“Nice alliteration, Russell.”

“It would be better if you called me Dr. Rossetti,” he said. She saw those plump, white fingers twisting, and she knew he was angry. He thought she was out of line. She was, but she just didn’t care. She was tired, so very tired, and she just wanted to close her eyes and let the morphine mask the pain for a while longer.

“Go away, Dr. Rossetti.”

He didn’t move for some time.

Lily turned her head away and sought oblivion. She didn’t even hear when he finally left the room. She did, however, hear the door close.

When Dr. Larch walked in five minutes later, his very high forehead flushed, she managed to cock an eye open and say, “Dr. Rossetti is a patronizing ass. He has fat hands. Please, I don’t want to see him again.”

“He doesn’t think you’re in very good shape.”

“On the contrary, I’m in splendid shape, something I can’t say about him. He needs to go to the gym very badly.”

Dr. Larch laughed, couldn’t help himself. “He also said your defensiveness and your rudeness to him were sure signs that you’re highly overwrought and in desperate need of help.”

“Yeah, right. I’m so overwrought-what with all this painkiller-that I’m ready to nap.”

“Ah, your husband is here to see you.”

She didn’t want to see Tennyson. His voice, so resonant, so confident-it was too much like Dr. Rossetti’s voice, as if they’d taken the same Voice Lessons 101 course in shrink school. If she never saw another one of them again, she could leave this earth a happy woman.

She looked past Dr. Larch to see her husband of eleven months standing in the doorway, looking rather pale, his thick eyebrows drawn together, his arms crossed over his chest. Such a nice-looking man he was, all big and solid, his hair light and wavy, lots of hair, not bald like Dr. Larch. He wore aviator glasses, which looked really cool, and now she watched him push them back up, an endearing habit-at least that’s what she’d thought when she’d first met him.