"Most insurance companies do not cover the oral treatment, or only a small part of it, which means that many colon cancer patients will have to come up with thousands of dollars to pay for the Eloxium. Dad's oncologist is furious about it because she'll have to force patients over to the oral medication. There'll be simply no choice once there's no supply. Even worse, if a patient begins the Eloxium, there's no going back, even if Culovort becomes available again."

Erin said slowly, "So mortgage your home to pay for the treatment of a life-threatening disease, and have a nice day."

"Can you imagine, Erin, not only dealing with chemotherapy and all the brutal side effects, the possible prospect of dying, your family's grinding fear, the unending stress, and then being told that one of the major components of your chemotherapy course isn't available anymore because of unexpected production problems? And, oh, yes, sorry, but on top of all that, it's going to cost you a bundle out-of-pocket to switch over to a new chemo drug."

Oh, yes, she could imagine it. She remembered all too well her father's final months, the soul-draining helplessness they'd all felt watching her father become a frail old man, so ill he couldn't eat, so weak he could barely stand. She remembered how he'd told her late one night that this damnable cure made you forget the disease, you felt so rotten. She swallowed down tears, shook her head. "What I really can't picture is a group of people actually sitting down and deciding to simply stop making an important medicine for cancer patients, people who may already be staring at death from the doorway and trying to deal with it."

Dr. Kender smiled at her, a charming smile that for an instant erased the terrible fatigue and worry from his eyes. "Ah, you're forgetting the bankers on Wall Street. They purposely set out to make all the money they could, and they didn't seem to give a damn about the consequences."