The Far Side of the Rainbow

By Barbara J Duell

Some people believe all components of the universe are linked by hidden affinities and that the kismet of one individual can bond with the destiny of another, each one the protagonist of their own drama, yet linked to another. Coincidence or fate? Across space and time, four troubled souls ask this question.
Mackenzie Chapman, born into wealth and abandoned at birth, spent her childhood seeking validation, moving into adulthood and the financial world as an introvert, extraordinarily competent and high functioning, but not someone anyone really knows. Using systematic logic to solve a mystery long buried, she travels across the country only to have her organized life fall apart and intertwine with strangers.
In one deciding moment, the life of Doctor Peter Farrell, handsome, compassionate and charismatic, hangs by a thread as he fights to live. Months pass before his quest to regain what was lost–his prayers for what once was–are answered. Strong and determined, he succeeds, only to be blindsided by strangers desperate for his help.
Ten-year-old Joshua and his tiny sister, Annie, are orphaned, then abandoned. Abused by a social system that exists to protect them, they cling to each other in fear and doubt until one rainy night, fate steps in.
Or was it just a coincidence that an unknown person, a woman with golden hair and a gentle voice, heard their cry for help and reached out to them without thought or reason?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara J Duell
• Release date: Jun 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781734551440

Barbara J Duell

I married young, had four sons in four years, and started University. While wearing the hat of a stay-at-home mom at my all-male funny farm, I completed my postgraduate work. When the time came to cut the apron strings, I enter the corporate world. I spent several decades as CEO in the field of Medical Administration, and after retiring, took up the Law. I dealt primarily with Child Protective Services and Civil Rights and then joined the County Justice Court, served on the bench, and then retired, again.From an early age, reading has been my one constant, although I could not read, not actually. So I listened. It was not until middle school that I realized I was not stupid, just suffered from dyslexia but I kept trying because partnered with my desire to read was my passion for writing, which started as my unbridled imagination took flight. Simple tales spun from the depth of my spirit when I first learned to talk and told to all who would listen. Then I found a pencil and paper and learned to write, well, almost. No one could decipher what I scribbled, but I didn’t care; I just continued to dream and to write.I am part Cherokee, part Seneca; a nomad, and I seek the elusive shadow wind that calls my soul and carries me deep within the mystery of life. I have lived by the sea, high in the pine forest where I longed to soar with eagles; in a valley near the river’s edge next to God’s creatures. Now I live in the delicate land of the southwestern desert with my three small dogs who remind me each day how blessed we are.I welcome you to join me and my imagination on my Journey to Another Place.

Book preview

Other books by

Barbara J Duell

Beyond Love

Theo’s Dairy

Come Hear the Whisper of Time

Beyond a Dream

A Place by the Bay

For Young Readers

The Legend of the Eagle Feather

Book One in the Best Friend Series

Dedication

This book is dedicated to children wandering in the dark.

May you find love and a home.

Peter

San Francisco

September 1998

Chapter One

Peter ran across the tile floor, leaving wet footprints in his wake. Clutching the towel around his waist, he reached for the phone. This better be good.

"Don’t shoot the messenger, Doctor. I’m just following orders. She’s in the elevator."

Doctor Peter Farrell rolled his eyes and groaned. He was beat. A complicated delivery had lasted all night, and he’d only slept for a few hours. Peter had not even gone to his home across the bay. He’d just left the hospital, driven to his office and crashed. Oversleeping, he’d missed his morning workout, stubbed his toe getting out of the shower and cut himself shaving.

As he dripped water on the floor of his postage-stamped-sized apartment above his medical office in the city, Amy, his nurse, just announced that his ex-wife was about to invade his private space. Pat was the last person he expected to arrive at his door this early, but that was Pat Collins; clocks meant nothing to her.

