Accidents like these, he says, as though this is a common variety of accident that should stop happening all the time. He probably prepared and rehearsed that pitch with his wife. One minute he’s a fan. The next, he’s a critic. One year, my roof is getting front-page press. Now it’s earning warnings and hosting horror and facilitating gossip. I tell Ben what he wants to hear, which is that I’ll absolutely start looking into it. When he presses for hows or whys and time lines, I tell him my waiting room is starting to pile up, but that I’ll get on it as soon as possible, and “thank you so much for being proactive and supportive during this difficult time.”

Ending the call brings small relief, since Ben Walters has thrown me off schedule. My waiting room is gridlocked, and although my patients have granted me a grace period because they’ve all heard the chatter, relayed the chatter, (gotten high off the chatter), their good graces won’t last forever.

The proper order of things has collapsed. I can’t even escape the building at the end of the day—fresh air ten steps away—without being sucked back toward sick breath, hot germs, and antiseptic. Simone’s the parasite this time, saying, “Dr. Hart, wait. We need to talk.”

Ten steps from freedom, I spin around and say too loudly, “What do you want?”

She is unfazed. “To finish the conversation we started.”

“We didn’t start it. You started it. You blindsided me.”

She lets my desperation fade before saying, “I want a raise.”

I tell her the truth: that life is volcanic at the moment, but when things settle, we’ll talk.

“That won’t work for me.” She hands me a pair of documents printed on bond paper. The first is a spreadsheet listing her responsibilities, and in corresponding columns, the distribution of time per task in a given week, the dollar values for each per hour, skill sets required, continuing education courses she wants me to fund. The other sheet is her resume. Up to date, well designed. She says, “I had a hunch you might be too busy to talk, so I made it easy for you. That’s what I do. Everything is there. Go home, read it over, let me know if you have questions. I’ll expect an answer by next Monday.”

“Come on, Simone. A week from today? You know how difficult things are right now. Life’s been—”

“Crazy,” she interrupts. “I know.” Off she goes, saying, “It’s always crazy.”

She walks like a drum majorette back to the desk where she manages my life. All of these years, so steady. She sure picked a shitty time to have a growth spurt.