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said.
    “Do you have any idea what he wanted?”
    “I do. He’s heard about the functional MRIs we’re doing to map patients’ brains while they’re awake during surgery, and he wondered if he could come into the OR sometime and watch you do it. He believes some of the drug combinations he’s been using might be useful in keeping patients sedated but completely responsive.”
    “Interesting. Did you invite him to observe Sara’s operation?”
    “I did. He’ll be at a conference all day tomorrow. He said to please call him next time.”
    “Terrific. Hey, maybe he can use some of those meds on me,” Jessie said. “He can probe me to find out how I could have turned out the way I have with a mother who spent years grooming me to be the perfect happy homemaker for some lucky guy.”
    “What a failure she’s been. Imagine having to live with your daughter growing up to be one of the finest neurosurgeons around.”
    “Okay, okay, you can have that raise. Now, how’s our service doing?”
    “Not bad, actually. I’ve seen everyone but Dave Scolari.”
    “Any problems with the others?”
    “Let’s see. Mrs. Kinchley wants to change rooms because Mrs. Weiss snores. Mr. Emspak wants to pull the shunt out of his head and go home because he has tickets to the ball game this weekend. Mrs. Davidoff is in her sixth day without a bowel movement. She won’t let us discharge her until she has one. I told the nurses that whoever gets her emptied out wins dinner for two at the Top of the Hub.”
    “Courtesy of her HMO. Anything else?”
    “Dr. Gilbride’s patient, Larry Kelleher, has a fever. I couldn’t find much, so I ordered blood cultures and the usual tests.”
    “Carl’s patient with a post-op fever? Not possible!”
    “I know. I know. I couldn’t believe it myself.”
    They were still trading digs at their department chief when they entered room 717. New England Patriots linebacker Dave Scolari looked up at them impassively. He was a beautiful man—twenty-six years old, six foot three, with a 250-pound body that could have been chiseled from granite. He was also paralyzed from the neck down as the result of a fluke helmet-to-helmet hit. Surgery had stabilized his cervical fracture, and he had gotten back some movement in his hands, but the outlook for major recovery was guarded. Scolari, a fearless warrior on the field, had all but given up.
    “Something funny?” he asked.
    Jessie apologized, silently cursing herself and Emily for not regaining their composure before going in to see a patient—especially Dave. One of her coverage partners had done the surgery on Dave’s neck, then had gone on safari, so over the intervening weeks, she had spent a fair amount of time with him. Initially, he had responded to her, teasing her about looking too young to be a neurosurgeon, even calling her Doogie Howser. But as the reality of his situation and his prognosis hit home, his enthusiasm began to wane. Now, though he tried being civil and went through the motions with his therapists, it was obvious to everyone that the spark was gone.
    “More cards,” she said, gesturing to the walls, which were virtually covered. “I’ll bet most of them are from beautiful women.”
    “I haven’t looked. The nurses hang them up.”
    Jessie took one down and studied the photo of a woman who had to be a professional model.
    “Maybe you should read them. This one gives her phone number.”
    She showed Dave the photo, but got little reaction.
    “Nice looking,” was all he said.
    Jessie conducted a quick but thorough exam. His grip seemed marginally less feeble than it had been.
    “Dave, I think there’s improvement here. I really do.”
    “Come on, Dr. Copeland. There’s been no change. You know that as well as I do.”
    “No, Dave, you don’t know that as well as I do. I love playing games, but not this kind. If I say you’re improving, you’re improving. You’ve got to stop this. The more negative you are, the less