She waltzed through the door before he could do more than tighten the towel around his hips and stared at the man she’d known for twenty years–married for almost four years, divorced for three–and openly admired his tightly muscled body. Although still wet from his shower, his light-blond hair was a stark contrast to his tanned, toned body, and his handsome features displayed raw sensuality.

Peter stood there, his half-grin and deep-blue eyes captivating and pulsing masculinity. He leaned against his desk to keep the towel in place, folded his arms over his bare chest, and stared back.

He’d met Pat at Berkeley. As most of their friends hung out near the corners of Haight and Ashbury, they’d made fervent love on a mattress on the floor in a tiny apartment not far from their peers, saying goodbye only when Peter went East to medical school. For years as he crisscrossed the country, they’d picked up where they’d left off, hours hijacked from his schedule at the hospital where he worked night and day, the grueling routine of a young resident.

It was great and exciting for a while until it wasn’t. Long past grad school and now a partner in her father’s accounting firm, Pat finally got tired of waiting for him to finish medical school, internships, and a fistful of residencies and broke it off. But fate or some stoned prankster from middle earth had thrown them together again at a party after he’d settled in the Bay Area. And within the year, they were living together. Getting married had ruined everything. But, oh sweet Lord, the sex was unbelievable.

When you’re through gawking, would you mind telling me what you want?

God Lord, I want to reach out, strip away the towel and ravish you, but that’s not why I’m here, so instead, she said, You want the truth? Or why I’m here?

He started to laugh. Good God, Pat, get to the point. Why are you here?

Sorry, I got distracted. Peter, I need to talk to you. Don’t roll your eyes. Just listen because I need a favor. Let me explain. You know I’m seeing this man, Roland, Roland Denning. I told you about him months ago. Well, it’s getting serious, and he wants to meet you. Why are you laughing? Peter, stop laughing and listen to me.

Peter pulled away from his desk and returned to his bathroom, with Pat trailing behind. Only you would have the balls to ask such a thing. Peter dropped his towel in the clothes basket, then naked and unashamed, started to comb his hair. You are unbelievable. Why would he want to meet me?

Pat went to his dresser, pulled a pair of jockey shorts from one of the drawers and threw them at him. I don’t know. I guess he finds it hard to believe we’re still such good friends. I honestly think he believes I’ve made you up. Please, do this for me.

Pat, he must be as kooky as you are, but no way. I’d love to help you out, even though this sounds weird, but I can’t; I’m bushed. My schedule today is bonkers; jammed-packed. Even if this was a legitimate request, I don’t have time. If I can get through today, I plan to be in bed before dark.

Peter, listen to me. I have it all worked out. I talked to Michael last night, and she said you’re meeting her and Richard at the Stillman Gallery tonight around seven for the new photographic exhibition that just opened. We could meet you there.

Peter pulled on his shorts, followed by a white shirt and dress slacks. He sat on the bench in his closet and put on his socks and shoes, hoping she’d get the message and leave, but Pat hovered in front of him.

Ten minutes. Give us ten minutes, and then we’ll go away. I promise. Please, Peter, pretty please.

Peter had forgotten all about the exhibition tonight. Michael had called him a week ago, and after explaining how much she liked this photographer, he’d agreed to go with them. Peter could never say no to Michael McCall Hampton. He was Godfather to her daughter, Sara, and he knew she used this bond, plus their history, to coerce him into doing whatever she wanted.

"Pat, I’ve forgotten all about tonight; I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it. I told you my schedule is packed. I have surgery in a few hours, clinic this afternoon, and after that, I promised Clark Taylor I’d cover for him at a charity clinic where he volunteers a couple days a week.

I have no idea what I’ll find there. Peter stood and pushed her back a few steps, but Pat inched closer, smiling and pleading her case.

When will I ever learn to say no to this woman? Okay, here’s the deal. If I make it to the gallery tonight, and you promise ten minutes or less, I will meet and greet your man. Now, get out of here and let me finish getting dressed so I can get to the hospital. Go.

