The chief resident in infectious disease at Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center picked up Jack’s page, and Jack went through his spiel. Although shocked to hear about Mr. Papparis, the resident assured Jack that there was no one in his medical center who’d be considered a candidate for a diagnosis of anthrax.

Jack hung up and looked over to the open page in the yellow telephone directory for the number of another hospital. Before he could dial, the phone rang. He picked it up eagerly. But it wasn’t a resident calling him back with potentially interesting news. It was Mrs. Sanford, the chief’s secretary, with a familiar request. The chief wanted to see Jack ASAP.

Hardly in the mood for bureaucratic nonsense, as Jack termed his frequent run-ins with the front office, he took the elevator down to the first floor. Like a schoolboy expecting to be chastised, he presented himself to Mrs. Cheryl Sanford, who smiled at him and winked. Over the years Jack and Cheryl had become well acquainted, since every time the chief demanded Jack come quickly, Jack invariably had to wait. The time provided an opportunity for friendly conversation.

Jack winked back. It was part of an established method of nonverbal communication the two had evolved. It meant that Jack could relax, since the upcoming confrontation with the chief was procedural only, meaning the chief felt obligated, not motivated, to bawl Jack out for whatever the transgression was.

“How’s that boy of yours?” Jack asked as he sat down on the rock-hard vinyl sofa across from the secretary’s desk. The door to the chief’s office was to Cheryl’s left and it was always ajar. The chief could be heard on the phone.

“Just fine,” Cheryl said proudly. “He’s still getting all A’s in school.”

“Fantastic,” Jack said. By coincidence Jack knew Cheryl’s son, Arnold. Occasionally he played basketball on the same court as Jack. He was a young, tentative player but with obvious natural skill. Cheryl, an African-American single mother, lived in a building on 105th Street that Jack could see from his bedroom window.

“He says he hopes to be able to play basketball as well as you some day,” Cheryl said.

Jack let out a derisive laugh. “He’s going to be ten times better than I ever was.” Jack was not exaggerating; Arnold had only recently turned fifteen and yet was a player sought after even by Warren.

“I’d prefer to see him take after your doctoring skills,” Cheryl said.

“He’s expressed some interest,” Jack said. “He and I had a chat last week when we were both waiting to get into the game.”

“He told me,” Cheryl said. “I appreciate you taking the time.”

“Hey, he’s a nice kid,” Jack said. “It’s a pleasure talking with him.”

At that moment the chief, Dr. Harold Bingham, bellowed for Jack to get the hell into his office.