And something in me went to steel.

“Mr. Boone,” I said, “your daughter has a mass on her femur.”

“I understand that. I’m asking what it’s going to cost.”

“I’m telling you what she has.”

“Doctor.” His jaw tightened. “I heard you. I’m asking the other question.”

“I don’t know the number,” I said, in a voice I have heard myself use maybe twice in my career, “and I’d rather talk about your daughter’s leg.”