As Peter reached for a tie, she wrapped him in a giant hug and kissed him full on his mouth. How did we go so wrong?

Ha, that’s a good one. Life called, babe, remember? Reminding us we were supposed to be adults and couldn’t spend twenty-four hours a day in the sack. Now, get out of here. I’ll try to make it. I promise.

Peter finished in the OR and left the medical center, grabbing a sandwich before returning to his office and patients. Six hours later, he headed to the Mission District. For several weeks, fog-city had been just that, encased in damp, dreary fog. But today, the sun was out, and a light breeze rolled in off the bay, tenuously, like a novice ballerina unsure of her role.

The address Clark had given him included a rough map, which wasn’t a lot of help. As Peter checked the street address, realizing he was going the wrong way and forcing a U-turn, he almost regretted saying yes to Clark. No, not regret; he was just tired.

Peter maneuvered his way back to the corner and turned right onto 18th Street, then left on Treat Ave, searching for the address on the paper in his hand. As he drove on, Peter thought about how much he admired Clark. They’d met for a drink, and although his regular daily schedule was usually sunup to sunset, Peter had not hesitated when Clark asked for his help. After saying yes, Clark ordered another beer and a plate of nachos, then spent the next hour explaining why he was so passionate about the clinic.

Peter knew well the importance of supporting the various charities in the city, and he did his share, albeit for the last few years, more with his money than time. But Clark’s intense involvement regarding the needs of this group was contagious.

Freewill House was much like other shelters in the city. They offered a haven for at-risk and homeless kids, the throwaways of the country who’d found their way to the city by the bay. Most of the dirty, troubled, prideless and forsaken misfits were hardly old enough to be out on their own. Just street-wise and weary lost souls.

Each year, more than 3,000 youths walk through the doors of the shelters seeking help, a place where they could feel safe and restore their sense of self-respect–trust and hope–maybe a chance to go back to school, learn about life and job skills and the confidence to build a future.

Kids came to get fed. If they needed medical care, no one asked any personal questions. That’s where Clark entered the equation. Although he was an OB/GYN, like Peter, he treated everything that wandered into the clinic, from broken bones to STDs, drug overdose, DTs, malnutrition, cuts and scrapes, and even intestinal ailments. No kid, if treatable, was ever sent to public health or social services. The director of Freewill, and those who supported the facility, both with time and money, stayed as far away as possible from government involvement. Their motto was to find a way to treat everyone with love, respect, and an open door.

After a few wrong turns, Peter found the building. It was an old brick edifice probably rebuilt after the big quake of ’06 when the fires had all but destroyed what would come to be known as the Mission District.

After locking his car and walking inside, Nina Young, the director of Freewill House, greeted Peter with a smile, a firm handshake and a clean yet almost threadbare lab coat.

Over the years, Clark and the other doctors who volunteered regularly had acquired donations, money and support to expand what had started in an old abandoned building, a useless space. Now, they had an operating room, basic, to be sure, small yet adequately equipped with mostly hand-me-down instruments and furnishings. It was not much, but enough; it was a start.

As Nina guided Peter down a hallway to the makeshift exam rooms–seven-by-eight cubicles divided by limp curtains–she gave him a quick overview of what awaited him. This was not the first time Peter had volunteered in less-than-acceptable situations. He knew the score, and he would treat them all. For the next few hours, other than the five minutes he’d taken to go the bathroom and drink half a cup of luck warm coffee, he treated patients.

He’d hesitated only once when a young boy no more than twelve was carried into the space by a giant of a man, a volunteer named Bumper, whose massive shoulders filled the shirt he wore and whose stern face instantly caused Peter to wonder if this gentle giant ever tired of his job.

Easing the child onto the exam table, his dark eyes never leaving the life he gently placed on the cold surface, Bumper asked Peter if he could help this child brought to the clinic by two boys who’d run off. Word was the child had been raped and left in an alley near 24th Street to bleed to death.

