One of the things he had figured out was that Spurgeon’s lack of familiarity with the odontoid process was a sign the intern needed to know more about anatomy. When he offered to work with him Spurgeon accepted eagerly, and Dr. Sack gave them permission to dissect in the pathology laboratory of the medical school. They worked there several times a week, Spurgeon learning quickly and Adam enjoying the drill.

One evening Sack wandered in and nodded a greeting. He said little but instead of leaving he pulled up a chair and watched. Two nights later he returned, and this time when they were finished he asked Adam to come into his office.

“We could use some part-time help in the Pathology Department at the hospital,” he said. “Want to give it to us?”

The work wouldn’t pay him nearly as much as moonlighting in the Emergency Room at Woodborough, but neither would it drain his energies or cut as deeply into his valuable sleep-time. “Yes, sir,” he said without hesitation.

“Jerry Lobsenz did a good job on you. I don’t suppose we could lure you into Pathology next year?”

The offers were beginning to come in, signs that there was an end to the endless struggle. “I’m afraid not.”

“The money not big enough?”

“That’s part of it, but not all of it. I just wouldn’t want to do it full-time.” It wasn’t in the Silverstone Greater Scheme of Things.

Sack nodded. “Well, you’re honest about it. Let me know if you ever change your mind.”

So he had very little reason now to leave the hospital at all. The old red-brick buildings became his world. His hours in Pathology were irregular but not unpleasant. He enjoyed working by himself in the singing silence of the white lab, aware it was an environment in which some people could not function but where once again he was able to work at high efficiency.

He divided his free time between Pathology and the animal lab, where he was learning a great deal from Kender. He was struck by the complete lack of resemblance between the two men who had taught him the most. Lobsenz had been a small, introspective Jew, with the slightest trace of German accent that became discernible when he was tired. And Kender . . .

Kender was Kender.

But perhaps he was trying to crowd in too much. For the first time in his life he was sleeping poorly on a regular basis, and he was dreaming again, not the furnace room dream, the diving one.