Lou glanced down at Joey, who appeared to have drifted off. “Reimplantation,” he said, sensing the word was one that the youth was unlikely to completely understand. “We have some wonderful hand surgeons at Eisenhower Memorial. I can make some calls and we can get him over there.”

“I don’t know you, and I don’t know any of the doctors at Eisenhower Memorial,” Millie replied, “but since you work at one of the big hospitals in the city, you might know that many folks out here consider a referral to there tantamount to a death sentence. We’re very proud of our hospital here. My restaurant is one of its biggest supporters. In fact, the surgical suite is named for me and this place. Joey’s a little … limited in some ways. He may frighten easily. The doctors at DeLand know him well. They know how to be sensitive to his needs.”

“I understand,” Lou said, now measuring every single word carefully. “The metropolitan hospitals in cities like D.C. all have the reputation you spoke about—mostly because people who are referred in are usually quite ill.”

From the distance, they could now hear the siren of an approaching ambulance. Lou knew that, assuming his concerns about DeLand Regional were on the mark, time was running out on his chances to get Joey Alderson into the city.

A frontal assault seemed to be his only option.

With the approaching siren getting louder, he met Millie Neuland’s gaze with his, and held it. “Millie, I promise to explain my feelings later,” he said, “but I have my reasons—very strong reasons—and I am begging you to allow me to bring Joey into Eisenhower Memorial.… Begging you.”

The woman, clearly nonplussed by the force behind Lou’s words, studied his face.

The siren, now in front of the restaurant, cut off. Moments later, they could hear the voices and commotion from the direction of the main entrance.

Lou felt his heart sinking. There was nothing more to say.

“Well,” Millie said finally, “if Joey’s going to be trucked into the city, then I’m going with him.”

Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

There was a time Kim Hajjar and her three closest D.C. friends met for drinks once a week. But more and more, their good intentions were being eroded by their professional lives. Their meeting spots seemed tempered as well. Gone were the margaritas at Chi-Chi’s and Scorpion Bowls down at the Hong Kong. The group of women now preferred quieter watering holes where they could commiserate about jobs, kids, husbands, or in Kim’s case, the dearth of quality men.