Peter changed gloves and began his examination, looking for evidence of anorectal injuries, an examination generally done under anesthesia. Bumper continued to talk to the child, a low monologue, a gathering of calming words, trying to assure the boy they meant to help. Peter positioned the boy on his side so he could swab the perianal area.

We’ve got to get this kid to a hospital. I can try to control the bleeding, but he needs surgery. There’s extensive damage here, deep fissures, what looks like a sphincter rupture and who knows what else. This kid needs more than we can do here; call an ambulance. I’ll pack the area and give him something for the pain, but that’s all I can do.

Next came an infected tattoo, a broken arm, two STDs and three pregnancies, one that, after a quick examination, had him rushing her into the newly equipped OR.

The young girl said her back had ached for days, hurting like nothing she’d ever felt. Angel, she said her name was Angel, bit her lip and squeezed Peter’s hand. Holy shit, Doc, this kid’s killing me.

Just try to breathe normally. This is not going to take long.

Angel was small and in active labor, and her baby, fighting to get into the world, felt enormous. Nina Young was not only the director of Freewill House; she did anything that needed to be done. Now she followed Peter and the girl into the room, ready to assist.

Okay, Angel, your baby is ready to meet the outside world. Peter kept his hand on her stomach. When I tell you, I want you to give us a big push. Now, hold your breath and push. Big push.

Ooooooooh! It hurts. I don’t want to do this.

Nina held Angel’s hand, Come on, little girl. You can do this; just push. Come on, you’re doing great.

Peter examined the birth canal. Okay, sweetheart, relax. Take a deep breath but push when I tell you.

She screamed, I want to go back to my crib. I gotta get out of here. Now.

Well, you’re not going anywhere right now. Peter looked across the table at Nina, It’s too late for an epidural, but this is not working. Time for an episiotomy.

Nina ran to the cabinet on the far wall and grabbed a sterile instrument packet. Peter cleansed the area, filled a syringe and injected the numbing lidocaine. You’ll feel a slight sting, then a lot less pain.

Lifting the episiotomy scissors from the tray, he made an incision through the perineum, creating an opening for the baby. Moments later, Peter smiled, Your baby is here, and he’s a big boy with a pair of lungs to boot.

Angel and her baby were taken upstairs to the dorm, a large room with several beds where she and her baby could rest, accompanied by Jill, a retired nurse, a grandmother who’d worked at a hospital in Oakland for fifteen years and now spent four days a week at Freewill House.

Peter threw the blood-spattered white jacket into the laundry basket and started to wash his hands and arms. Bumper handed him a towel and told Peter that Nina was waiting for him down the hall. Brushing a hand over his face, Peter took a deep breath, walked the short distance, and then collapsed onto an old sofa in the room.

Clark said you were good. He told me you would fit right in. Of course, after I read your CV, I thought you might be more comfortable among the elite than with those of us in the district. Honestly, I had my doubts, but now I know better; I’m glad I was wrong.

Nina Young, mid-thirties, a teacher from the south side of Chicago, handed Peter a beer. According to Clark, she’d come to San Francisco ten years ago to identify the body of her sixteen-year-old sister, who’d not lived long enough to know if running away from home had been the fairy-tale dream she’d hoped for. Instead of returning to Chicago, Nina stayed, working as a substitute teacher in Daly City until she’d found a full-time job at Freewill House.

"I’d like to say today was more hectic than usual, but I’d be lying. Each day I hope we’ll only see the hungry ones, the kids who try to act tough, but when we get them clean and fed, most just cry when they think no one is watching. Each week, it gets worse. I thought Chicago was bad, but the homeless are everywhere; it’s universal. Forget geography. Kids living on the streets, or trying to, can be found worldwide, and no one cares.

Again, thank you. I know you have a heavy schedule, but I hope you’ll come again. Even when Clark returns, we could use an extra pair of hands.

