On a metal shelf above the bathroom sink was a personal hygiene kit with a plastic comb, a disposable razor and a small travel-size can of Barbasol shaving cream. I lathered up my face, then, stroke after stroke, shaved off my beard. I turned on the shower. I hadn't showered since Hannibal, and the warm water felt marvelous as it washed away several days of grime, coalescing in a steady stream of dirty water on the floor pan. The shower had a retractable seat and I adjusted the shower head, then sat down and bowed my head beneath the stream, letting the water flow over me. Fifteen minutes later I got out and toweled off. I pulled on some fresh underwear and pants, then opened the bathroom door to let the steam out.

"I'm out here," my father said.

He was sitting in the same chair he had occupied the day before, again wearing the same clothes as before.

"Morning," I said.

"Good morning. How are you feeling?"

"Good," I said.

"The nurse said the doctor was going to drop by before we left."

"Nicole told me."

"I didn't see Nicole."

"She went to get me some breakfast." I toweled off my hair, then combed it back and came out of the bathroom. I dug through my pack for a clean shirt.

"Our flight leaves at twelve twenty-seven," my father said. "We should be at the airport at least an hour early, so we should leave here by ten-thirty. That leaves us fifty-seven minutes to get to the airport."

My father was crazily precise about numbers. I had wondered before whether his obsession came from years of accounting or if he was just born that way and it led him to accounting. Cause or effect.

"How long ago did Nicole leave?" he asked.

I b.u.t.toned up my shirt. "About a half hour. She should be back soon."

"She's a great gal," my father said. "I've enjoyed helping her with her finances."

I was getting a pair of socks from my pack when a wave of nausea swept over me. I grabbed the plastic tub they'd given me to vomit in and leaned over the bed.

"You okay?"

It was a moment before I answered. "Yeah. Still nauseous."

It was a couple minutes before the nausea pa.s.sed and I set down the tub. "Have you heard from Falene this morning?"

"She left," he said.

I looked up at him. "Left? Where?"

"She went home. She left last night."

I looked at him in disbelief. "Without saying goodbye?"

"She asked me to say goodbye for her."

"I don't understand."

Just then Nicole walked into the room carrying a plastic tray crowded with food. "You're up," she said brightly.

"Mostly," I said.

I looked at the tray.

"I know it's a lot. But the pancakes and waffles both looked good, so I got you both. I also got you a side of bacon. I thought you needed the protein." She turned to my father. "Good morning, Mr. Christoffersen."

"Good morning, Nicole," he replied.

Nicole set the tray down next to my bed. She poured the cranberry juice into a gla.s.s of ice, then handed it to me. "Here you go."

"Thank you."

She sat down. "Did the doctor come by?"

"Not yet," I said. I sat down on the side of the bed.

"You look a little pale," Nicole said.

"He just had another bout of nausea," my father replied.

"I'm feeling better," I said.

I poured syrup on the waffles and began to eat. I was halfway through breakfast when the doctor walked into the room.

"Good morning, everyone. How are you feeling, Alan?"

"A little dizzy."

He nodded. "Like I said yesterday, you can expect that to continue until the tumor's removed. We've contacted the cancer center at the UCLA hospital and they have you registered into their system. You have an appointment scheduled for tomorrow morning. I've sent over your files, including your MRI, so they are just awaiting your arrival."

"That's fast," my father said.

He smiled. "I've got some pull. And I have more good news. I spoke with Dr. Schlozman last night and he's agreed to take you on. You're very fortunate to get him. If I had a brain tumor, he's the one I'd go to. But I should warn you, he's a little ... interesting. He might take a little getting used to."

"Arrogant?" I asked.

Dr. Kelson grinned. "No, not that. He's just quirky. Don't worry about it."

"Thank you, Doctor," I said.

"No problem. Do you have any questions?"

I shook my head. No one else spoke.

"All right, then have a safe flight home. Good luck, Mr. Christoffersen. I hope you're back on the road soon."

"Thank you," I said. "So do I."