He felt his hands tighten into fists. "I was just leaving."

Greg put a hand on Myron's chest. "I asked you a question."

Myron stared at the hand. "One good thing," he said.

"What?"

"No transportation time," Myron said. "We're already at the hospital."

Greg sneered. "You sucker-punched me last time."

"You want to go again?"

"Pardon me," Karen Singh said. "But are you guys for real?"

Greg kept glaring at Myron.

"Stop it," Myron said, "or I'll wet myself."

"You're a son of a bitch."

"And you're not on my Christmas card list either, Greggy-poo." Greggy-poo. Very mature.

Greg leaned closer. "You know what I'd like to do to you, Bolitar?"

"Kiss me on the lips? Buy me flowers?"

"Flowers for your grave maybe."

Myron nodded. "Good one, Greg. I mean, ouch, I'm wounded."

Karen Singh said, "Just because this is a children's floor doesn't mean you two have to act like ones."

Greg took a step back, his eyes never leaving Myron. "Emily," he spat suddenly. "She called you, right?"

"I have nothing to say to you, Greg."

"She asked you to find the donor. Like you found me."

"You always were a bright boy."

"I'm calling a press conference today. I'm going to make a direct appeal to the donor. Offer a reward."

"Good."

"So we don't need you, Bolitar."

Myron looked at Greg, and for a moment they were back on the court, faces drenched with sweat, the crowd cheering, the clock ticking down, the ball bouncing. Nirvana. Gone forever. Snatched away by Greg. And by Emily. And maybe most of all, when he looked at it honestly, by Myron's own stupidity.

"I've got to go," Myron said.

Greg took a step back. Myron moved past him and pressed the elevator button.

"Hey, Bolitar."

He faced Greg.

"I came here to talk to the doc about my son," Greg said, "not rehash our past."

Myron said nothing. He turned back to the elevator.

"You think you can help save my boy?" Greg asked.

Myron's mouth went dry. "I don't know."

The elevator dinged and opened. There were no good-byes, no nods, no further communication of any sort. Myron stepped inside and let the doors close. When he reached the first level, he went to the lab. He rolled up his sleeve. A woman drew his blood, untied the tourniquet, and said, "Your doctor will be in touch with you about the results."

Chapter 8.

Win was bored, so he drove Myron to the airport to pick up Terese. His foot pushed down on the gas pedal as though it had offended him. The Jag flew. As was his custom when driving with Win, Myron kept his eyes averted.

"It would appear," Win began, "that our best option would be to locate a satellite marrow clinic in a somewhat remote area. Upstate maybe or in western Jersey. We would then break in at night with a computer expert."

"Won't work," Myron said.

"Por qua?"

"The Washington center shuts down the computer network at six o'clock. Even if we were to break in, we couldn't bring up the mainframe."