"Give him a little more time, Michael. Bruce has been dead only two weeks."

"It's more than just Bruce."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Something to do with the clinic, I guess."

"Michael, please talk to him about your stomach."

"Sara..."

"Talk to him tonight... for me."

"Okay," he agreed reluctantly.

"Promise?"

"Yes, I promise. And Sara?"

"What is it?"

"Kick some Southern-fried reverend ass."

"I love you, Michael."

"I love you too."

Sara felt a tap on her shoulder.

"Ten minutes."

"I have to go," she said.

"Until tonight then," he said.

"When I have my way with a famous TV star in her childhood bedroom."

"Dream on."

A sharp pain ripped across Michael Silverman's abdomen again as he replaced the receiver. He bent over, his hand clutched under his rib cage, his face scrunched into a grimace. His stomach had been bothering him on and off for weeks now. At first he had thought it was just a flu, but now he was not so sure. The ache was becoming unbearable. Even the thought of food now made his stomach perform backflips.

Bach's Seventh Symphony drifted across the room like a welcome breeze.

Michael closed his eyes, allowing the melody to work like a gentle masseur against his aching muscles. His teammates gave him unlimited shit about his musical taste. Reece Porter, the black power forward who co-captained the New York Knicks with Michael, was always goofing on him.

"How can you listen to this shit, Mikey?" he would ask.

"There's no beat, no rhythm."

"I realize that the musical ear of a Chopin does not compare with that of MC Hammer," Michael would reply, "but try to be open-minded. Just listen, Reece. Let the notes flow over you."

Reece paused and listened for a moment.

"I feel like I'm trapped in a dentist's office. How does this shit get you psyched for a big game? You can't dance to it or anything."