Weakened by loss of plasma and dehydration, he had adamantly refused any blood from the bank, ranting about AIDS and other infectious diseases. It was his body and he’d do damn well what he pleased with it. If he was meant to die now, then just get it over with. Better that than a lingering death.

The doctors reluctantly went along with his demand, figuring a man of Peter’s size would be able to recover from the loss of two pints of blood. After the primary trauma had passed, he appeared to be settling down.

All illusion.

Having rested a meager two days, knowing that Noam was back in the womb of his family, he suddenly checked himself out of the hospital AMA—against medical advice—and booked a flight back to New York.

That was insane, Rina had insisted. There was no way she was going to sit by and let him kill himself. He absolutely was not going anywhere.

But again Peter had shut her out. She had sat by helplessly, watching him bite back pain and throw clothes into a suitcase.

He was going to New York, he had announced. Now that Noam was out of his hair, he felt strong enough to deal with the family. Might as well get the damn thing over with, say his good-byes and never see Brooklyn or any Levines again as long as he lived. Period! Discussion ended! And while he was back east, he was going to stop by and visit his parents in Florida. If she and the boys wanted to come along, okay. If not, he’d go alone.

His entire chest had been bandaged, his wounded arm wrapped in surgical gauze and stabilized by a sling. Still, he had insisted on doing his “own packing, thank you very much.” His movements had been slow and painful, every twist and turn making him wince. His face was gaunt, his coloring ashen. Any second, Rina had thought he’d keel over. But he had plodded along, using stubbornness as a shield against logic. No amount of pleading, crying, screaming, or reasoning had been able to sway his mule-headed decision.

Peter’s pathological denial finally caught up with him in New York. While riding to Brooklyn from the airport, his radial artery abruptly opened, blood gushing from the bandage, drenching him and the backseat of the cab. He was rushed to the hospital in dire need of blood, which he still refused to take from a bank.

Rina knew Peter’s blood type—B negative—was uncommon. Then she remembered that Cindy had arrived in town, a new freshman at Columbia. Rina called her and Cindy rushed over to the hospital only to discover that her blood was incompatible with Peter’s.

Fortunately, there was a nearby donor with compatible blood. At first Peter refused. But Rina persisted, gaining a hard-fought victory. Finally, Peter relented and accepted a pint of blood from Frieda Levine.