Doctor Hal Silverstein stood at the window of his twelfth floor office and stared above the Beverly Hills buildings to a sky streaked with bands of gold and red. It amused him how this city produced such spectacular sunsets, thanks to the layer of smog that contributed to LA’s poor air quality. He glanced down at the line of metallic beetles snaking their way to suburban burrows, taillights glowing, the last light of day reflected in their glossy paintwork. ‘Do you have any idea what it is?’ The woman’s voice was edgy, querulous. The psychiatrist turned from the window to face his patient. ‘No. To be candid, I don’t.’ ‘Surely there’s another test they can take, another blood sample, something . . ?’ ‘Rowena, we’ve done every test known to medical science . . . all the doctors can tell us is that it is probably some type of virus, possibly something you’ve picked up in Australia . . .’ Tears welled in the woman’s eyes. ‘But it’s killing me! God, surely they can do something .
