“What happens to me out of this place is none of your business,” she said.

“Oh? You’re denying you have a problem, Miss Blake?” Piper queried smugly.

She swallowed. “We all have trouble sleeping now and then.”

“I’m not speaking of now and then. I’m speaking of every night, my lady.”

“I’m not your lady, Piper. Where did you hear about this?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t think it’s any of your business whether or not I have trouble sleeping. What I do in my home is my problem, not yours.”

“Oh? I see. So if you come to work sloshed, we should just turn an eye as well?”

“I’m not coming to work sloshed, am I? I intend on finishing my internship with full honors. Someday people like you will report to people like me.”

“You are out of line!” Piper whispered harshly. “Answer my questions! Isn’t it true, Miss Blake, that you depend on medication to keep you awake at work? For all practical purposes, you’re a drug addict!”

Sherry sat speechless, trembling behind her calm facade.

“Is this true, Sherry?” the director asked from her left.

She looked past him, through the window. A horn blared in the parking lot—some patient on edge. “I’m not a drug addict. And I resent the suggestion. I’ve had my problems with insomnia,” she said, swallowing again. For a moment she thought her eyes might water. That would be a disaster.

“But it hasn’t kept me from getting this far,” she said evenly.

“How long have you had this condition?”

“A while. A few years. About eight, I suppose.”

“Eight years?” Park spoke again.

“How bad are the episodes?” Moreland asked.

“By what standards?”

“By any standard. How much sleep did you get last night?”

She blinked, thinking back to the restless night. An easy night, all things considering. But they wouldn’t think so.

“Two hours.”

“And the night before?”

“Maybe two.”

He paused. “And that’s normal?”

She shifted her eyes to him now. “Yes, I guess it’s fairly normal.”

“For seven years of medical school you’ve averaged two hours of sleep a night?”

She nodded. “Pretty much.”

“How?”

“A lot of coffee . . . And medication when it becomes unbearable.”

“So how did all this begin?” Moreland asked.

His sympathy would be her only hope now, she thought. But she’d never done sympathy well. The realization that she was lowering herself into those waters with these sharks made her swallow.

On the other hand her boat was about to capsize anyway.

“When I was seventeen, my parents were killed,” she said, looking back out the window. “They were missionaries in Venezuela, among the Yanamamo. Guerrillas wiped out the mission and a plantation nearby. I was the only one who survived. They killed my mother, my father, a good friend, and his parents.” She cleared her throat.

“I spent a few days locked in an underground box without realizing that it opened to a tunnel that I managed to escape through. I think I may have slept through two or three nights since.” She shrugged and looked at Moreland. “The memories keep me awake. Posttraumatic stress disorder.”