"We found a house that we like," David said.

"I'm not surprised," Sherwood said. "There are lots of wonderful houses in Bartlet."

"It's a house owned by Clara Hodges," David continued. He handed over the real estate summary sheet. "The asking price is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. What does the bank think about the property and the price?"

"It's a great old house," Sherwood said. "I know it well." He scanned the summary sheet. "And the location is fabulous. In fact it borders my own property. As far as the price is concerned, I think it's a steal."

"So the bank would be willing to underwrite our purchase at that price?" Angela questioned. She wanted to be sure. It seemed too good to be true.

"Of course, you'll offer less," Sherwood said. "I'd suggest an initial offer of one hundred and ninety thousand. But the bank will be willing to back the purchase up to the asking price."

Fifteen minutes later David, Angela, and Nikki stepped back out into the warm Vermont sunshine. They had never bought a house before. It was a monumental decision. Yet having decided to come to Bartlet they were in a decisive frame of mind.

"Well?" David asked.

"I can't imagine finding something we'd like better," Angela said.

"I can even have a desk in my room," Nikki said.

David reached out and tousled Nikki's hair. "With as many rooms as that house has, you can have your own study."

"Let's do it," Angela said.

Back in Dorothy's office they told the pleased realtor their decision. A few minutes later Dorothy had Clara Hodges on the phone, and although it was a bit unconventional, a deal was concluded orally at a price of two hundred and ten thousand dollars.

As Dorothy drew up the formal documents, David and Angela exchanged glances. They were stunned to realize they were the new owners of a home more gracious than they could have ever hoped to have owned for years to come. Yet there was some anxiety as well. Their debt had more than doubled, to over three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

By the end of the day, after a bit of shuttling back and forth between Dorothy's office and the bank, all the appropriate papers were filled out and a closing date was set.

"I have some names for you," Dorothy said when they were through with the paperwork. "Pete Bergan does odd jobs around the town. He's not the world's smartest fellow, but he does good work. And for painting, I use John Murray."

David wrote the names down with their phone numbers.

"And if you need a sitter for Nikki, my older sister, Alice Doherty, would be delighted to help out. She lost her husband a few years ago. Besides, she lives out your way."

"That's a wonderful tip," Angela said. "With both of us working we'll need someone just about every day."

Later that same afternoon David and Angela met the handyman and the painter out at their new home. They arranged to have a general cleaning as well as a minimum of painting and repairing to make the house weatherproof.

After one more visit to the hardware store so Nikki could pet Rusty one last time and say goodbye, the Wilsons got on the road for the drive back to Boston. Angela drove. Neither David nor Nikki dozed. They were all keyed up from what they'd accomplished and full of dreams about their new life that was imminently to begin.

"What did you think about Dr. Portland?" David asked after a period of silence.

"What do you mean?" said Angela.

"The man was hardly friendly," David said.

"I think we woke him up."

"Still, most people wouldn't act that irritable. Besides, he looked like death warmed over. He's changed so drastically in a month."

"I thought he sounded and looked depressed."

David shrugged. "He wasn't even that friendly the first time we met him, now that I think of it. All he wanted to know was whether I played basketball. Something about him makes me feel uncomfortable. I hope sharing an office with him doesn't become a sore spot."

It was dark by the time they returned to Boston; they'd stopped for dinner on the way. When they got back to their apartment, they looked around in wonderment, amazed that they'd been able to live for four years in such a tiny, claustrophobic space.

"This entire apartment would fit into the library of the new house," Angela commented.

David and Angela decided to call their parents to share the excitement. David's were delighted. Having retired to Amherst, New Hampshire, they felt like Bartlet was next door. "We'll get to see a lot more of you guys," they said.

Angela's parents had a different response.

"It's easy to drop out of the academic big leagues," Dr. Walter Christopher said. "But it's hard getting back in. I think you could have asked my opinion before you made such a foolish move. Here's your mother."

Angela's mother came on the line and expressed her disappointment that Angela and David hadn't come to New York. "Your father spent a lot of time talking to all sorts of people to make sure you had good positions here," she said. "I think it was inconsiderate of you not to take advantage of his effort."

After Angela hung up she turned to David. "They've never been particularly supportive," she said. "So I suppose I shouldn't have expected them to change now."

Traynor arrived at the hospital with time to spare for his afternoon meeting. Instead of going directly to Helen Beaton's office, he went to the patient area on the second floor and walked down to room 209. After taking a breath to fortify himself, he pushed the door open. Being chairman of the board of directors of the hospital had not changed Traynor's aversion to medical situations, particularly bad medical situations.

Conscious of breathing shallowly in the presence of the seriously ill, Traynor moved across the darkened room and approached the large orthopedic bed. Bending over and scrupulously avoiding touching anything, he peered at his client, Tom Baringer. Tom didn't look good, and Traynor didn't want to get too close lest he catch some awful illness. Tom's face was gray and his breathing was labored. A plastic tube snaked from behind his head, feeding oxygen into his nose. His eyes were closed with tape, and ointment oozed out between his eyelids.

"Tom," Traynor called softly. When there was no response, he called louder. But Tom did not move.

"He's beyond responding."

Traynor jumped and the blood drained from his own face. Except for Tom, he'd thought he was alone.

"His pneumonia is not responding to treatment," the stranger said angrily. He'd been sitting in a corner of the room. He was cloaked in shadows; Traynor could not see his face.

"He's dying like the others," the man said.

"Who are you?" Traynor asked. He wiped his forehead where perspiration had instantly appeared.

The man got to his feet. Only then could Traynor see that he was dressed in surgical scrubs, covered with a white jacket.

"I'm Mr. Baringer's doctor, Randy Portland." He advanced to the opposite side of the bed and gazed down at his comatose patient. "The operation was a success but the patient is about to die. I suppose you've heard a variation of that quip before."

"I suppose I have," Traynor said nervously. Shock at Dr. Portland's presence was changing to anxious concern. There was something decidedly strange about the man's manner. Traynor wasn't sure what he would do next.

"The hip has been repaired," Dr. Portland said. He lifted the edge of the sheet so Traynor could see the tightly sutured wound. "No problem whatsoever. But unfortunately it's been a fatal cure. There's no way Mr. Baringer will walk out of here." Portland dropped the sheet and defiantly raised his eyes to Traynor's. "There's something wrong with this hospital," he said. "I'm not going to take all the blame."