Clark Corcoran asked, standing up and coming around to perch on the corner of his desk. Built like a quarterback, Corcoran’s youthful look belied his forty-four years, and his easy manner had always made him popular with kids. But Joey shifted nervously in his chair, and the worry in his eyes was apparent as he gazed up at the doctor. “You mean we’re done?” he asked. Corcoran nodded. “All done,” he replied, instilling a heartiness in his voice that he knew wasn’t justified by the results of his examination of Joey. Still, he had reached some conclusions about the boy during the last hour, encouraging Joey to keep talking while he checked him over physically, knowing that with someone of Joey’s age, he would gain a lot more information from an informal talk than he ever would if they’d merely sat face-to-face across his desk. Physically, the boy was in good condition. Though he wasn’t large for his age—his height was actually a bit below average—his muscular development was far beyond his years, and already hair was beginning to sprout on his well-developed chest.
