SINCE IT’S JUST AFTER 1 p.m., I’m hungry, and I need to relax for a while and process everything I learned this morning. I decide to drive to the Hoot-n-Holler for a cold beer and a plate of chili cheese-fries.
OK, maybe I should not have the chili cheese fries. But they’re just so good, and I do have to eat.
But thinking of the fries makes me think of my health and reminds me of my promise to Helen. So I dial Martin.
“Hi, Tom,” Martin says, “I don’t have much time. I’ve got surgery in twenty minutes.”
“Something serious?”
“No, just an impalement,” he says. “Someone fell on a fence spike. No major organs, a pretty simple repair.”
“Oh, well,” I say somewhat startled by his blasé attitude, but I guess that’s what happens when you’re a trauma surgeon. “I won’t keep you. I need a favor.”
