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embarrassed. “I don’t have a regular doctor.”
    Sara took out her prescription pad and wrote down the name of a woman she’d interned with years ago. “Delia Wallace works out of Emory. She has a dual specialty in gynecology and endocrinology. I’ll call her tonight so her office knows to work you in.”
    Faith still seemed unconvinced. “How can I suddenly have this? I know I’ve put on weight, but I’m not fat.”
    “You don’t have to be fat,” Sara told her. “You’re older now. The baby affects your hormones, your ability to produce insulin. You haven’t been eating well. The stars lined up and it triggered you.”
    “It’s Will’s fault,” Faith mumbled. “He eats like a twelve-year-old. Doughnuts, pizza, hamburgers. He can’t go into a gas station without buying nachos and a hot dog.”
    Sara sat down on the edge of the bed again. “Faith, this isn’t the end of the world. You’re in good shape. You’ve got great insurance. You can manage this.”
    “What if I …” She blanched, breaking eye contact with Sara. “What if I wasn’t pregnant?”
    “We’re not talking about gestational diabetes here. This is full-blown, type two. A termination won’t suddenly make the problem go away,” Sara answered. “Look, this is probably something you’ve been building up to for a while. Being pregnant brought it on faster.It will make things more complicated in the beginning, but not impossible.”
    “I just …” She didn’t seem capable of finishing a sentence.
    Sara patted her hand, standing. “Dr. Wallace is an excellent diagnostician. I know for a fact that she takes the city insurance plan.”
    “State,” Faith corrected. “I’m with the GBI.”
    Sara assumed the Georgia Bureau of Investigation’s plan was similar, but she didn’t quibble. Faith was obviously having difficulty absorbing the news, and Sara had not exactly eased her into it. You couldn’t unring a bell, though. Sara patted her arm. “Mary will give you an injection. You’ll be feeling better in no time.” She started to leave. “I mean it about calling Dr. Wallace,” she added firmly. “I want you on the phone with her office first thing in the morning, and you need to be eating more than sticky buns. Low-carb, low-fat, regular healthy meals and snacks, okay?”
    Faith nodded, still dumbstruck, and Sara left the room feeling like an absolute heel. Her bedside manner had certainly deteriorated over the years, but this represented a new low. Wasn’t that anonymity why she had come to Grady in the first place? But for a handful of homeless men and some prostitutes, she seldom saw a patient more than once. That had been the real pull for Sara—the absolute detachment. She wasn’t at a stage in her life where she wanted to make connections with people. Every new chart was an opportunity to start all over. If Sara was lucky—and if Faith Mitchell was careful—they would probably never see each other again.
    Instead of going back into the doctors’ lounge to finish her charts, Sara walked past the nurses’ station, through the double doors, into the overfilled waiting room and finally found herself outside. There were a couple of respiratory therapists by the exit smoking cigarettes, so Sara kept walking toward the back of the building. Guilt about Faith Mitchell still hung heavy on her shoulders, and she looked up Delia Wallace’s number in her cell phone before she forgot to follow up. The service took her message about Faith, and Sara felt slightly better as she ended the call.
    She had run into Delia Wallace a couple of months ago, when the woman had come in to see one of her wealthy patients who had beenairlifted to Grady after a bad car accident. Delia and Sara had been the only women in the top five percent of their graduating class at Emory University Medical School. At the time, it was an unwritten rule that there were two options for female doctors: gynecology or pediatrics. Delia had chosen the