He said his goodbyes to Nina and the rest of the staff, but as he was almost to the door, Bumper called his name. Adjusting the wide comb stuck in his giant afro, he held out his hand. Great job, Doc. I just wanted to say I’d work with you anytime, anywhere. Take care.

Chapter Two

Sitting in his car, Peter checked his watch; five-thirty. No way he was going anywhere but home, not to his place in town but across the bay to his house in San Rio. As he started the car and pulled into traffic, Peter only wanted fifteen minutes in the whirlpool, then a double martini and silence. Michael might be upset when he didn’t show up tonight, but not for long. Pat was another matter; she’d be pissed.

Heading toward the bridge, traffic was heavy, but it came to a dead stop when Peter turned onto Mission. People bunched around a police officer in the middle of the street, even as he shouted at the crowd to stay back. Peter’s eyes quickly darted across the scene, his brain unconsciously assessing the disaster before him.

It looked like a pickup truck had hit the back end of a MUNI bus, then sped on, driving through the front wall of a building thirty feet from the bus. Peter pulled his car as far to the right as possible, jumping the curb as a firetruck and two more police cars arrived. Grabbing his bag, Peter reached up to the visor, snatched his hospital ID, pinned it to his shirt, then jumped out of the car and raced to the firefighter who stood by the red truck. I’m Doctor Peter Farrell. How can I help? Who’s in charge?

The man didn’t offer his hand; he just tightened his helmet. I’m Battalion Chief Larson, and until we establish a command center, I guess I’m in charge. There could be people inside the building. We have several suspected injuries. Two from the bus and a pedestrian crossing the street. Go check the pedestrian first.

Peter pushed his way through the onlookers. When he reached the woman lying in the street and dropped to his knees, the police officer gazed at Peter’s ID. Acknowledging his status, he shook his head. She’s gone, Doctor. Nothing to be done. I’ll stay here, but tell the Chief to send someone.

Two paramedics appeared before Peter got to his feet, and the police officer stood and took control, trying to disperse the crowd. One paramedic reached out to Peter. Looks like they could use you by the bus. We got this; we’ll take care of this lady.

What seemed like chaos a few minutes ago became almost routine, seamless, as the professionals moved about their jobs; order now ruled with few words. Peter ran to the end of the bus, where medics attended to the men on the ground. How can I help?

We’re about ready to transport. Some broken bones, lacerations and possible head injuries. Guarded for sure, but they’re stable. Best check with the chief.

The Battalion Chief motioned to Peter, and he moved the short distance to the front of the building. There are people inside the building. Two at least, maybe more; we’re going in, but we’ll need you when we get them out.

I’ll go with you.

You sure? This building is older than dirt. It could collapse at any minute.

Then let’s go.

A crew of four firefighters, their commander, with Peter following behind, entered through what was once the front door, now just shattered wood and glass. Over two-thirds of the truck had penetrated the front window, smashing into what looked like a high counter. The two men in the vehicle were not moving, and after a quick check, the commander shook his head and gave instructions regarding their removal.

Five feet back and against one wall, they heard the woman. Peter pushed around debris and dropped down beside her. I need light. Someone get me some light.

A large flashlight appeared out of nowhere. Slowly Peter started his examination. Blood covered her face, and after assuring the woman he would help her, Peter sought the source of the blood. She had a laceration over one eye, and from the way she held her arm, he figured it was broken. Someone yelled out; they’d found another woman.

The Chief dropped down by Peter. Can she be moved? Doctor, we need to get them out of here. Now.

I’ll stabilize her arm and control the bleeding, and then we can move her outside. She’s conscious and communicative, though in shock, but otherwise stable. How about the other woman?

Hard to say. She’s semiconscious. We’re looking at every possible injury, not just spinal, so we applied a cervical collar and supportive blocks before placing her on the stretcher. We found no external bleeding. Her airway is open, but her vitals are over the charts.

