As Pia sat and sat in the narrow waiting room of Dr. Helmut Springer, her determination to see him didn’t waver. Her tryst with George had succeeded in establishing in her mind what she needed to do. She had a burning need to know two things. The reason why Dr. Rothman became sick was one issue; another was why the vaunted and lauded Columbia medical staff had, in her mind, apparently screwed up his treatment. She knew she was only a fourth-year medical student, but from her perspective she couldn’t come up with a compelling reason why Dr. Rothman and Dr. Yamamoto should have died at all, let alone died less than a day after the men were admitted to the infectious disease ward at the hospital. It wasn’t as if they were in some backwoods operation—this was one of the absolute premier medical institutions in the world.

Though Springer probably wouldn’t be happy to see her, she was hopeful that if she talked with him he could aid her quest to find out what had happened. He was, after all, a world-renowned infectious disease specialist. She knew his reputation of not treating medical students with anything close to respect and she knew their meeting the day before had not ended well; still she was optimistic. If he didn’t know that she was the one who first recognized Rothman’s incipient peritonitis, she was going to tell him herself, thinking it should count for something.

After forty-five minutes of waiting, Springer’s receptionist finally announced to Pia that the doctor could see her now. Pia quickly entered his office. Springer was at his desk facing into the small room. There were no other chairs; it was Springer’s way of keeping meetings short.

“Dr. Springer, I’m sorry to bother you again, and I know I annoyed you the last time we met. I apologize for all that. But I’m a medical student, and if I can’t learn from my experiences, then I’m a pretty poor excuse for one. And I apologize for questioning—”