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checking X-ray."
    "I thought you just called X-ray!"
    "Please, if you'll just have a seat in the waiting room, we'll find out exactly what . . ." Toby's voice trailed off as she caught sight of the two nurses hurrying back toward her.
    "We called Morty," said Val. "He and Arlo are checking the parking lot."
    "You didn't find him?"
    "He can't have gone far."
    Toby felt the blood slide from her cheeks. She was afraid to look at Daniel Slotkin. Afraid to meet his gaze. But she couldn't shut out the sound of his anger.
    "What is going on around here?" he demanded.
    The two nurses said nothing. Both of them looked at Toby. Both of them knew that in the ER, the doctor was the captain of the ship. The one on whose shoulders rested ultimate responsibility. Ultimate blame.
    "Where is my father?"
    Slowly Toby turned to Daniel Slotkin. Her answer came out in barely a whisper. "I don't know."
    It was dark, and his feet hurt, and he knew he had to get home. The trouble was, he could not remember how to get home. Harry Slotkin could not even remember how he'd come to be stumbling down this deserted street. He thought about stopping at one of the houses along the way to ask for help, but all the windows he passed were dark. Were he to knock at one of those doors and beg for help, there would be questions and bright lights and he would almost certainly be humiliated. Harry was a proud man. He was not a man to ask for anyone's assistance. Nor did he volunteer assistance to others�not even to his own son. He'd always believed that charity, in the long run, was crippling, and he had not wanted to raise a cripple. Strength is independence. Independence is strength.
    Somehow, he would find his own way home.
    If only the angel would reappear.
    She had come to him in that place of horrors, where he'd been put on a cold table and lights had blinded his eyes, the place where strangers had poked him with needles and jabbed him with their probing fingers.
    Then the angel had appeared. She hadn't hurt him at all. Instead she had smiled at him as she untied his hands and feet, and she had whispered, "Go, Harry! Before they come back for you."
    Now he was free. He'd escaped, good for him!
    He continued down the street of dark and silent houses, searching for some familiar landmark. Anything to tell him where he was.
    I must have gotten turned around, he thought. Went out for a walk and lost my way.
    Pain suddenly bit into his foot. He looked down and halted in amazement.
    Beneath the glow of a streetlamp, he saw that he was wearing no shoes.
    Or socks, either. He stared at his bare feet. At his bare legs. At his penis, hanging limp and shriveled and utterly pitiful.
    I'm not wearing any clothes!
    In panic he glanced around to see if anyone was looking at him. The street was deserted.
    Cupping his hands over his genitals, he fled the streetlamp, seeking the cover of darkness. When had he lost his clothes? He couldn't remember. He squatted down on the cold, clipped lawn of a front yard and tried to think, but panic had crowded out all memories of what had happened earlier that night. He began to whimper, soft little grunts and sobs as he rocked back and forth on his bare feet.
    I want to go home. Please, oh please, if I could just wake up in my own bed . . .
    He was hugging himself now, so lost in despair that he didn't notice the headlights rounding the far corner. Only when the van braked to a stop right beside him did Harry realize he'd been spotted. He clasped his arms tighter, curling into a shivering self embrace.
    A voice called softly through the darkness. "Harry?"
    He didn't raise his head. He was afraid to unfold his body, afraid to reveal his humiliating state of undress. He tried to squeeze himself into a tighter and tighter ball.
    "Harry, I've come to take you home."
    Slowly he raised his head. He could not make out the face of the driver, but the voice was one he knew. Or thought he knew.
    "Step into the van, Harry."
    He rocked back and forth