After controlling her facial bleeding, Peter’s disciplined mind raced as he secured her arm in place. Miss, we’re treating another woman, but is anyone else in the building? Try to stay with me. We need to know if anyone else is inside.

She answered with a slight movement of her head, side to side, indicating what he hoped was a no. You’re sure no one else is here?

This time, along with the movement of her head, she said, Yes, there’s no one, only Millie and me. I was just coming out of the backroom, and Millie was behind the front counter. They hit her. I saw the truck and watched as it came through the wall, then I heard Millie scream. I ran, but I fell. I hit my head and fell on my arm. I mean…

It’s okay; you’ll be fine. We’re going to get you out of here.

Chief Larson followed the men wheeling the other woman toward the fragile opening. Peter stood back as hands reached in and transferred his patient onto a rolling gurney, then followed as they moved toward the street. They were only inches away from safety when they heard the dog.

Peter turned. He could see the small animal just a few feet in front of the truck, and without thinking, he stepped back into the building. Disregarding voices yelling at him to stop and get out, he ran the few feet to the frightened puppy, gathered it into his arms, spun around and headed back the way he’d come.

But not quickly enough. Peter would later remember throwing the pup toward the opening, the deafening roar like a thousand feet pounding a wooden floor, then nothing.

Chapter Three

He was an hour late leaving his office located in one of the twin towers of the San Rio Medical Center. Before rushing out of his office, Doctor Richard Hampton asked his nurse to call and tell his wife why he was late but on his way. Being a heart surgeon required skills relating to more than what took place in the operating room. Today, Mrs. Channing, three weeks post-op valve replacement, needed to vent regarding the depression that had moved in and now consumed her daily life. Richard had offered her tea and a shoulder. He’d also prescribed a mild medication that should help.

Turning into the driveway leading to his home, a vintage Queen Anne with gingerbread carving and a wraparound porch, Richard started to relax but knew he had to hurry. Tonight they were going into the city to Stillman Gallery for the opening of a new photographic exhibition. Michael had told him this morning not to be late, but he knew she’d understand, especially after Ruthie told her why he was just getting home.

Michael took her husband’s suit coat. So sorry about your patient, but we still have time. Give me a hug, then hit the shower. I’m almost ready, and Cassie and Allen will feed the kids.

Richard pulled his wife into his arms and inhaled her scent of soap and sunshine. He kissed the top of Michael’s head, and when she looked up, her smile took his breath away.

Thank you for the hug. I won’t be long.

Richard dried his hair, then reached for the clothes Michael had laid out on their bed. He turned on the TV, and Breaking News flashed across the screen, followed by the local reporter’s recap.

"This just in. A major crash with multiple injuries occurred at the intersection of Mission and 16th Street. Fire and police units are on the scene. Details are sketchy, but we’ve just learned from the Fire Department’s spokesperson that a collision involving a small truck and a MUNI bus occurred at around five-forty-five, causing critical injury to at least six people. Traffic is halted on Mission in both directions between 16th and 17th Streets. Authorities have also confirmed that the injured have been transported to MacMillian General Hospital.

"Here’s what we know. A pickup truck westbound on 17th Street, traveling at excessive speed, ran a red light, turned onto Mission and struck a pedestrian. The vehicle hit the back of a MUNI bus where two passengers exited, injuring both. The truck continued, driving through the front of a small storefront.

Although not confirmed, sources tell us the driver of the truck and his passenger are still trapped inside their vehicle and that the pedestrian is believed to have died. Police have cordoned off the area. We go now to Ron Hillard, our man at the scene, who has an eyewitness who saw the crash.

Only half-dressed, Richard couldn’t take his eyes off the screen as the camera panned the scene, stopping where the newsperson waited.

Sir, can you tell us what happened?

