But he was still harboring some doubts, especially when Sally handed the tablet over so that he could scroll through the truly impressive number of five-star reviews she’d racked up on each unit, even the window AC one. As Will scanned the all-caps parade of them (“AMAZING!” “CHARMING!” “STEPS FROM THE BLUE LINE!”), he started to feel guilty, as though it was his fault that there was such a gigantic, insurmountable gap between Donny’s apartment and the ones Sally was so deservedly proud to show him.

He felt like he was about to break bad news to a patient.

He set down the tablet, cleared his throat.

“The thing is,” he said, while she paged through a neon-pink three-ring binder she’d brought along, “the place I have . . . it’s not in as good of shape as what you’re showing me here. It needs a lot of work.”

Sally waved a hand, used the other to reach over the binder to take the tablet back. “That’s easy. I’ve got names of contractors out the wazoo, and they’re loyal to me. You could have it fixed up before I get back from sunning myself in paradise!”

He shifted in his chair, the bad-news-breaking feeling even heavier now.

“That’s probably not in the cards,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. He couldn’t blame her for thinking that hiring a bunch of contractors to do speedy work would be easy for him. A lot of people thought doctors wiped their asses with money, and Will guessed some of them probably did. But that was so far from his own experience it was almost comical. “I wouldn’t have a lot of start-up costs for something like this.”

Sally looked up at him, fixed him with a problem-solving stare. Will thought the contractors were probably a little afraid of her, in addition to being loyal. He almost wished Dr. Abraham had come down to this meeting, too. It might’ve been nice to see the guy get put in his place, for once.

“Do you have time? Because time is almost as good as money when it comes to something like this. My places”—she tapped at the tablet with her index finger—“they look sharp now, but they didn’t always.”

She turned the tablet, showing a picture from her personal photo gallery—the cluttered living room of what he thought was the North Elk Grove place. It looked dark and neglected, the furniture sagging and the walls stained. It looked . . . not all that different from Donny’s place.

Sally swiped once, revealed the same room, freshly painted, light-colored furniture in a different arrangement.

“Bright walls and sturdy slipcovers did a lot for this one. After a while I started to turn enough profit that I could do more, but at first it was only me and my elbow grease.”