In the hallway they were marching and counting cadence. He studied the ceiling and smoked his cigarette. “I didn’t intend to.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t forget you.”

“It was the same with me. I’ve known a lot of men. Does that bother you? No,” she stopped his lips with her fingertips, “don’t answer that.”

He kissed her fingers. “Have you ever been to Mexico?” she asked.

“No.”

“When I was fifteen years old my uncle went to a medical meeting and I went with him,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Cuernavaca. In the mountains. Bright-colored houses. A wonderful climate, flowers all year round. A pretty little plaza. If they don’t sweep the sidewalks before noon they get citations from the police.”

“No snow,” he said. Outside it was snowing.

“No. It’s only a short drive to Mexico City. Fifty miles. Very international, like Paris. Big hospitals. Great social life. A talented norteamericano doctor can do extremely well there. I have enough money to buy any practice that suits you.”

“What are you talking about?” he said.

“You and me and Miguel.”

“Who?”

“My little boy.”

“It’s crazy.”

“It’s not. You wouldn’t mind about the little boy. I could never leave him.”

“No. That is, I don’t have to mind. It’s impossible.”

“Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

“Look, Liz . . .”

“Please. Just think about it.”

She rolled over and kissed him, her body a summer in which he played, honeydews, blackberries, peach fuzz, musk.

“I’ll show you Cortez’ palace,” she said.

Early Sunday evening Kender brought the peritonitis case back down to the OR, and when they reopened they found that the measures they had taken on Saturday morning had obviously stimulated the circulation. Enough tissue was free of gangrene to allow them to do a resection; they removed most of the small intestine and part of the large. Throughout it, the patient slept the sleep of the permanently comatose.

At breakfast Monday morning Adam heard that the man had suffered two more heart failures. He was receiving massive therapy, everything Kender could do to keep him technically alive. A minimum of two doctors was with him at all times, watching the vital signs, giving oxygen and drugs, breathing for him, dripping life-sustaining fluids into his veins.

That afternoon Adam stopped into the Surgery kitchen and saw that Kender sat in a corner chair, asleep or simply sitting very quietly with his eyes closed, he couldn’t tell which. As unobtrusively as possible he drew himself a cup of coffee.

“Pour one for me, will you?” Adam handed it to the Associate Chief of Surgery and they drank in silence.