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come from another gene pool. The Frawleys were mixing warily with the Ray Russo contingent. One red-haired brother asked a cousin, “So, how do you know Leo?”
    â€œMy cousin’s going out with his roommate,” he answered. I corrected the misapprehension. Ray and I were acquaintances, I said.
    The cousin grinned. “If you say so.”
    I explained to the brother that Ray had lost his wife a year ago and only now was getting out socially.
    Cousin George said, “He was really faithful to her memory. He didn’t do a thing until she was legally pronounced dead.”
    I told him what Ray had told me: the accident, the head trauma, the coma, the life support, the horrible decision. I asked if any of her organs were donated and George said, “Um. You’d have to ask Ray.”
    I asked if she’d been wearing a seat belt.
    George said, “I doubt it.”
    Leo was now doing what he had threatened to do during our planning phase if things didn’t coalesce on their own—dance. He was taking turns with a flock of nursing students, all undergraduates from the same baccalaureate nursing program, and all friends. They looked alike, too: Their hairdos were the ballerina knots, streaked with blond, that were popular with pretty teenagers. I didn’t think we should invite anyone under twenty-one because we were serving beer and wine, but Leo had prevailed. Now they were taking turns being twirled, and each one’s raised hand revealed a few inches of bare midriff and a pierced navel.
    â€œWanna dance, Doc?” Ray asked.
    I shook my head resolutely.
    â€œWould it make a difference if it was a slow dance? You must have learned a few steps of ballroom dancing for those teas at that fancy college.”
    I didn’t remember telling him where I’d gone to college, but I must have mentioned it over dinner. I said, “Okay, a slow dance.”
    â€œI’ll talk to the deejay,” said Ray. He turned to his cousin. “Georgie—put something on that the doc might enjoy dancing to.”
    â€œWill do,” said George.
    A little human warmth generated from a clean-shaven jaw can go a long way. I may have exaggerated my ineptitude on the dance floor; any able-bodied person can follow another’s lead when his technique constitutes nothing more than swaying in place. It helped that he didn’t talk or sing, and that his cologne had a citric and astringent quality that I found pleasing.
    If Ray said anything at all, it was an occasional entreaty to relax. “You’re not so bad, Doc,” he said when the first song ended. “In fact I think you might like another whirl.”
    He hadn’t let go of my hand. I looked around the room to see if we had an audience. Leo was consolidating trays of hors d’oeuvres, but watching. He arched his eyebrows, which I interpreted to mean, Need to be rescued?
    I shrugged.
    A nurse with closely cropped hair dyed at least two primary colors took Leo’s hand and led him out to the patch of hardwood that was serving as the dance floor. “Having a good time?” Leo asked me.
    â€œYou better believe it,” Ray answered, flashing a thumbs-up with my hand in his.
    A PHONE CALL woke me. Was I in my own bed or in the on-call cot? It took a few seconds to orient myself in the dark before remembering: I had the weekend off. Good. This would be the hospital calling the wrong resident.
    But it wasn’t. It was my mother, her voice choked.
    â€œIs it Daddy?” I whispered.
    â€œIt’s Nana,” she managed, discharging the two syllables between sobs.
    â€œWhat about Nana?”
    â€œGone! One minute she was alive and the next minute, gone! Pneumonia! As if that wasn’t curable!”
    My grandmother was ninety-four and had been in congestive heart failure for three months and on dialysis for nine. I said, “The elderly don’t do well with pneumonia.”
    I looked at my