Feeling drained but cautiously hopeful, Kilburn said good-bye to Michelle and hung up the phone. He undressed and crawled under the covers in his underwear. He tried to sleep, but he tossed and turned, unable to shut off the stream of thoughts.

After a while, having given up on sleep, he picked up the phone and dialed his sister’s number, aware that with the three-hour time difference it was close to nine P.M. in Vancouver. His nephew answered. “Hi, Uncle Graham!”

“Hey buddy, where’s mom?”

“She’s out.”

“Where, Matt?” Kilburn asked casually, trying to mask his concern.

“One of those meetings she always goes to. Yak, yak, yak …”

Kilburn knew his nephew meant an AA meeting. “So, you taking care of the family while I’m gone?” he asked.

“As if. Have you forgotten I’m only ten?”

“That’s right! So much for the motorbike I was planning to bring home for you,” Kilburn joked and his nephew groaned. “Your mom’s okay, though?”

“I guess. She’s not getting sick in the morning like before,” he said, showing a glimmer of insight.

“And how’s Shayna?”

“Oh, she’s still all bent out of shape about that Robby Markum twerp.” Then he added in disgust: “Girls!”

Kilburn chuckled. “Take it from me, they don’t get any easier to understand. Hey, Matt, I’ll be back in a few days. Let’s get out to the rink and shoot the puck around.”

“Okay,” he said happily. “But I don’t think you can keep up with me anymore. You’re getting a bit long in the tooth, Uncle Graham.”

“I have no idea where you pick up these expressions, but Matt,” he warned, “I’m going to wipe the ice with you when I get home.”

Kilburn remained smiling when he got off the phone. He was pleased to hear that Kyra must have stayed sober. He lay down on the bed again. Though tired, sleep wouldn’t come. In his mind, he walked himself through the events from the moment he first heard of the multiresistant group-A strep growing in Thomas Mallek’s sputum. He took little pride in having put MRGAS and Oraloxin together. If not him, some other clinician was bound to have made the same connection. And that realization troubled him.

He was still mentally wrestling with the chronology when he heard the click of the electronic lock. The door opened quietly. Hearing the soft padding of steps in the dark room, he reached over and turned on the lamp.

Seth Cohen stood beside his bed dressed in the same navy shirt and pants as when he left but his hair looked a little more tussled. “Sorry, Graham. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

Kilburn noticed that the bedside alarm clock read 2:14 A.M. “No. You were quiet. I was still awake.”

“Are you doing okay?” Cohen asked.

“I’m better, thanks,” Kilburn said.