While the aide dealt with the bedpan, the nurse offered Darlene a sleeping pill and a small paper cup of water.

"I don't think I need it," Darlene said. With all the drugs she'd had during the day, she felt like she was floating.

"Take it," the nurse enjoined. "It's been ordered by your doctor."

Darlene looked up into the nurse's face. She couldn't tell if her expression was brazen or bored or disdainful. Whatever it was, it seemed inappropriate. It made Darlene wonder why the woman had gone into nursing. Darlene took the pill, swallowed it, and chased it with the water. She gave the cup back to the nurse. "You could be a little more personable," she suggested.

"People get what they deserve," the nurse said, taking the cup and crushing it in her hand. "I'll be back to see you later."

Don't bother, Darlene thought but didn't say. Instead, she merely nodded as the nurse and the aide left. Recognizing her neediness and vulnerability, she didn't want to cut off her nose to spite her face. With her leg bound up in the flexing machine and with as much pain as she got when she moved her knee, she was totally dependent on the nursing staff.

Darlene gave herself a dose of her pain medication to dull her toothache-like discomfort after the bedpan ordeal. She soon felt calm and detached. The emotions evoked by the run-in with the nurse and the aide faded into insignificance. The important thing was that the surgery was over. The anxiety she'd felt the night before was a thing of the past. She was now on the road to recovery, and, according to the doctor, she could look forward to playing tennis in six months or so.

Without being aware of the transition, Darlene fell into a deep, dreamless, drugged slumber. She was unaware of the passage of time until she was rudely yanked back to consciousness by a searing pain racing up her left arm. A moan escaped from her lips as her eyes shot open. The TV was off, and the room was dim with only a single low-wattage nightlight down near the floor. For an instant, Darlene was disoriented, but she quickly recovered. With the pain now spreading into her shoulder, she lunged for the call button. But she didn't get to it. Instead, she felt a hand grab her wrist. Raising her eyes, she saw a white figure standing at the bedside, the face lost in shadow. Darlene opened her mouth to talk, but the words caught in her throat. The room dimmed and began to spin before Darlene felt herself falling from the light into darkness.

SHELLY, WATCH OUT!" LAURIE yelled. "Stop!" To her utter horror, her brother was running full tilt toward a stagnant lake, the shore of which was ringed with deadly mud capable of swallowing an elephant. She couldn't believe it. She'd warned him of the danger, but he wouldn't listen. "Shelly, stop!" she repeated as loud as she could.

Filled with the agonizing frustration of powerlessness in the face of imminent disaster, Laurie began running. Although she knew she would be helpless when Shelly blundered into the mud, she couldn't stand there and let the tragedy unfold without trying to do something. As she ran, she frantically looked for a long stick or a log that she could extend to her brother once he was caught in the muck, but the surrounding landscape was barren, with nothing but bare rock.

Then, suddenly, Shelly stopped about ten feet from the quicksand-like muddy border of the lake. He turned and faced Laurie. He was smiling in the same taunting fashion as he had when they were children.

Relieved, Laurie came to a halt. Panting, she didn't know if she should be thankful or angry. Then, before she could say anything, Shelly turned around again and recommenced his mad dash toward calamity.

"No!" Laurie shouted. But this time, Shelly reached the lake and ran out as far as he could go before his legs became hopelessly mired. Again, he looked back, only now his smile was gone. In its place was a look of terror. He reached toward Laurie, who'd run to the very edge of the dry land. Again, she looked for something to use to reach out to him, but there was nothing. Rapidly and relentlessly, her brother sank into the muck, with his pleading eyes riveted to Laurie's until they disappeared into the filth. All that was left was a hand vainly grasping at the air, but it, too, soon disappeared from view, swallowed by the enveloping mud.

"No! No! No!" Laurie shouted, but her voice was drowned out by a jarring jangle that pulled her from the depths of sleep. Quickly, she stretched out and quieted her ancient windup alarm clock. She flopped back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. She was perspiring and breathing heavily. It was an old nightmare that, mercifully, she'd not had for several years.

Laurie sat up and put her feet over the side of her bed. She felt terrible. The night before, she'd stayed up too late, compulsively cleaning her dirty apartment despite her exhaustion. She knew it had been a stupid thing to do, but it had been symbolically therapeutic. The literal and figurative cobwebs had to be cleaned.

She couldn't believe how much her life had changed in forty-eight hours. Although she was confident that her friendship with Jack would remain strong, her intimate relationship with him was probably over. She had to be realistic about her needs and his reality. On top of that were the concerns about her mother, as well as the worry about her own health.

Getting to her feet, Laurie went into her tiny bathroom and started her morning routine of showering, washing and drying her hair, and putting on the small amount of makeup she'd become accustomed to using. It was restricted to a touch of coral blush, a bit of eyeliner, and a natural-color lipstick. When she was finished, she looked at herself in the mirror. She wasn't pleased. She appeared tired and stressed, despite her attempts to hide it, and even with additional blush and a few dabs of concealer, she didn't look any better.

Laurie had always been a healthy person, and had taken health for granted except during a brush with bulimia in high school. Suddenly, the threat of carrying the marker for a BRCAl mutation changed that dramatically. It was a scary, disturbing idea that a genetic conspiracy might be covertly residing inside every one of her trillion cells. Although she had hoped the previous evening's research would have been reassuring, it hadn't been. She now knew a lot more about the BRCAl problem from an academic point of view; namely, that the normal gene functioned as a tumor-suppressor gene but that in its mutated form, it acted the opposite.

Unfortunately, bookish information was not a lot of help when she thought about the issue personally, particularly when she coupled what she had learned with her desire to have children. Prophylactically losing her breasts was bad enough, but losing her ovaries was much worse: It was castration. To her horror, she'd learned that if she had the marker for BRCAl, she not only had an increased chance of developing breast cancer before age eighty but also an increased chance of ovarian cancer! In other words, her biological clock was ticking even louder and faster than she had thought.

It was all very depressing, especially combined with her exhaustion from lack of sleep. The question was: Should she be tested for the BRCA marker? She didn't know. She certainly would not consent to having her ovaries removed, at least not until she had had a child. And her breasts? She didn't think she'd consent to that, either, so what would be the rationale for having the test? In her mind, such a quandary was the current problem with modern genetic testing: Either there was no cure for the illness in question, or the cure was too horrific.

After a quick breakfast of fruit and cereal, she got out of her apartment only fifteen minutes later than she would have liked. Mrs. Engler didn't disappoint her. She cracked open her door on cue and looked out at Laurie with her bloodshot eyes as Laurie repeatedly hit the elevator button in the hope of speeding it up. Laurie smiled and waved at the woman but got no response other than Mrs. Engler clicking the door shut.