She shrugged. "Break into the computer system. That's the only way I know."

"The computer in Washington?"

"They network with the local centers. But you'd have to know codes and passwords. Maybe a good hacker could get through, I don't know."

Hackers, Myron knew, worked better in the movies than in real life. A few years ago, maybe--but most computer systems nowadays were secure against such invasions.

"How long do we have here, Doctor?"

"There's no way of telling. Jeremy is reacting well to the hormones and growth factors. But it's only a question of time."

"So we have to find a donor."

"Yes." Karen Singh stopped, looked at Myron, looked away.

"Is there something else?" Myron asked.

She did not face him. "There is one other remote possibility," she said.

"What?" Myron asked.

"Keep in mind what I said before. I'm the patient's advocate. It's my job to explore every possible avenue to save him."

Her voice was funny now.

"I'm listening," Myron said.

Karen Singh rubbed her palms on her pant legs. "If Jeremy's biological parents were to conceive again, there is a twenty-five percent chance that the offspring would be a match."

She looked at Myron.

"I don't think that's a possibility," he said.

"Even if it's the only way to save Jeremy's life?"

Myron had no reply. An orderly walked by, looked in the room, mumbled an apology, left. Myron stood and thanked her.

"I'll show you to the elevator," Dr. Singh said.

"Thank you."

"There's a lab on the first floor in the Harkness Pavilion." She handed him a slip of paper. Myron looked at it. It was an order form. "I understand you might want to take a certain confidential blood test."

Neither of them said anything else as they walked toward the elevators. There were several children being wheeled through the corridor. Dr. Singh smiled at them, the pointed features softening into something almost celestial. Again the children looked unafraid. Myron wondered if the calmness spawned from ignorance or acceptance. He wondered if the children did not understand the gravity of what was happening to them or if they possessed a quiet clarity their parents would never know. Such philosophical queries, Myron knew, were best left to those more learned. But maybe the answer was simpler than he imagined: The children's suffering would be relatively short; their parents' would be eternal.

When they reached the elevator, Myron said, "How do you do it?"

She knew what he meant. "I could say something fancy about finding solace in helping, but the truth is, I block and I compartmentalize. It's the only way."

The elevator door opened, but before Myron could move he heard a familiar voice say, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Greg Downing stepped toward him.

Chapter 7.

Too much history. Again. The last time the two men had been in the same room, Myron was straddled over Greg's chest, trying to kill him, punching him repeatedly in the face until Win--Win of all people--pulled him off. Three years ago. Myron hadn't seen him since, except on highlight films during the evening news.