“Right.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Whitney, but that’s not going to be possible after all.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not within my authority to speak about the trial.”

My instinct was to make it seem like I thought this was a normal shift in direction. I was, after all, just a Colorado soldier’s wife.

“Well, is there anyone I could ask?”

“You’ll have to talk to Rubicon.”

“What’s that?”

“Rubicon Tech,” he said. “It’s their trial.”

“And you, what, administer it at Ascension?”

“You’ll have to talk to Rubicon about what I do. Okay, Whitney?”

“Okay, Dr. Massengale.”

—

I didn’t think anyone would answer on a holiday weekend, but to my surprise, a receptionist picked up: “Rubicon Tech.”

I explained I’d just spoken to Dr. Massengale, that I was the relative of a patient, and that he said I should call this number. She transferred me to a man with a lightly Southern accent.

“This is Baker Watt.”

Again I explained who I was, why I was calling, though my curiosity was beginning to confuse me a little.

I said, “Dr. Massengale told me—”

“Dr. Massengale doesn’t have the authority to speak for Rubicon.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Who did you say you are again?”

“I’m related to a patient in your trial.”

“And you have documentation to that effect?”

“Well, no.”

“It’s my understanding this was an extremely desperate situation,” said Watt. “It’s my understanding she’d been more or less abandoned by her family. Is that accurate?”

“We’re still entitled to some explanation.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

I could tell he was just going to bully me, the soldier’s wife, so I said, “Mr. Watt, I’m a journalist.” It’s impossible to count how many rooms I’ve entered through the magic of these words. “Ever since I got to that hospital, I’ve been getting the runaround. The nurse didn’t want us in the room, Dr. Massengale got us out of there ASAP. All I know is, Floella’s part of a trial—otherwise she’d be dead—and you won’t tell us the first thing about it.”

I could almost hear his mind calculating.

“What did you say your name is again?”

“Whitney Chase.”

“And what paper are you with?”

“The Bystander, in New York. It’s a magazine.”

“Never heard of it.”

I named some other publications I’d written for. He hadn’t heard of those either, but I guess they still sounded impressive.

“Why don’t you come down to the office tomorrow morning,” he said. “We’ll get on the same page then.”

Roland came through the door in Antlers flip-flops, a fleecy white towel over his shoulder. I was looking into his eyes when I said to Watt, “I’ll be there.”