“I’m going to have to discharge Zeke soon,” she continued. “He wants out of the hospital and there’s nothing we can do to keep him. He thinks it’s all some kind of CIA mind-control plot. He’s kind of driving me nuts.” She laughed. “Don’t put that in your story. Anyway, I’d be a lot more discouraged by his resistance if I hadn’t got such good stuff from Arcade, and Mimico isn’t too far behind either. I’m more disappointed on your behalf. Zeke hasn’t exactly been the most thrilling subject for your story.”

“You have to work with what happens,” I said, still a little short of breath. “You can’t ask for more.”

“Ready to go? Your serve.”

Lactic acid doused my quads and it felt impossible that I’d get running again. Yet to my surprise, I discovered a viable strategy in the second set.

It all hinged on my serve. For whatever reason, serving has always come naturally. I planted my dead legs, tossed the ball with Statue of Liberty poise, and powered it just over the tape. Dr. Kriss, I found, wasn’t so adept at digging out a quality serve, and her return would come back hovering. If I could summon the energy to charge on the follow-through, I had a chance to place the shot shrewdly beyond her reach. I remained defenseless when she could play at her pace, but I managed to prevent her breaking serve and stole the set.

When we took a break this time, there was no talking. I was proud to have made her sweat, and now she focused on hydration, staring at the court’s roughened clay.

“Let’s go,” she said.

It was time to witness excellence.

Dr. Kriss brought out a devastating weapon: a cruel drop shot that either froze me in no-man’s-land or sent me flailing to the net. The total effortlessness of this shot was demoralizing.

On match point, Dr. Kriss withheld the drop shot, opting to work me side to side until I was just lobbing it back in despair. Then, with one colossal overhand smash, she finished it.

“Forgive me,” she said when she saw me heaving. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“All good.”

The clubhouse sent out glasses of 7UP and fresh towels.

“Do you want a beer?” she said as I took up a glass.

“No thanks.”

“They can send one, it’s no problem.”

“No, this is good.”

“So,” she said, and took a quick sip, “you think you have what you need?”

I looked into the fizzing cup and said, “It’s fine, I like 7UP.”

“No,” she said, laughing, dabbing her neck. “I mean for the story. I wish I could host you indefinitely, it’s a joy to have you around, but I have a mountain of work ahead of me with the report.”