In the past week, she had noticed that several times when Sally’s mother came to visit, she had stopped at the large courtesy counter in the lounge area and then brought a cup of coffee with her into Sally’s room. Invariably she left it half empty on the nightstand by the crib.

It’s only a hunch, Monica told herself, and I know I have no right to do it. But I’m going to send word to Ms. Carter that I must meet with her before I will discharge Sally. I’d love to compare the baby’s DNA with her DNA from the coffee cup. She swears she’s the birth mother, but if she’s not why would she bother to lie about it? Then reminding herself once more that she had no right to secretly compare the DNA, she threw the swab into the wastebasket.

After checking her other patients, Monica went to her office on East Fourteenth Street for her afternoon hours. It was six thirty when, trying to conceal her weariness, she said good-bye to her last patient, an eight-year-old boy with an ear infection.

Nan Rhodes, her receptionist-bookkeeper, was closing up at her desk. In her sixties, rotund, and with unfailing patience no matter how hectic the waiting room, Nan asked the question Monica had been hoping to put aside for another day.

“Doctor, what about that inquiry from the Bishop’s Office in New Jersey, asking you to be a witness in the beatification process for that nun?”

“Nan, I don’t believe in miracles. You know that. I sent them a copy of the initial CAT scan and MRI. They speak for themselves.”

“But you did believe that with brain cancer that advanced, Michael O’Keefe would never see his fifth birthday, didn’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“You suggested his parents take him to the Knowles Clinic in Cincinnati because it’s the best research hospital in brain cancer, but you did it knowing full well they’d confirm your diagnosis out there,” Nan persisted.