Dr. Jewell hardly leans in as he says, “Don’t mind her, Mr. Allison. Sometimes Sara’s head’s in the clouds, but she’s our longest-serving PTA.” The doctor smiles, drops his voice. “And the prettiest, too.”

“PTA? That got something to do with school?” Herb frowns.

“Physical therapy assistant.” The doctor sits straight, speaks louder. “Sara’s got real commitment. She’s been working with us, what, seven years?” Sara smiles. It’s common knowledge that Dr. Jewell hires the attractive applicants, rather than the brightest ones. That’s why she got the job all those years ago. It was not her grades at ASU, surely. Not her references, spotty at best. And not her work ethic, which has landed her on probation with Dr. Jewell more times than she can count. It’s not that she doesn’t like the job; she does. But things come up. Things are always coming up.

“Eight.”

“Ah.” Herb looks her up and down, taking in her blond hair, blue eyes, full lips. Her nice long neck. Also noticing her foundation, thick enough to cover up the circles under her eyes, the eyeliner trying to make her look younger than she is. And even through the boxy pastel scrubs it’s clear she possesses a lithe, athletic body. He nods. “Sounds like a winner.”

Herb Allison is assigned to Sara for his three-a-week appointments, and he quickly establishes himself as difficult. His leg has healed enough that he can walk, shakily and with the aid of a cane, but he tires easily and prefers to come and go from Diamond in an elaborate motorized wheelchair. It’s a customized contraption, expensive enough to suggest he isn’t planning to quit it anytime soon. (It does stairs! he proudly boasted after his first appointment, when Sara and Dr. Jewell walked him out. He jumped the curb to prove the point.)

Herb spends half of any given session yelling into his cell—his curses can make even Sara’s ears burn—and the rest of it tapping away at the phone’s screen, muttering to himself. Every so often his tone shifts to obsequiousness, “Hey, baby,” and, “Hiya, champ.” He’s so engrossed that she often has to ask twice, sometimes three times, for him to lift his leg or move from one machine to the next. All the while, his yippy bichon frise, Kirby Puckett, weaves between his owner’s wheels and amid the weight equipment like the animal wants to get its tail flattened.

His third week, as she is angling his mended leg, trying for ninety degrees at the knee, she hits a tough spot. Herb, in momentary anguish, drops his phone. It clatters to the floor. “Jesus, that hurts.”

Sara can hear the tinny voice of someone on the other end: Herb? Herb! You there? Can you hear me?