The breeze off the ocean was chilly, but the sun was out. I shaded my eyes for a moment, peering at the town, where pedestrian traffic was picking up as the noon hour approached. Two young mothers crossed the street at a languid pace, pushing strollers, while a dog pranced along behind them with a Frisbee in his mouth. This was not the tourist season, and the beach was sparsely populated. Empty playground equipment was rooted in the sand. The only sounds were the constant shushing of the surf and the high, thin whine of a small plane overhead.

I retrieved my duffel and the typewriter, bumping my way back into the office. By the time I reached the living room, Ann was helping Ori into bed again. I paused, waiting for them to notice me.

"I need my lunch," Ori was saying querulously to Ann.

"Fine, Mother. Let's go ahead and do a test. We should have done it hours ago, anyway."

"I don't want to fool with it! I don't feel that good."

I could see Ann curbing her temper at the tone her mother used. She closed her eyes. "You're under a lot of stress," she said evenly. "Dr. Ortego wants you to be very careful till he sees you next."

"He didn't tell me that."

"That's because you didn't talk to him."

"Well, I don't like Mexicans."

"He's not Mexican. He's Spanish."

"I still can't understand a word he says. Why can't I have a real doctor who speaks English?"

"I'll be right with you, Kinsey," Ann murmured, catching sight of me. "Let me just get Mother settled first."

"I can take my bags up if you tell me where they go."

There was a brief territorial dispute as the two of them argued about which room to put me in. In the meantime, Ann was taking out cotton balls, alcohol, and some sort of testing strip sealed in a paper packet. I looked on with discomfort, an unwilling witness as she swabbed her mother's fingertip and pierced it with a lancet. I could feel myself going nearly cross-eyed with distaste. I moved over to the bookcase, feigning interest in the titles on the shelves. Lots of inspirational reading and condensed versions of Leon Uris books. I pulled out a volume at random and leafed through, blocking out the scene behind me.

I waited a decent interval, tucked the book away, and then turned back casually. Ann had apparently read the test results from the digital display on a meter by the bed and was filling a syringe from a small vial of pale, milky liquid I presumed was insulin. I busied myself with a glass paperweight – a Nativity scene in a swirling cloud of snow. Baby Jesus was no bigger than a paper clip. God, I'm a sissy when it comes to shots.