“You seemed to know that kid,” he said. “Who the hell is he?”

“His name is Robert Seibert,” said Thomas. “He’s a second-year pathology resident.”

“I’m going to have the kid’s balls in Formalin. Who does the little turd think he is, coming up here and putting himself up as our Socratic gadfly?”

Over Ballantine’s shoulder, Thomas could see George making his way over to them. He was just as provoked as Ballantine.

“I got his name,” said George menacingly, as if he were revealing a secret.

“We already know it,” said Ballantine. “He’s only in his second year.”

“Wonderful,” said George. “Not only do we have to put up with philosophers, but also smart-ass pathology residents.”

“I heard there was a death this month in one of the cath rooms in radiology,” said Thomas. “How come it wasn’t presented?”

“Oh, you mean Sam Stevens,” said George nervously, watching Robert leave the room. “Since the death occurred during the catheterization, the medical boys wanted to present it at their death conference.”

While Thomas watched Dr. Ballantine and George fume, he wondered what they’d say if he told them that Cassi had been involved with the so-called SSD study. For everyone’s sake he hoped they wouldn’t find out. He also hoped that Cassi had had sense enough not to continue her association with Robert. All it could do was cause trouble.

In a totally dark examination room, Cassi was lying flat on her back and could not have been more uncomfortable. She wasn’t in pain but close to it as she was forced to keep her eye still while Dr. Martin Obermeyer, chief of ophthalmology, shined an intensely bright light into her left eye. Worse than the discomfort was her fear of what the doctor would say. Cassi knew she’d been less than responsible about her eye problem. Desperately she hoped that Dr. Obermeyer would make some reassuring comment as he examined her. But he remained ominously quiet.

Without so much as a word, he shifted the light into her good eye. The beam came from an apparatus that the doctor wore around his head, similar to a miner’s light, but more intricate. Although the light seemed bright in her left eye, when it shifted to the good eye the intensity was so great it was difficult for Cassi to believe it did not cause damage in and of itself.

“Please, Cassi,” said Dr. Obermeyer, lifting the light beam and peering at her beneath the eyepieces of the instruments. “Please hold your eye still.” He pressed down with a small metal stylus.

Irritative tears welled up, and Cassi could feel them spill over and run down the side of her face. She wondered how much longer she could stand it. Involuntarily she gripped the sheet covering the examining table. Just at the moment she thought she could no longer remain still, the light disappeared, but even after Dr. Obermeyer turned on the overhead lights, she could not see well. The doctor was a blur to her as he sat down at his desk to write.

It concerned her that he was being so reticent. Obviously he was annoyed at her.

“Can I sit up?” asked Cassi hesitatingly.

“I don’t know why you ask my opinion,” said Dr. Obermeyer, “when you don’t follow any of my other suggestions.” The ophthalmologist didn’t bother turning around as he spoke.

Cassi sat up and swung her legs over the side of the table. Her right eye was beginning to correct itself from the trauma of the bright light, but her vision remained blurry from the drops used to dilate her pupils. She watched Dr. Obermeyer’s back for a moment, digesting his comment. She’d expected him to be annoyed that she’d canceled her last appointment, but she hadn’t thought it would be this bad.

Only after he finished writing and closed his chart did he turn back to Cassi. He was sitting on a low stool with wheels, and he glided over to face her.

Cassi’s line of vision from her perch on the exam table was a good foot higher than the doctor’s. She could see the shiny area on the top of his head where his hair was thinning. He wasn’t the world’s best-looking man, with his full, heavy features and a deep line in the middle of his forehead. Yet the whole package was not unattractive. His face exuded intelligence and sincerity, two qualities that Cassi found appealing.

“I think I should be frank,” he began. “There is no sign of the blood clearing from your left eye. In fact it appears as if there is new blood.”

Cassi tried not to betray her anxiousness. She nodded as if she were listening to a discussion of another patient.

“I still cannot visualize the retina,” said Dr. Obermeyer. “Consequently I do not know where the blood is coming from or if it is a treatable lesion.”

“But the ultrasound test…” began Cassi.

“It proved that the retina is not detached, at least not yet, but it cannot show where the bleeding is coming from.”

“Perhaps if we waited a little longer.”

“If it hasn’t cleared by now, it’s extremely unlikely that it will. Meanwhile we could lose the only chance we have to treat. Cassi, I’ve got to see the back of your eye. We must do a vitrectomy.”

Cassi glanced away. “It can’t wait for a month or so?”

“No,” said Dr. Obermeyer. “Cassi, you have already gotten me to postpone this longer than I wanted to. Then you canceled your last appointment. I’m not sure you understand the stakes here.”

“I understand the stakes,” said Cassi. “It’s just not a good time.”

“It’s never a good time for surgery,” said Dr. Obermeyer, “except for the surgeon. Let me schedule this thing and get on with it.”

“I have to discuss it with Thomas,” said Cassi.

“What?” questioned Dr. Obermeyer with surprise. “You haven’t told him about this?”

“Oh yes,” said Cassi quickly. “Just not the timing.”

“When can you discuss the timing with Thomas?” asked Dr. Obermeyer with resignation.

“Soon. In fact tonight. I’ll be back to you tomorrow, I promise.” She slid off the table and steadied herself.

Cassi was relieved to escape from the ophthalmologist’s office. Deep down she knew he was right; she should have the vitrectomy. But telling Thomas was going to be difficult. Cassi stopped at the end of the corridor on the fifth floor of the Professional Building, the same building where Thomas had his office. She stared out a window at the early December cityscape with its leafless tree-lined streets and densely packed brick buildings.

An ambulance was screaming down Commonwealth Avenue, its lights flashing. Cassi closed her right eye, and the scene vanished to mere light. In a panic she reopened her eye to let the world back in. She had to do something. She had to talk with Thomas despite the difficulties they’d had since her visit to Patricia.

Cassi wished that Saturday two weeks previously had never taken place. If only Patricia had not called Thomas. But of course that had been too much to ask. Expecting Thomas to come home angry, Cassi was shocked when he didn’t come home at all. At ten-thirty, Cassi had finally called Thomas’s exchange. Only then did she learn that Thomas had an emergency operation. She left word for him to call and waited up until two, finally falling asleep with book in hand and light on. Thomas finally came home on Sunday afternoon and, instead of screaming at her, refused to talk to her at all. With deliberate calm he moved his clothes into the guest room next to his study.

For Cassi the “silent treatment” was an unbearable strain. What little conversation they did have was just chatter. Dinner was the worst, and several times Cassi, pleading a headache, took a tray to her room.

After a week, Thomas had finally exploded in a rage. The triggering event had been insignificant; Cassi had dropped a Waterford glass on the tiled kitchen floor. As Thomas rushed over to her and started yelling, he accused Cassi of being deceitful and maneuvering behind his back. How dare Cassi go to his mother and accuse him of drug abuse?