“Do you need to talk to me?” she went on. “I was just on my way to the hospital to make rounds, but if something’s wrong, I can fit you in.”

“No, actually, I was trying to find—”

I stopped without saying his name. If Roscoe was dead, I didn’t want to sound like a fool. However, Alicia leaped to the correct assumption.

“Oh, you’re looking for Roscoe. Of course. Well, he’s inside. You know him, that boy works too hard.”

“Look who’s talking,” I said.

Alicia squeezed my shoulder affectionately. “You’re sweet. Go on in, he’ll be happy to see you.”

I continued into the clinic, where several patients were waiting in the lobby. I didn’t have time to ask the receptionist about Roscoe before the inner door opened, and my friend emerged, stooping slightly to help an elderly black woman who was using a walker. He wore more stylish, expensive glasses than he’d worn as a priest, and his face was smoothly shaven, but otherwise, he hadn’t changed. Like his mother, Roscoe wore a white doctor’s coat, which made me smile. Apparently, in this world, Alicia Tate had gotten her wish by having her son follow in her footsteps.

As Roscoe straightened up, he saw me. He wore the same sober expression I’d known since we were boys. “Dylan, hey, what are you doing here? Everything okay?”

“Fine, but I need a minute if you can spare it.”

He glanced around the crowded waiting room and at the watch on his wrist. “I’m a little slammed, but sure, come on back.”

I followed him down the inner hallway. We turned into a small office, where he sat behind a beat-up desk, under a wall that included a framed copy of his medical degree from the Pritzker School at the University of Chicago. Alicia had gone there, too. On his desk, I saw pictures of him with his parents, along with a small photo of the two of us, back when we were kids playing football in Horner Park.

He followed my stare. “Long time ago, huh?”

“Very. And now look at you. That little kid’s a doctor.”

“I know. It’s still hard for me to believe.”

“I always thought that you would become a priest.”

Roscoe chuckled. “Yeah. That was a tough call, but I’ve never looked back. Plus, I get to work with my mom. Most days, that’s a blessing. Other days . . . well, you know how she is.”

I smiled.

Back in high school, Roscoe had gone in the opposite direction. He’d decided that going into the ministry would allow him to do more good for people than medicine, by helping them find meaning in the losses and setbacks of their lives. He’d also rolled his eyes in exasperation at the idea of ever being able to work in a clinic with his mother.