Reed Wallace was young. His diplomas hung on the wall, but Roman numerals confused Liz and besides, she didn’t really want to know exactly how young. Under the circumstances, age made no difference anyway. The lab in Miami had provided his name in San Jose and no other. He entered the examining room, her chart in hand, a few strands of dark brown hair engagingly drooped across his forehead, and leaned against the wall smiling and comfortable as a neighbor chatting over a fence. Easy for you. You’re not going to be east-west in the stirrups, gaping like a Bekins box. She perched on the end of the examining table and answered his routine questions—her age (advanced), her general health (perimenopausal), childhood ailments (emotional neglect), allergies (good-looking young ob-gyns; they made her blush). He was tall and slender with excellent teeth and probably wearing contact lenses. Clean fingernails, a discreet yin/yang tattoo on his wrist. Wallace left her alone in the examining room to strip and don a paper hospital gown.
