Glazer, if you would just sell to me. I’m offering you well over market value to buy out your clinic.” Toby Latner flicked a piece of imaginary lint from charcoal gray slacks with an impatient jerk of his hand. Reginald Glazer sat across from him, leaning back in his wooden slot-back chair. The exhaustion in his eyes and embedded in the lines of his face still didn’t detract from his intelligence. “For you, I’m sure. However, for me, it would not be worth it.” “The amount I am offering will take care of your upcoming medical bills.” Mr. Glazer—Dr., really—cleared his throat. “Is that what you learned in ‘business-take-over’ school? To mention a person’s medical bills? When I say no again, are you prepared to inform me just how expensive chemo will specifically be?” He leaned back, the rusty hinge squeaking loudly in the otherwise quiet, tense room. “I know your parents raised you better.” The reprimand fell as hard as rain, stinging with the force of wind-driven sleet.
