The racquetball court sang with tennis shoe squeaks as he dodged Mason Schaefer’s bang-on shot then lent chase to that evil, miniscule black rubber ball. Slicing his racquet in a swift, level backhand, he crushed the ball with a solid stroke. It ricocheted off the far wall and zipped right past his friend and opponent who spun and struck back with a backhand of his own that left AJ flying to save the point. As the game progressed, while he literally pounded against a batch of sudden and unexpected uncertainties, AJ took a mental wander through recent events, trying to somehow make sense of his emotions. At just over six weeks into recovery, Siobhan Douglas continued to haunt him as surely as any angelic specter, and the sensation of being so intrigued by—so attached to—a person he was treating, was unlike anything AJ had ever encountered. He awaited each of her routine checkups as though her visits were as much for his benefit as hers. Never had he been swept onto an emotional field when it came to his patients, but her first few appointments following discharge injected him with a hit of energy.
