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helped herself first.
    “Hrmph.” She whisked out again, returning with baked potatoes and steamed broccoli, and the three of them settled down to a quiet evening at home. It was the only place in Mel's life where she could totally, completely free herself of the news.

CHAPTER 3

    “Sally? … Sally? …"She had been drifting in and out of consciousness all day, and Peter Hallam had been to see her five or six times. It was only her second postoperative day, and it was still difficult to tell how she would do, but he had to admit to himself that he wasn't entirely pleased. She opened her eyes at last, and realized who he was, and she greeted him with a warm smile, as he pulled up a chair, sat down, and took her hand. “How're you feeling today?”
    She spoke to him in a whisper. “Not so good.”
    He nodded. “It's still pretty soon. Every day you'll feel stronger.” He seemed to will his strength into her through his words and his voice, but slowly she shook her head. “Have I ever lied to you?”
    She shook her head again, spoke again, despite the uncomfortable naso-gastric tube scratching the back of her throat. “It won't work.”
    “If you want it to, it will.” Everything inside him went tense. She couldn't afford to think like that. Not now.
    “I'm going to reject.” She whispered again. But he doggedly shook his head, a muscle tensing in his jaw. Dammit, why was she giving up? … And how did she know? … It was what he had feared all day. But she couldn't give up the fight … couldn't … dammit, it was like Anne … why did they suddenly lose their grasp? It was the worst battle he fought. Worse than the drugs, the rejection, the infections. They could deal with them all, at least to a point, but only if the patient still had the will to live … the belief that she would live. Without that, all was lost.
    “Sally, you're doing fine.” The words were determined and firm, and he sat by her bedside for over an hour, holding her hand. And then he went to make rounds, in each room, turning his full attention to the patient he saw, spending as much time as was needed to explain either surgical procedures that were going to be conducted soon, or what had already happened, what they felt, why they felt it, what the medications and steroids had done. And then at last, he went back to Sally's room, but she was asleep once again, and he stood for a long time watching her. He didn't like what he saw. She was right; he sensed it in his gut. Her body was rejecting the donor's heart, and there was no reason why it should. It had been a good match. But he instinctively sensed that it came too late for her, and as he left the room, he had a sense of impending loss which weighed on him like a lead balloon.
    He went to the small cubicle he used for an office when he was there, and called his office to see if they needed him there.
    “Everything's fine, Doctor,” the efficient voice said. “You just had a call from New York.”
    “From whom?” He didn't sound overly interested in the call, it was probably another surgeon wanting to consult on a difficult case, but his mind was filled with Sally Block, and he hoped it could wait.
    “From Melanie Adams, on Channel Four news.” Even Peter knew who she was, as isolated as he sometimes was from the world. He couldn't figure out why she had called him.
    “Do you know why?”
    “She wouldn't say, or at least not in detail. She only said that it was urgent, something about a little girl.” He raised an eyebrow at that, even television newswomen had kids, maybe this had to do with her own child. He jotted down the number she had left, glanced at his watch, and dialed.
    They put him through at once, and Melanie ran halfway across the newsroom to pick up a phone.
    “Dr. Hallam?” She sounded breathless, and at his end, his voice was deep and strong.
    “Yes. I had a message that you called.”
    “I did. I didn't expect to hear from you so soon. Our research