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time.
    When it was time to split the week’s cash that night, Overstreet insisted that Derik leave the room. Derik left, irritated, and when Over-street came out, he was carrying a large stack of cash, thousands, which he pretended to conceal, but Derik could tell Overstreet wanted him to see the money. Overstreet said he was going on a trip and needed the cash. Fishing or something.

    Overstreet split the money he and Chris had made in the third week of business at South Florida Pain—his half of the profits was $24,000—and flew to the Republic of Panama. He was taking a weeklong vacation, going fishing.
    Overstreet had planned the trip in advance, and a doctor named Rachael Gittens had agreed to cover for him during his absence. Gittens had worked with Overstreet briefly at One Stop Medical. She was planning to work for Jeff’s clinic in West Palm Beach, if he ever got it up and running.
    Chris couldn’t get ahold of Overstreet all week. Yes, the doctor was on vacation, but he never called in. No one knew where he was. Chris wondered if he had been scared off, thinking he was under investigation or something. Or maybe he just wanted to leave everything behind. Who knew?
    The mystery was solved when Overstreet’s wife called Jeff. She had some bad news: The doctor was not just missing. He was dead.
    During his vacation in Panama, he’d somehow flipped his Jeep into a ditch. It had taken the local authorities some time to figure out who he was and get in touch with his wife. It seemed like she hadn’t even known where he had gone until the consulate called saying he was dead.
    So Overstreet was gone for good. A strange feeling. And bad timing. The clinic had been open only three and a half weeks, and Chris had lost his only doctor. But Chris had no intention of closing—not when the place was just beginning to show its potential.

    Dr. Gittens said she was happy to just continue working at South Florida Pain; she liked it there.
    Rachael Gittens was a family practice doctor who had gone to med school at the State University of New York, graduating in 1998. Despite her lack of experience in pain management, she wasn’t afraid to write big prescriptions. Sometimes she wrote even higher than Overstreet had, up to 360 oxycodone 30 milligrams, a few times. The patients loved her.
    Chris wanted to expand, but he had no idea how doctors found jobs. When they’d been building houses in North Port, Derik had introduced Chris to Craigslist.org , the free classified advertisements website. Very few of the other job postings on Craigslist’s medical/health jobs section were for doctors—they tended to be for physician assistants, front desk staff, nurses, physical therapists. But they’d used the site to sell houses, so they figured, why not use it to hire doctors? Chris wrote and posted an advertisement, something along the lines of: “MD with DEA license needed for busy pain clinic, make up to $400 an hour.”
    Dr. Enock Joseph responded to the ad, and after a brief interview, Chris hired him. Dr. Joseph was an older guy, short, not much more than five feet tall. Like Gittens, he was black. Heavy cologne, glasses, thick Haitian accent. He’d gone to the State University of Haiti in the 1960s, then did an obstetrics/gynecology residency in Harlem in the 70s. Spoke French and Creole. Most importantly, Dr. Joseph had worked at a clinic named Art of Pain that paid doctors $35 per patient. Chris offered $75 per patient, and Dr. Joseph jumped at the raise.
    Pretty soon, Chris realized he didn’t need Overstreet. He’d already learned enough about the business to get by. The doctors were interchangeable, one as good as the next, as long as they were willing to write big numbers. Dr. Gittens sometimes took too much time with the patients, which meant they had to stay open late to accommodate the crowds, but she was an adequate replacement. Same with Dr. Joseph.
    And another thing. Chris paid the new doctors $75 a patient,