“Lots of fruits and vegetables, lean protein, some grains. I usually steer clear of adding lots of salt to my food. My mother has been doing most of the cooking lately, though.”

“Ah, Troy’s mom? Give her my regards, please.”

“No, my mother. My birth mother . . . she recently came into our lives. Long story.”

“Is that so?” Dr. Young’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Well, I’d count that as a blessing.”

“We do.” At least some of us, Monica thought.

“I’m going to order some blood work,” Dr. Young said. He tapped on the iPad. “In the interim, I’m also going to give you a script for a stronger anti-inflammatory, celecoxib. Brand name, Celebrex.”

“I’m familiar with it. I’ll give it a try.”

“In regard to your chronic fatigue—I suspect that may be due to the recent death in your family. Grief can be extremely draining, emotionally, physically. I could give you an antidepressant that may help.”

“Sure.” She dragged her fingers through her hair, noticed that her scalp felt too dry. A strand of hair came away in her fingers, too. She tried to refocus on her doctor, but the worsening condition of her hair continued to bug her.

“I’ve noticed some gray hairs,” she blurted out. “It probably has nothing to do with anything.”

“You’re almost forty, correct?” Dr. Young pointed to his almost bald head. “I’m forty-two, Monica, and look at me. It’s simply what happens as we age.”

“Of course. I don’t know why I mentioned it.”

His eyes were kind. “I’ll get those scripts for you and write up the blood work order. It typically takes a few days for results to come in. If I notice anything unusual, I’ll call you.”

32

Pat was at her townhouse in Roswell preparing to leave for her volunteer job at the Atlanta Humane Society when someone rang the doorbell.

She worked at the shelter three days a week, and sometimes on weekends, too, if they needed her. Two of her life’s passions had long been education, and animals. She’d exercised her passion for education over a long career in Chicago’s public school system; she’d spent her retirement years in the service of the dogs, cats, and other creatures that landed at the shelter.

When the doorbell chimed, she was in her bedroom doing her hair. Her watch read nine thirty. She wasn’t expecting a visitor. Possibly it was a delivery. Sometimes the couriers rang the doorbell when completing a drop-off.

She set down the hair brush on the oak dresser, and stepped to the large window on the other side of the room. The window overlooked the front yard and narrow driveway. A white BMW X5 was parked in front of her one-car garage.

Monica’s here? Odd that she would stop by without calling in advance. I wonder if something is wrong.