily hospital meeting. That morning it concerned hospital credentials and admitting privileges.

After the administrative meeting, Kim met with the thoracic surgery fellows whose research he supervised and participated in. That meeting went over, so he was a few minutes late to surgical grand rounds, where he presented a case of triple-valve replacement.

By ten o'clock Kim was back at his office and already behind schedule. He found out that Ginger had booked emergency patients for nine-thirty and nine-forty-five. Cheryl Constantine, Kim's office nurse, had the patients already in the two examining rooms.

The morning passed with nonstop patients. Lunch consisted of a sandwich that Ginger had ordered in. Kim ate while he went over cath results and X-rays. He also found time to return a semi-emergency phone call to a Salt Lake City cardiologist about a patient who needed a triple-valve replacement.

The afternoon was a mirror image of the morning, with back-to-back patients, including a few emergencies that Ginger slipped into the schedule. At four o'clock Kim took a short break to dash over to the hospital to handle a minor problem with one of his inpatients. While he was there he quickly did afternoon rounds.

Back at the office Kim vainly tried to catch up, but he never could. Several hours and a number of patients later, he paused for a moment to catch his breath before pushing into what was called exam room A. He used the brief respite to glance at the chart. He was relieved to see it was merely a routine post-op check. That promised the visit would most likely be a "quickie." The patient's name was Phil Norton, and as Kim entered the cubicle, Phil was already obligingly sitting on the examination table with his shirt off.

"Congratulations, Mr. Norton," Kim said, lifting his eyes from the chart. "Your stress test is now normal."