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center, which Lisa instinctively knew was to hold her head. Totally out of keeping with the environment, the Bee Gees crooned from a small transistor radio in the corner.
    â€œThere, now,” said Carol Bigelow. “What I want you to do is slide over here onto the table.”
    â€œOkay,” said Lisa. “Thank you.” She was annoyed at her response. Thank you was the farthest thing from her mind. Yet she wanted the people to like her because she knew she depended on them to take care of her. Moving from the gurney to the operating table, Lisa held on to the sheet in a vain attempt to retain a modicum of dignity. Once on the table she lay still, staring up at the operating lights. Just to the side of the lights she recognized the glass partitions. Because of reflections, it was difficult to see through the glass, but then she saw the faces staring down at her. Lisa closed her eyes. She was a spectacle.
    Her life had become a nightmare. Everything had been wonderful until that fateful evening. She had been with Jim and they both had been studying. Progressively, she had become aware that she was having difficulty reading, particularly when she came to a specific sentence beginning with the word “Ever.” She was certain she knew the word but her mind refused to give it to her. She had to ask Jim. His response was a smile, thinking she was teasing. After she persisted, he told her “ever.” Even after Jim had told her the word, when she looked at its printed form, it wouldn’t come to her. She remembered feeling a powerful sense of frustration and fear. Then she began to smell the strange odor. It was a bad smell, and although she sensed she’d smelled it before, she could not saywhat it was. Jim denied smelling anything and that was the last thing Lisa remembered. What had followed was her first seizure. Apparently it had been awful, and Jim was shaking when she regained consciousness. She had struck him several times and scratched his face.
    â€œGood morning, Lisa,” said a pleasant male voice with an English accent. Looking up behind her, Lisa met the dark eyes of Dr. Bal Ranade, an Indian doctor who had trained at the university. “You remember what I told you last night?”
    Lisa nodded. “No coughing or sudden movements,” said Lisa, eager to please. She remembered Dr. Ranade’s visit vividly. He’d appeared after her dinner, announcing himself as the anesthesiologist who was going to take care of her during her operation. He had proceeded to ask her the same questions about her health she’d answered many times before. The difference was that Dr. Ranade did not seem to be interested in the answers. His mahogany face did not change its expression, except when Lisa described her appendectomy at age eleven. Dr. Ranade nodded when Lisa said she’d had no trouble with the anesthesia. The only other information that interested him was her lack of allergic reaction. He nodded then too.
    Usually Lisa preferred outgoing people. Dr. Ranade was the opposite. He expressed no emotion, just a quiet intensity. But for Lisa, under the circumstances this cool affectation was appropriate. She was glad to find someone for whom her ordeal was routine. But then Dr. Ranade had shocked her. In the same precise Oxford accent he said: “I presume that Dr. Mannerheim has discussed with you the anesthetic technique which will be used.”
    â€œNo,” said Lisa.
    â€œThat’s odd,” said Dr. Ranade at length.
    â€œWhy?” asked Lisa, sensing trouble. The idea that there could be any breakdown in communication was alarming. “Why is that odd?”
    â€œWe usually use a general anesthesia for craniotomy,” said Dr. Ranade. “But Dr. Mannerheim has informed us that he wants local anesthesia.”
    Lisa had not heard her operation described as a craniotomy. Dr. Mannerheim had said he was going to “turn a flap” and make a