The frantic woman leaped up again, yelling about the curtains, and a pillow sailed across the room from one of the other beds, striking the back of her head. Still she scrambled until the aids charged over, one pulling her arms, the other dousing her face with a glass of water. I heard her collapse into a puddle of frantic tears on the floor, then there were footsteps in the corridor—slow, steady ones.

The door creaked open farther, a triangle of light spilling over the scene, and in a beat everything quieted. Even the aids turned to watch as a tall, straight figure carried a glowing candle into the dark room. Footsteps approached, then that voice, firm and low like a finely tuned cello, washed over us all. “Mary Jo? What seems to be the problem?”

“Dr. Turner, she’s causing a—”

“Begging your pardon, Nurse Duffy, but I’m asking Mary Jo.”

Dr. Turner? This was that surly Dr. Turner, the brash man with all the opinions?

He turned toward the trembling woman. “How about it, will you tell me?”

“The curtain. I need the curtain opened.”

“All right, then.” He set the candle down, striding over to the windows. When he passed, I caught a glimpse of his face—strong and fresh and framed by dark hair and long sideburns, with an ocean of gentle intelligence in his eyes. His kindness came naturally, as if he possessed a lavish supply and used it often—he was Bach’s masterful cello solo, Air on the G String, that enters with gentle strength and warms a room as it swells to a quiet climax.

The room held its collective breath as he reached up and drew back imaginary curtains and pinned them on nonexistent hooks, latching the stays, and something clicked within me. “There now, curtains opened.” It was brilliant, really.

That posture, his manner, his candle lighting away the shadows . . . a light in the darkness. He dances to the same music. I could feel our melodies tangling and dancing opposite each other in a way I’d never sensed before with another human being.

As those nurses stood like fenced bulls ready to charge, Mary Jo padded unhindered to the window behind the doctor, where she leaned on the wall with a shuddering sigh and stared out into the sky. “That’s better.” The silence lasted endless moments, then a few light clicks sounded, and that mysterious music came again from some distant place above, a muffled scattering of notes that made my heart pound. Mary Jo tipped her face up toward the moonlight and lifted her arms into a rounded, graceful hold and began sliding them back and forth in perfect rhythm with the tinny music still echoing in the distance.

Violin. She was playing a violin. My heart pounded in the realization that she heard it too—this madwoman heard the same music I did.

Nurse Duffy huffed. “Doctor, this is—”