“Yes?” I draw up the required number of units, cap the needle, grab an alcohol swab.

“Can you come here?”

I walk over to her with some impatience. “What is it, Rose?”

She looks quickly at Chip, then back at me. “He’ll have to leave,” she whispers.

I start to say something to Chip, but he’s heard. “I’ll wait outside,” he says. “It was nice to see you again, Rose.”

“Yes. It was nice to see me.” As he walks out the door, she yells,”I wish you all the happiness!” She shuffles over to her bed, flops down, and hikes up her nightgown so that I can inject her thigh. She squeezes her eyes shut, as usual. Says, “That time I didn’t even feel it!” as usual. Then she leans forward to tell me, “He shouldn’t wear that kerchief on his head.”

“No?” I swab off the injection site, pull Rose’s nightgown back down, break apart and discard the needle in the cardboard box designed for used syringes that she keeps under her bed. It’s almost full; I’ll need to get her another one.

“No. That’s for girls.”

“I’ll see you Monday, Rose.”

“Is that tomorrow?”

“No. Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Oh. Isn’t that funny.” She gets up, accompanies me to the door. “Happy honeymoon! All the best to you both!”

• • •

In the car, we ride in silence for a while. Then I say, “Chip, I like it when you come with me. But you need to let me run my own show.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to feel bad, but I have to tell you that.”

“It’s all right. I just thought, you know, it would have been nice to spend a little time with her.”

“Well, yes, it would have been, but I can’t do that when I have all the rest of these patients to see. Today is just a tight day.”

“I understand.”

I stop at a light, listen to the quiet. Then, “I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s all right. I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. Jesus, Myra, why do you always … ?”

“What?” I say.

“Nothing.”

I look over at him. “What?”

“Green,” he says, gesturing with his chin at the stoplight.

I turn right, put on some speed so that I can get to Ann Peters’s and Fitz’s sooner. I don’t feel like hearing the usual lecture from DeWitt on how most people learned to tell time in grade school.

“Is this our first fight?” Chip asks.

“Oh, I’m just … tense. I’m late.”

“It happens all the time,” Chip says. “People fight on their honeymoon.”

• • •

By the time we get to DeWitt’s, I’ve more than made up for lost time. We’re actually ten minutes early. He ought to love that. I knock on the door, and hear him bellow through it, “What?”