“But I don’t want to miss school,” said Michelle.

“Don’t you worry about school,” said Charles with a nervous laugh. He eyed Cathryn for a moment who also laughed in the same hollow fashion. “It’s important that you stay here for some tests so that we can find out what’s causing your fever.”

“I don’t want any more tests,” said Michelle, her eyes widening in fright. She’d had enough pain.

Charles was struck by how tiny her body was in the hospital bed. Her narrow arms looked incredibly frail as they poked out of the sleeves of the hospital gown. Her neck, which had always seemed substantial, now looked about the size of his forearm; she had the appearance of a delicate and vulnerable bird. Charles knew that somewhere in the heart of her bone marrow was a group of her own cells waging war against her body. And there was nothing he could do to help her—absolutely nothing.

“Dr. Wiley and Dr. Keitzman will only do the tests they absolutely need,” said Cathryn, stroking Michelle’s hair. “You’re going to have to be a big girl.”

Cathryn’s comment awakened a sense of protectiveness in Charles. He recognized he couldn’t do anything for Michelle, but at least he could protect her from unnecessary trauma. He knew too well that patients with rare diseases were often subjected to all sorts of physical harassment at the whim of the attending physician. With his right hand, Charles twisted the soft plastic bottle so he could see the label. Platelets. With his hand still holding the bottle, he turned to Dr. Wiley.

“We felt she needed platelets immediately,” said Dr. Wiley. “Hers were only about twenty thousand.”

Charles nodded.

“Well, I’ve got to be going,” said Dr. Keitzman. Grasping one of Michelle’s feet through the covers he said, “I’ll be seeing you later, Miss Martel. Also there will be a few other doctors coming in to talk to you sometime today. We’ll be giving you some medicine in that tube, so keep your arm nice and still.”

Charles peered at the plastic tube: Daunorubicin! A fresh wave of fear washed over him, accompanied by a new urge to reach down and snatch his beloved daughter from the clutches of the hospital. An irrational thought passed through his mind: maybe the whole nightmare would disappear if he got Michelle away from all these people.

“I’m available anytime at all if you’d like to speak to me,” said Dr. Keitzman as he moved to the door.

Cathryn acknowledged the offer with a smile and a nod. She noticed that Charles didn’t look up from Michelle. Instead he sat on the edge of the bed and whispered something in her ear. Cathryn hoped his silence would not further antagonize the oncologist.

“I’ll be right outside,” said Dr. Wiley, following Dr. Keitzman. The charge nurse who hadn’t spoken left, too.

In the hall Dr. Keitzman slowed his steps, giving Dr. Wiley a chance to catch up. Together they walked toward the nurses’ station.

“I think Charles Martel is going to make this a very difficult case,” said Dr. Keitzman.

“I’m afraid you’re right,” agreed Dr. Wiley.

“If it weren’t for that poor sick child, I’d tell Martel to stuff it,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Could you believe that bullshit about withholding chemotherapy? God! You’d think that someone in his position would know about the advances we’ve made with chemotherapy, especially in lymphocytic leukemia and Hodgkin’s.”

“He knows,” said Dr. Wiley. “He’s just angry. It’s understandable, particularly when you know he’s been through all this when his wife died.”

“I still resent his behavior. He is a physician.”

“But he’s in pure research,” said Dr. Wiley. “He’s been away from clinical medicine for almost ten years. It’s a good argument for researchers to keep one foot in clinical medicine to keep their sense of perspective alive. After all, taking care of people is what it’s all about.”

They reached the nurses’ station, and both men leaned on the counter surveying the busy scene about them with unseeing eyes.

“Charles’s anger did scare me for a moment,” admitted Dr. Wiley. “I thought he’d totally lost control.”

“He wasn’t much better in my office,” said Dr. Keitzman, shaking his head. “I’ve dealt with anger before, as I’m sure you have, but not like this. People get angry at fate, not the diagnosing physicians.”

The two men watched an OR orderly skillfully navigate a gurney carrying a recent post-op down the corridor from the patient elevator. For a moment they didn’t talk. The gurney carrying the child from recovery disappeared into one of the rooms, and several nurses hurried after it.

“Are you thinking about what I am?” asked Dr. Keitzman.

“Probably. I’m wondering just how stable Dr. Charles Martel is.”

“Then we’re thinking the same thing,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Those sudden mood shifts in my office.”

Dr. Wiley nodded. “Even given the circumstances, his reaction seemed inappropriate. But he’s always been an odd duck. Lives someplace in the middle of nowhere in New Hampshire. He claimed it was his first wife’s idea but after she died, he didn’t move. And now he’s got this wife living up there, too. I don’t know. To each his own, I guess.”

“His new wife seems fine.”

“Oh, she’s a peach. Adopted the kids, treats them like her own. I was afraid when they got married that she’d bit off more than she could chew, but she’s adapted remarkably. She was devastated when I told her Michelle had leukemia, but I was pretty sure she’d deal with it better than Charles. In fact, that’s why I told her first.”

“Maybe we should talk just to her for a moment,” suggested Dr. Keitzman. “What do you think?”

“Let’s try.” Dr. Wiley turned to face the nurses’ station. “Miss Shannon! Could you come over here for a moment?”

The charge nurse came over to the two doctors. Dr. Wiley explained that they wanted to speak to Mrs. Martel without her husband and asked her if she wouldn’t mind going down to Michelle’s room and trying to engineer it.

As they watched Miss Shannon walk briskly down the hall, Dr. Keitzman’s facial muscles jumped. “It goes without saying that the child is desperately ill.”

“I thought as much when I saw her peripheral blood smear,” said Dr. Wiley. “Then when I saw her bone marrow, I was sure.”

“She could be a very rapidly terminating case, I’m afraid,” said Dr. Keitzman. “I think she already has central nervous system involvement. Which means we have to commence treatment today. I want Dr. Nakano and Dr. Sheetman to see her right away. Martel is right about one thing. Her chance of a remission is very slim.”

“But you still have to try,” said Dr. Wiley. “At times like these I don’t envy you your specialty.”

“Of course I’ll try,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Ah, here comes Mrs. Martel.”

Cathryn had followed Miss Shannon out into the hall, half-expecting to see Marge Schonhauser because the nurse had said someone was asking to see her. She hadn’t been able to think of anyone else who knew that she was in the hospital. Once clear of the room, however, Miss Shannon confided that the doctors wanted to speak to her alone. It sounded ominous.

“Thank you for coming out,” said Dr. Wiley.

“It’s all right,” said Cathryn, her eyes darting from one man to the next. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s about your husband,” began Dr. Keitzman cautiously. He paused, trying to choose his words carefully.

“We’re concerned that he may interfere in Michelle’s treatment,” Dr. Wiley finished the thought. “It’s hard for him. First he knows too much about the disease himself. Then he already has watched someone he loved die despite chemotherapy.”

“It’s not that we don’t understand his feelings. We just feel Michelle should have every chance at remission regardless of the side effects.”

Cathryn examined the narrow, hawklike features of Dr. Keitzman and the broad, rounded face of Dr. Wiley. They were outwardly so different yet similar in their intensity. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”