She passes the phone back and starts the stretch again, more carefully. The leg is so narrow under the shiny fabric of his track suit—half the size of its right twin. “You said you just broke your leg?” While she’d expect muscle atrophy with an injury like this, his seems extreme.

Herb, already back on the phone, holds up his palm. “I’m here, Jason. What were you saying? Right. And I’m telling you, divorce is the best thing that could happen to your career at this point. Advertisers will love that you’re back on the market—maybe we’ll even do one of those shirts-off campaigns … I know, you won’t ever show your ass. But your abs, that’s another … Liana, she seems reasonable. Just make sure she signs that NDA, then give her whatever the fuck she wants … Cash flow issues? You’re having cash flow issues?” He snorts. “Fuck you.”

Dr. Jewell is across the room, gingerly extracting an augmentation patient from the seated fly machine. Sara catches him frowning her way and drops her gaze. First tenet of Diamond Physical Therapy: discretion. Dr. Jewell’s built a very successful practice by offering a range of services to clients recovering from procedures they would rather not discuss. Vain wives, prideful husbands, public figures recuperating from private injuries: Diamond is a place where no one gawks at elaborate braces or bright incisions. Dr. Jewell wants his patients to be comfortable, to be put at ease by a firm touch and a pleasing countenance. Not to be given the third degree, especially not by the help. Sara just needs to know what has to get fixed—in Herb’s case, strength and range of motion in that broken left leg. The muscle weakness, the atrophy, the slightly slurred speech and uncontrollable outbursts—those symptoms are none of her business.

“How are we doing over here?” Dr. Jewell says, striding toward them.

“Mr. Allison is doing very well,” Sara says. “Good progress.”

“Glad to hear it.” The doctor watches the pair suspiciously.

Sara’s eyes go wide at something happening over Dr. Jewell’s shoulder. “No! Bad dog!” The doctor turns just in time to see the white scrap of a dog taking a leak against the recumbent bike.

“Ha! Ha ha!” Herb’s nearly heaving, he’s laughing so hard. He exhales into the phone. “Jason, let me call you back,” he says and hangs up. The dog trots over, tongue lolling. “Kirby, you little shit.”

Sara sets down her client’s leg. “I’ll get the Lysol.”

During his next session, his cell phone conversation is even more heated than usual. From what Sara can gather—and it would be hard not to hear the names and numbers, he’s talking so loud—he is about to finalize an endorsement contract for somebody named Moyers. Something about vitamins, men of a certain age.