“I just wanted to check on my patient,” Samira said, her voice more hesitant than she would have preferred. “I’ve been in the library studying up on knee-replacement surgery.”

“Really?” Charu questioned, with a tone that suggested doubt.

“Really,” Samira echoed, trying to sound forceful.

Charu eyed Samira with a look of disbelief but didn’t voice it. Instead, she added, “Mrs. Benfatti is visiting.”

“Will she be leaving soon? I wanted to ask Mr. Benfatti a few questions about symptoms.”

Charu merely shrugged before pushing past Samira.

Samira watched her as she headed in the direction of the desk. Samira was in a quandary about what to do. She couldn’t hang around the floor waiting for Mrs. Benfatti to leave, yet if she returned to the library, she wouldn’t know when the wife departed. On top of that, she wondered if running into Charu meant she should abort the effort altogether. Of course, the trouble with doing that was that it might be a week before she had another American patient with some kind of history of heart trouble who would make an appropriate target. By then the benefits of competing with Veena probably wouldn’t accrue.

Samira was still debating the issue when she was surprised yet again. This time it was Mrs. Lucinda Benfatti, who was a moderately tall, heavyset woman in her mid-fifties with tightly permed hair. Having met Samira that day, she recognized her immediately. “My word, you do put in a long day.”

“Sometimes,” Samira stammered. Her mission during which she was to avoid being seen was devolving into a bad joke.

“What time do you work until?”

“It varies,” Samira lied. “But I’ll be heading home shortly. How is the patient doing? I wanted to stop by and check.”

“Well, aren’t you a dear! He’s doing reasonably well, but he’s not good with pain, and he’s having a lot of pain. The nurse who was just in here gave him an additional pain shot. I hope it works. Why don’t you go in and say hello. I’m sure he’d be glad to see you.”

“I’m not sure that’s appropriate, since he just had a pain shot. I don’t want to bother him.”

“It’ll be no bother. Come on!” Mrs. Benfatti took Samira by the elbow and walked her into her husband’s room. The lights had been dimmed, but the overall level of illumination was reasonably bright, since the large, flat-screen TV was on and tuned to the BBC. Mr. Benfatti was propped up in a semi-recumbent position. His left leg was encased in a device that was slowly but constantly flexing the knee joint thirty degrees several times a minute.

“Herbert, dear,” Mrs. Benfatti called out over the sound of the TV. “Look who’s here.”

Mr. Benfatti lowered the TV’s volume with the remote and looked over at Samira. He recognized her and, like his wife, commented on the impressive length of Samira’s workday.

Before Samira could comment, Mrs. Benfatti intervened. “I don’t know about the rest of you people, but I’m exhausted. I’m going back to the hotel and collapse. Good night again, dear,” she said, kissing Herbert’s broad forehead. “Hope you sleep well.”