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but did not move any deeper into the house. He stood in a super-short hallway that opened into a small, crowded living room. She looked nervous about letting a relative stranger into her home. They’d had a few conversations at the PT place where he helped out with the clients, but that was it. No reason she’d ever expect to find him on her doorstep.
    Not a terribly warm person, she tended to be totally arm’s length. Cordial at best. He’d pulled his piercings but he’d caught her looking askance at his short ponytail—she should have seen it before he’d trimmed it and sent it off to become a cancer wig. Not too much he could do about the tattoos and the old track marks except keep them under wraps, but every so often some ink would peek out.
    â€œI’ll get right to the point.”
    â€œPlease do. You said it’s about Tommy?”
    â€œYes. I have something I think can help him.”
    Although he’d said “think,” he knew he could help.
    â€œHelp him how?”
    â€œWith his arthritis.”
    â€œOh, Chet, you have been helping him. The exercises—”
    â€œNo-no. I mean with like a medication of sorts.”
    She frowned. “He has a rheumatologist for that.”
    â€œI know, I know, and I’m not saying anything against Doctor Sklar, but I’d just like Tommy…” He reached into the pocket of his parka and pulled out a small glass vial with a red rubber stopper. “I’d like him to try this.”
    Her frown deepened as she took the vial and stared at the half ounce of cloudy fluid within.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œAn ancient herbal mixture.” More true than untrue. “From the Orient.”
    Totally untrue.
    â€œOh, dear. I don’t know about this.”
    â€œOne dose. Please, Mrs. Cochran. One dose and you’ll see a miraculous improvement in Tommy.”
    He didn’t want to say “cure,” because no way she’d buy that. Worse, she’d think he’d gone shuggy. Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis wasn’t curable—at least not by accepted medical practices. But the ikhar in that little vial operated far, far outside those accepted boundaries.
    Her eyes narrowed. “Does the PT center know you’re going around selling—?”
    â€œOh, no. I’m not going around and I’m not selling anything. This is, like, strictly from me to you for Tommy—no strings, no cost.”
    And speak of the little devil, look who just rolled around the corner in his wheelchair. Jeans covered his swollen knees and his rashes were hidden under a blue Giants sweatshirt.
    Chaim’s heart swelled at the sight of the little guy. He didn’t know what it was about Tommy, but he’d bonded to this kid. An instant thing— bam! —on day one of working with him. He was sweet and brave and tough. His limbs were all stiff and getting more and more twisted by the day, but he never let it get him down. He kept smiling and kept trying. The kid was a fighter. Lots of the kids had attitudes about the therapy, but once Chaim told Tommy that the exercises would keep his muscles from wasting away, Tommy was there . When the kid had told him he was gonna ride his bike again someday, Chaim had gotten totally verklempt .
    â€œHey, Chet!” Tommy said with a big grin that revealed a missing tooth. “What are you doing here?”
    He caught Mrs. Cochran’s warning look as she enclosed the vial in her hand, hiding it, but Chaim hadn’t intended on saying anything about the ikhar .
    â€œHey, buddy. Just talking to your mom. You know, like checking up on you. You missed therapy yesterday.”
    â€œYeah. Got this cold and Mom doesn’t want me going out.”
    â€œDon’t take that tone, young man,” Mrs. Cochran said. “You know the medicine makes your immune system weak.”
    â€œI know.”
    Chaim had tried every trick he knew to slip him a