Henderson said, folding his copy into his shirt pocket.

He tipped his cap and stepped out into the hallway, shutting the heavy oak door gently behind him.

My cell phone rang on the kitchen counter before I could put the cap back on my pen.

The caller ID showed the number for the Tremont Road medical clinic.

“Loretta, this is Clara from Dr.

Miller’s desk,” the nurse said, her voice bright over the speaker.

“Hello, Clara,” I said.