David tried again. "Let's be specific. Say that CMV pays Bartlet Hospital a thousand dollars each month for each person in the plan. Then if anybody has to be hospitalized during the month for whatever reason, CMV doesn't have to pay any more. So if no one gets sick for the month, the hospital makes out like a bandit. But what if everybody gets sick and has to go to the hospital? What do you think will happen then?"

"I think you still might be over her head," Angela said.

"I understand," Nikki said. "If everybody got sick the hospital would go broke."

David smiled with satisfaction and gave Angela a playful poke in the ribs. "Hear that?" he said triumphantly. "That's my daughter."

A few hours later, they were back home near their Southend apartment. Angela was lucky enough to find a spot only half a block from their door. David gently woke Nikki, who'd drifted off to sleep. Together the three walked to their building and mounted the stairs to their fourth-floor walk-up.

"Uh oh!" Angela said. She was the first to reach their apartment.

"What's the matter?" David asked. He looked over her shoulder.

Angela pointed at the door. The trim was split from the point where a crowbar had been inserted. David reached out and pushed the door. It opened with no resistance. All three locks had been broken.

David reached in and turned on the light. The apartment had been ransacked: furniture upended and the contents of cabinets and drawers scattered about the floor.

"Oh, no!" Angela cried as tears welled in her eyes.

"Easy!" David said. "What's been done is done. Let's not get hysterical."

"What do you mean, 'Let's not get hysterical'?" Angela demanded. "Our home's been ruined. The TV's gone."

"We can get another TV," David said calmly.

Nikki came back from her room and reported that it hadn't been touched.

"At least we can be thankful for that," David said.

Angela disappeared into their bedroom while David surveyed the kitchen. Except for a partially empty container of ice cream melted on the counter, the kitchen was fine.

David picked up the phone and dialed 911. While he was waiting for the call to go through, Angela appeared with tears streaming down her face, holding a small, empty jewelry box.

After David gave the details to the 911 operator, he turned to Angela. She was struggling to maintain control.

"Just don't say anything super-rational," Angela managed through her tears. "Don't say we can get more jewelry."

"Okay, okay," David said agreeably.

Angela dried her face on her sleeve. "Coming home to this rape of our apartment makes Bartlet seem that much more appealing," she said. "At this point I'm more than ready to leave urban ills behind."

"I don't have anything against him personally," Dr. Randall Portland told his wife, Arlene, as they got up from the dinner table. She motioned their two sons, Mark and Alien, to help clear the table. "I just don't want to share my office with an internist."

"Why not?" Arlene asked, taking the dishes from her sons and scraping food scraps into the disposal.

"Because I don't want my post-ops sharing a waiting room with a bunch of sick people," Randy snapped. He recorked the unfinished bottle of white wine and put it into the refrigerator.

"Okay," Arlene said. "That I can understand. I was afraid it was some juvenile surgeon-internist squabble."

"Don't be ridiculous," Randy said.

"Well, you remember all the jokes you used to have about internists when you were a resident," Arlene reminded him.

"That was healthy verbal sparring," Randy said. "But this is different. I don't want infectious people around my patients. Call it superstitious, I don't care. But I've been having more than my share of complications with my patients and it has me depressed."

"Can we watch TV?" Mark asked. Alien, with his angelically huge eyes, was standing behind him. They were seven and six years old respectively.

"We already agreed that…" Arlene began, but then she stopped. It was hard to resist her sons' pleading expressions. Besides, she wanted a moment alone with Randy. "Okay, a half hour."

"Yippie!" Mark exclaimed. Alien echoed him before they dashed off to the family room.

Arlene took Randy by the arm and led him into the living room. She had him sit on the couch, and she took the chair opposite. "I don't like the way you are sounding," she said. "Are you still upset about Sam Flemming?"

"Of course I'm still upset about Sam Flemming," Randy said irritably. "I didn't lose a patient all through my residency. Now I've lost three."

"There are some things you cannot control," Arlene said.

"None of them should have died," Randy said. "Especially under my care. I'm just a bone doctor screwing around with their extremities."

"I thought you were over your depression," Arlene said.

"I'm having trouble sleeping again," Randy admitted.

"Maybe you should call Dr. Fletcher," Arlene suggested.

Before Randy could respond the phone rang. Arlene jumped. She'd been learning to hate its sound, especially when Randy had post-ops in the hospital. She answered on the second ring, hoping that it was a social call. Unfortunately it wasn't. It was one of the floor nurses at Bartlet Community Hospital wanting to speak with Dr. Portland.

Arlene handed the phone to her husband. He took it reluctantly and put it to his ear. After he'd listened for a moment, his face blanched. He replaced the receiver slowly and raised his eyes to Arlene's.

"It's the knee I did this morning," Randy said. "William Shapiro. He's not doing well. I can't believe it. It sounds the same. He's spiked a fever and he's disoriented. Probably pneumonia."

Arlene stepped up to her husband and put her arms around him and gave him a squeeze. "I'm sorry," she said, not knowing what else to say.

Randy didn't respond. Nor did he try to move for a few minutes. When he did, he silently disengaged Arlene's arms, and went out the back door without speaking. Arlene watched from the kitchen window as his car descended the driveway and pulled out into the street. She straightened up and shook her head. She was worried about her husband, but she didn't know what to do.

Harold Traynor fingered the mahogany and inlaid gold gavel he'd bought for himself at Shreve Crump amp; Low in Boston. He was standing at the head of the library table in the Bartlet Community Hospital. In front of him was the lectern that he had had built for the hospital conference room. Scattered on its surface were his extensive notes which he'd had his secretary type up early that morning. Stretching out from the lectern and scattered down the center of the table was the usual collection of medical paraphernalia in various stages of evaluation by the hospital board. Dominating the confusion was the model of the proposed parking garage.

Traynor checked his watch. It was exactly six P.M. Taking the gavel in his right hand, he struck it sharply against its base. Attentiveness to detail and punctuality were two characteristics Traynor particularly prized.

"I would like herewith to call to order the Executive Committee of the Bartlet Community Hospital," Traynor called out with as much pompousness as he could muster. He was dressed in his best pin-striped suit. On his feet were freshly polished elevator shoes. He was only five foot seven and felt cheated as far as stature was concerned. His dark, receding hair was neatly trimmed and carefully combed over his apical bald spot.

Traynor spent a great deal of time and effort preparing for hospital board meetings, both in terms of content and his appearance. That day he'd gone directly home to shower and change clothes after a day trip to Montpelier. With no time to spare, he did not stop at his office. Harold Traynor was an attorney in Bartlet specializing in estate planning and tax work. He was also a businessman with interests in a number of commercial ventures in the town.