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they can’t help me, either. They’re in Denver at a billboard convention. They’re a good two-thousand miles away.
    I catch a glimpse of the intern’s ponytail as it swishes into one of the elevators.
    The doors close behind her.
    My eyes zero in on a glowing sign nearby:
    Cardiology: 2
Transplant: 2
Radiology: 3
    The list goes on. The sign is also illustrated With those universal stick figures that represent all humanity: Mr. and Mrs. Public Toilet—a triangle skirt for her, a blank formless body for him. Except here the couple don’t just provide helpful directions to the nearest bathroom. No, here they’re stricken With terrible diseases and injuries. Mrs. Public Toilet has to go to the ER. Mr. Public Toilet is due for chemotherapy. The prognosis is not good for either of them. Okay. I’ve seen enough. Time to split. I know exactly What Glasses and Ponytail has in mind for me. It’s not just X-rays. She’s thinking stomach pumping, invasive surgery—that’s What she meant When she said “examination procedures.” She Wasn’t talking about checking my pulse or sticking a thermometer in my mouth. You don’t need a doctor or your parents’ consent for that.
    And all I did Was throw up! So I have some ringing in my ears. So I’m dizzy. What’s the big deal?
    The truth is, I have no desire to find out What’s really Wrong With me. Maybe that’s a character flaw. But that’s Who I am. We all have problems. I just don’t care to know What my particular problems are.
    Once again I’ve been given my exit cue. And this time, thank God, Mark and Nikki aren’t around to stop me.

Lou and Frankie
    Ahhh.
    It’s good to be outside. What With the sunset, the cool breeze … yes, remarkably, by the time I round the corner onto Barrow Street, I feel better. Or close enough. I’m no longer hobbling. The fire iron in my abdomen has cooled from White-hot to lukewarm. My head is revolving less like a radar dish and more like an abandoned merry-go-round, slowly decelerating to a natural standstill. I’m fine! Sure. Of course I am. I’ve just suffered some Weird, inexplicable affliction. That’s all. Stuff like this happens all the time in New York City. There is nothing that needs to be “ruled out.” No …
    Rachel?
    She’s standing in front of my brownstone.
    Our eyes meet.
    Mine are pink and puffy. Hers are ice blue. They’re the same color the sky Was an hour ago—Whoops. It occurs to me that I Was supposed to be home an hour ago. I Was supposed to call her on her cell phone.
    But Why is she here?
    I glance at my Watch. It’s not even five-thirty. Usually she’s up at the community garden in Harlem until five-thirty. I Was supposed to call her at five so We could confirm our date for six so she could help me With the Amnesty International Summer Retreat application.
    “Hey, Ted!” she cries, Waving.
    She hurries toward me. Right away I see that she must have skipped Harlem altogether, because she’s not in her gardening clothes. She’s Wearing a black flower-print dress and a gray button-down sweater. And sandals. Her short blond hair is mussed from the breeze. Her green knapsack dangles from her left shoulder. She looks really gorgeous, actually—especially in the sunset. But I have to admit: I just don’t Want to see her right now. Not until I’ve changed out of my smelly T-shirt.
    “So Where have you been?” she asks. “I thought you Were gonna be here to call me. I Wanted to surprise you.”
    “I, uh, see, I Wasn’t feeling Well, so I—”
    “Oh my God.” Her eyes zero in on the vomit stains. “Have you been drinking?”
    I start to laugh.
    Her soft features melt in distress.
    Whoops again. “Of course not!” I exclaim. Inexplicably, I sound guilty. So I laugh harder. It doesn’t help. “But it’s so funny you ask that because this nurse—”
    “Your face is all bloated,” she interrupts. “Your eyes are bloodshot.”
    The laughter stops. “Yeah, because I’m sick.”
    She