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(the result of Down syndrome, I had diagnosed), she followed simple orders easily and—more important—didn’t charge in and do anything on her own. I decided I could trust her to assist me. “Do you have a clean apron?” I asked.
    She promptly produced one from a drawer.
    â€œPut it on,” I said, “and tie back your hair.”
    She obeyed both orders without question.
    â€œHere.” I handed her a plastic package containing a pair of sterile surgical gloves. “Wash your hands six times and put these on.”
    â€œSix?” It was the first time she’d questioned me.
    â€œSix,” I repeated sternly.
    When she was done, I did the same.

    It was time to retrieve my patient. I found him dozing on the sofa. The shock of the accident and the sedative I’d given him had taken their toll. But when I drew near, he stirred.
    â€œIt’s time,” I spoke softly.
    He blinked.
    â€œCan you roll up your sleeve?” I asked.
    He did so, staring at the syringe in my hand.
    â€œThis is Xylocaine—the local anesthetic you asked for,” I said. “It will take effect in about five minutes.” I inserted the needle and administered the dose.
    With his good hand, Max reached for his gun. But this didn’t bother me. I was sure he wouldn’t shoot either Lolly or me—at least until after the operation.

CHAPTER 8
    As I approached the makeshift operating table, I knew my skills were not equal to this undertaking. I needed some magic, luck, or a miracle to get me through—or maybe some of all three. I crossed my fingers, knocked my knuckles against the wooden table, and said a prayer: “God, help me, please.”
    I glanced at the clock. Almost noon. No reason to delay any longer. I tore open a package containing a sterile gauze pad, drenched it with disinfectant, and swabbed my patient’s wounded fingers. When this was done, I turned to Bunnell’s intricate drawing of the right hand, which I had propped against the lamp on my right, and picked up a scalpel.
    Max drew a sharp breath and closed his eyes.
    â€œIt won’t hurt, Daddy,” Lolly assured him. “If it does, I’ll kiss it and make it well.”
    â€œThanks,” he said, and I went to work.
    I was intent on suturing the stump of the first finger when I heard Lolly gasp.
    I looked up, to see a tawny cat emerging from behind the refrigerator. She had probably been asleep and we’d missed her.
    â€œGet her out of here!” Max muttered.

    Lolly started toward her, but I stopped her. “Don’t touch her! You’ll be contaminated and won’t be able to help me.” She had proved to be a big help, passing me new instruments, taking the old ones. I needed her. As we watched, the cat strolled toward the table and leaped neatly onto the far end.
    â€œI’ll take care of her.” Max raised the revolver he had been cradling in his lap throughout the operation.
    â€œNo!” Lolly and I screamed together.
    â€œThat’s Sapphire—Mommy’s favorite,” Lolly whimpered.
    â€œDon’t upset Lolly,” I said. “If you do, she won’t be able to help me.”
    The cat sat demurely on the end of the table, cleaning first one paw, then the other. Despite the emergency, I thought fleetingly how well cats get along without fingers, let alone an opposable thumb. Frantically, I racked my brain for some other way to get rid of her.
    â€œDidn’t I see some tuna in the fridge?” I asked.
    Lolly’s face brightened.
    â€œTry to pick up some tuna with the tongs and carry it to the door.”
    She was already at the sink, proving that heavy people can be quick on their feet. Picking up the tongs, she grabbed a chunk of tuna from the can in the fridge. Meanwhile, I concentrated on trying to keep Sapphire from entering the operating zone by giving her a fierce glare. She ignored me, absorbed in her toilet, but she