A pickup had pulled into a snow-slick space across the street, and a woman and a small girl were crossing their way. “Ma’am,” the protestor called out, “are you aware that Dr. Rouse is trying to take away your right to make health care decisions about your daughter?”

The mother squinted against the sun. “What’s that?”

The door to the clinic banged open. “Get the hell off my sidewalk, Debba Clow! And leave those ladies alone!”

A stocky man in his sixties stood in the doorway, his pale face mottled red, his white coat flapping as the cold air rushed past him into the heated vestibule beyond.

“Dr. Rouse, I presume,” Claire said under her breath.

“This is a public sidewalk and I have every right to be here!” the protestor shouted.

“You’re assaulting my patients and practicing medicine without a license!”

“I’m telling them what you won’t, you quack!”

The red blotches on the doctor’s face turned purple. “That’s it! I’m calling the police! Then I’m calling the state! And then I’m calling my lawyer, who will sue you for defamation!” He disappeared back into the clinic, the door swinging shut behind him.

The protestor-Debba Clow-spun around. “Is that the sort of man you want treating your child?” she asked the mother, who responded by scooping the girl into her arms and hurrying up the stairs. Debba looked at Clare as if to say, You see what I have to fight against? “I better get out of here,” she said. “I don’t need any more trouble from the cops.” She yanked off one mitten, fished into her parka pocket, and extracted a business card. “You seem like an intelligent, concerned woman. Here’s my number. If you want to find out more, give me a call.”

She tucked the placard beneath her arm and strode down the sidewalk. Clare looked at the card. It had a design of paint-saturated handprints running up one side. DEBORAH CLOW, ARTIST, it read.