The reporter placed the microphone in front of a man who looked to be in his early twenties. His hand shook as he pulled at his ponytail, then stuffed them into his cut-off jeans. "This guy ran a red light and… and hit an old lady crossing the street, then rammed into the back of the bus. Jesus, two people were just getting off the bus, and they got bashed. The truck tore the hell out of the back of the bus. Super unreal, man, but the pickup kept going and plowed into the store.

Man, like I was standing right there, about to cross the street, then wham. You know, like in a movie or something. The driver and his passenger are still there… in the truck. Unbelievable. I was right there; I could’ve been hit. It was really, really close to me, the whole thing. Man, I gotta sit down; I’m gonna barf.

The reporter patted the man’s shoulder as he brushed at his tears. Thank you, sir. Let me get someone to help you.

Richard, are you ready? We really need to go.

He heard Michael calling from across the hall, and although Richard wanted to continue watching the TV as the camera returned to the newsroom, he knew they had to leave. She walked into their bedroom. We need to go, my love.

As soon as they left the driveway and reached the street, Richard turned on the car radio, twisting the dial until he came to a news channel.

We’ve just learned from the Department of Emergency Management that Mission Street, between 16th and 17th, has been closed in both directions and should be avoided. We’ve been advised that the MUNI lines are being rerouted around the closure. Stay tuned for more up-to-date information.

Richard switched the channel to a music station and tried to put what he’d just heard out of his mind; he had to pay attention to his driving, but easing into traffic heading for the bridge, he knew, as a physician, that the local ER’s would be busy tonight.

Richard, did you hear what I said? We’re meeting Peter. And Pat called; she’s going to be there. Somehow she’s talked Peter into meeting her new man tonight. It should be interesting, an introduction I don’t want to miss.

Richard took a deep breath as he handed his wife a glass of wine and looked around the room, then at his watch. He’d much rather be in his shorts, sitting by the pool and enjoying a beer instead of elbowing around a room full of photographs, but he’d promised. Even though he was late, then got caught up with the news on the TV regarding the horrific accident in the Mission District, they’d made good time getting into the city as traffic was in their favor. They’d left the car at the pier and taken a cab to the exhibit. Richard didn’t want to be here, let alone spend time looking for a parking spot.

One look at his wife softened his mood. Michael looked stunning in a blue and white spring dress, her deep auburn hair touching her shoulders. He reached out to push back a wayward curl when he saw Pat and her companion walking toward them. After air kisses and hugs, Pat introduced Mr. Roland Demming.

Have you been here long, and where’s Peter? He promised me he’d try to meet us. I invaded his space early this morning and actually begged for his time tonight. At first, he said no, that he had a full schedule in the OR, then something about doing charity work at a shelter for homeless kids, but Peter promised he’d try to be here.

Michael waited until the waiter moved away with his tray of hors d’oeuvres. We just got here, but it’s still early.

Richard felt his phone vibrate and flipped it open. Damn. I’m not on call. Why is the hospital paging me?

Michael, I have to take this call. I’ll be right back. He walked to a quiet spot and hit redial. Richard’s reputation among his peers belied the look that covered his face as he listened to words he could not comprehend. He was known for his composure and could address most situations calmly, no matter how critical. He never had to assure onlookers he had everything under control, but now he shook. His chest tightened as his hand moved unconsciously to the lip he’d just bitten.

Of course, I’ll come. I’m in the city, not that far. Tell Doctor Singer I’m on my way.

Richard called a cab, then rushed back to Michael in time to hear Pat again muttering about Peter. Michael, I have to leave. There’s been a horrible accident. It’s Peter. Peter was involved; he’s at MacMillian General.

Michael began to shake. No, oh, no. What happened?

I don’t know the details. Miles Singer is with him now. He had the ER nurse call me; she said it was a code blue. I’ve got to go. I’ve called a cab, so you take the car. Richard pushed the keys into her hand, gripping it tightly. Oh, damn. Michael, you’ll have to take a cab to the pier.

The color drained from Pat’s face