"Damn!" Craig blurted with emphasis. He flipped open his phone, put it to his ear, and said hello.

"Doctor Bowman!" a refined voice said. "I'm calling about Patience. She's worse. In fact, this time I think she's really sick."

"What seems to be the problem, Jordan?" Craig asked as he turned to glance back into the bathroom. Leona had heard the phone and was looking at him. He mouthed the name Stanhope, and Leona nodded. She knew what that meant, and Craig could tell from her expression that she had the same fear he had – namely, that their evening was now in jeopardy. If they arrived at the symphony too late, they'd have to wait for the intermission to sit down, which meant forgoing the fun and excitement of the entrance, which both had been keenly anticipating.

"I don't know," Jordan said. "She appears unnaturally weak. She doesn't even seem to be able to sit up."

"Besides weakness, what are her symptoms?"

"I think we should call an ambulance and go to the hospital. She's greatly perturbed, and she's got me concerned."

" Jordan, if you are concerned, then I am, too," Craig said soothingly. "What are her symptoms? I mean, I was just there at your home this morning dealing with her usual medley of complaints. Is it something different or what?" Patience Stanhope was one of less than a half-dozen patients that Craig labeled "problem patients," but she was the worst of the group. Every doctor had had them, in every kind of practice, and found them tedious at best and maddening at worst. They were the patients who persisted day in and day out with a litany of complaints that were, for the most part, completely psychosomatic or totally phantom and that could rarely be helped by any therapy, including alternative medicine.