“I promise you only my nurse and I know what’s in there.”

“I’m sorry. This is just so different from going to, say, the pediatrician.” Clarice tried to cover her embarrassment. “At Dr. Weissman’s, everybody shares information.”

“Is Francesca Weissman your pediatrician?” Charlie seemed genuinely interested. “She’s the best! Old friend of mine from Princeton. My wife really likes her, also.”

“I only met your wife once but she seems like such a lovely person.”

“Yes. I guess you and I share being very lucky with our spouses. Believe me, that’s not the story you always hear in here.” Charlie put his arm around Clarice as a signal for her to get out of the chair. “Let’s take this one step at a time. Does that sound good to you?”

“That sounds great.” Clarice began walking to the door with him. “Thank you so much, Dr. Acton. I really appreciate your seeing me.”

Charlie pressed a call button on his wall phone. “Viola, would you please take Mrs. Santorini for a complete history, and I’ll be there shortly.”

The nurse appeared at the door momentarily. “This way, Mrs. Santorini. The first room down the hall.” After Clarice left the room, the nurse turned back to Charlie. “Mrs. Rodman is waiting in room two.”

“Thank you, Viola.” Charlie nodded at her and headed back into his office. He knew he couldn’t deal with another patient, particularly Mrs. Rodman, unless he took a break. Charlie put his headphones on and flipped through the playlist on his iPod, a large collection of modern masters like Satie, Cage, the Rolling Stones, the Grateful Dead, and the Band.

Charlie settled on the Rolling Stones’ “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” and started singing along. He knew Samantha said he should make an effort to listen to hip-hop or even U2, and he should also wear something a little less retro than clogs. But these were his ten minutes in the day, and goddammit, he was going to do and wear what made him feel good.

When strutting with Mick had replenished Charlie’s energy, his mind drifted to how different his life was from his dad’s in Omaha. Charlie’s father had a reputation throughout Nebraska for being a very good doctor and a very generous man. He didn’t bother charging those people he knew couldn’t afford to pay—farmers down on their luck and disenfranchised Native Americans. When Charlie’s father died of a heart attack at fifty-three during Charlie’s sophomore year of college, he left a lot of goodwill and very little money. Subsequently, Charlie joined ROTC not out of patriotism but out of a real need to pay his college and medical school tuition.

Throughout his undergraduate years, Charlie was almost in awe of what he called “the polished people”—his classmates who had the time and the money to take six weeks to teach in a rural Mississippi school and then travel in Europe for the rest of the summer. They were the undergraduates who delighted in shopping at thrift shops because they knew there were two Armani suits hanging in their dorm room closets. Their privilege was not on the surface, but in their understated self-confidence. Charlie knew he was just as bright as any of them. But he feared in the light of day he was not only relatively unpolished, but a little dull.