Walking beneath the glass-enclosed walkway that separated the main clinic building from the overnight ward and emergency area, Robert and Marissa entered the brick courtyard and started up the front steps of the Women’s Clinic. The particular color and pattern of the granite made Marissa think about all the times that she’d climbed the steps, facing innumerable “minor procedures.” Involuntarily her footsteps slowed, no doubt a response conditioned by the collective pain of a thousand needle pricks.

“Come on,” Robert urged. He was gripping Marissa’s hand and had sensed her momentary resistance. He glanced briefly at his watch. They were already late.

Marissa tried to hurry. Today’s egg retrieval was to be her fourth. She well knew the degree of discomfort she could expect. But for Marissa the fear of the pain was less of a concern than the possibility of complications. Part of the problem of being both a doctor and a patient was knowing all the terrible things that could go wrong. She shuddered as her mind ticked off a list of potentially lethal possibilities.

Once Robert and Marissa were inside the clinic, they skirted the main information booth and headed directly to the In-Vitro Fertilization Unit on the second floor. They had traveled this route on several occasions, or at least Marissa had.

Stepping into the usually quiet waiting room with its plush carpet and tapestry-upholstered chairs, they were treated to a spectacle neither had been prepared to see.

“I am not going to be put off!” shouted a well-dressed, slim woman. Marissa guessed she was about thirty years old. It was rare in any of the clinic’s waiting rooms to hear anyone speak above a whisper, much less shout. It was as surprising as hearing someone yelling aloud in a church.

“Mrs. Ziegler,” said the startled receptionist. “Please!” The receptionist was cowering behind her desk chair.

“Don’t Mrs. Ziegler me,” the woman shouted. “This is the third time I’ve come in here for my records. I want them now!”

Mrs. Ziegler’s hand shot out and swept the top of the receptionist’s desk clean. There was the jolting shatter of glass and pottery as pens, papers, picture frames, and coffee mugs crashed to the floor.

The dozen or so patients waiting in the room froze in their chairs, stunned by the outburst. Most trained their eyes on the magazines before them, afraid to acknowledge the scene being acted out before their eyes.

Marissa winced at the sound of the breaking glass. She remembered the clock radio she had so wanted to smash not half an hour earlier. It was frightening to recognize in Mrs. Ziegler such a kindred spirit. There had been several times Marissa had felt equally pushed to the edge.