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any bleeding from your catheterization stick site.”
    Tori nodded.
    Evidently, she wasn’t very good at hiding her new anxiety. “What’s wrong?” Dr. Parrish asked.
    â€œDid Dr. Evans tell you he put me on administrative leave?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œListen, I know I’ve been hard on some of the nurses—”
    He held his hand up. “You don’t need to apologize to me. We need someone like you who will hold the staff’s feet to the fire. I know you’re a good surgeon.” He paused. “I know who I’d see if I had cancer.”
    She took a deep breath. “Thanks,” she whispered. “Listen, there’s something else.” She fought to find the right words. “Dr. Evans is requiring me to get a counselor to deal with anger issues.” She held up her fingers and gestured quotation marks around “anger.”
    â€œI take it you’re not crazy about the idea.”
    â€œThat’s an understatement.”
    He sighed. “I’ll leave that to Dr. Evans. It won’t affect my respect for you.”
    â€œThe thing is, I’m here now. If I have to do this, I want to get started. Can you make a referral?”
    â€œWhy don’t I have Phin MacGrath drop in?”
    â€œThe team social worker? I’ve met him.”
    He nodded. “He has a master’s in counseling. He’s familiar with the emotional issues that transplant patients deal with. I think he’d be perfect.”
    â€œOkay.”
    Dr. Parrish touched a stack of envelopes on Tori’s bedside stand. “Wow, it looks like you get the prize for the most mail.”
    â€œWell-wishers,” she said. “Seems at least my patients appreciate me. I’m averaging about twenty cards a day. Who’d-a-thunk-it?” She smiled. “I heard the nurses whispering about it. I don’t think they can stand it.”
    He chuckled. “We should know something about your biopsy in a few days. For now, I’m keeping your antirejection regimen the same.”
    â€œI hope I can get off the steroids. I think I’m already looking fat.”
    â€œYou? Not a chance.” He stepped to the door. “Rest. You can’t get up for two more hours. Take a nap.”
    She found herself wincing. What would once have been an afternoon luxury had become a minefield—one she wasn’t sure she could cross without tripping a memory explosion.
    Two hours later, Tori’s discomfort had far more to do with the fact that her bladder was stressing and she still wasn’t allowed up than from her postsurgery pain.
    As a nurse finished taking vitals, Tori pleaded. “I need to get up to the bathroom.”
    The nurse looked at her watch. “Another fifteen minutes. Can I get you a bedpan?”
    Tori sighed and shook her head. “I think I can wait.”
    But as soon as the nurse disappeared, Tori tenderly palpated the site of her recent femoral artery stick, the crease in front of her right hip. No swelling. It should be safe.
    She gently rolled to the side and swung her feet over the bed to the floor. Slowly, she took a few steps toward the bathroom, padding on cat feet. Unfortunately, the movement intensified a need for speed. She realized quickly that her IV bag was still hanging on a pole by her bed. She groaned and turned to get her IV. I need to hurry!
    In her haste, she knocked a plastic water pitcher to the floor. She grabbed the IV pole and slid it along with her, dragging a stripe of spilled water as a path to her goal where she eased herself down on the cold seat.
    Made it. Sweet relief. And all without my nurse.
    The trip back to her bed wasn’t as stealthy. She slipped on the slick floor, sending a searing pain through her right groin. Tori tried to stop her slide to the floor by hanging onto the IV pole, but the pole was top-heavy and tipped. With a loud crash, the IV pole clattered to the floor, bouncing once