Karen squeezed Abby’s shoulder. “You know better than that.”

“It’s only a little while till my shot, Mom. Or you could give me that new kind of shot right now. Couldn’t you?”

Abby was too smart for her own good. Conventional forms of insulin had to be injected thirty minutes to an hour before meals, which made controlling juvenile diabetes difficult. If a child lost her appetite after the shot and refused to eat, as children often did, blood sugar could plummet to a dangerous level. To solve this problem, a new form of insulin called Humalog had been developed, which was absorbed by human cells almost instantly. It could be injected right before a meal, during the meal, or even just after. Physicians like Will were some of the first to get access to the drug, and its convenience had revolutionized the daily lives of families with diabetic children. However, Humalog also tempted children to break their dietary rules, since they knew that an “antidote” was near to hand.

“No Oreos, kiddo,” Karen said firmly.

“Okay,” Abby griped. “Iced tea with a lemon. I’m going to tee-tee.”

“I’ll have it waiting when you get back.”

Abby paused at the hall door. “Will you come with me?”

“You’re a big girl now. You know where the light is. I’m going to fix the tea while you’re gone.”

“Okay.”

As Abby trudged up the hallway, Karen looked down at The New England Journal of Medicine and felt the twinge of anger and regret she always did when confronted by tangible symbols of the profession she’d been forced to abandon. She was secretly glad that the flower show had given her an excuse to miss the medical convention, where she would be relegated to “wife” status by men who couldn’t have stayed within fifteen points of her in a chemistry class. Next month, Will’s drug research would be published in this very magazine, while she would be entangled in the next Junior League service project. She shoved the magazine across the counter with the rest of the mail and opened the stainless-steel refrigerator.