Hell, you're always free. Ciao."

Jesus, what a moron. How did he get into my life? Oh, yeah. He was my sister's husband. I should have divorced him when she did.

After my divorce settlement I had to wonder if he hadn't been banging my wife, too. I know, that's harsh, but damn, I lost the house, a car, and the boat. I wasn't really bitter, and I didn't consider myself shallow, but after the initial shock incurred by the Canahan incident, and the subsequent embarrassment to discover that almost every staff member had been privy to the affair, I felt entitled to a little payback. It never materialized. Bad lawyering.

Then there was Chance, my Golden Retriever. I would have fought to the death to keep her with me. As it ended up, Helen didn't want her. Chance never liked her anyway. Good dog.

Dr. Patrick Donovan had ER duty that day. He was my protege, heir apparent and arch nemesis. Ten years my junior, with a build slightly smaller than mine, he was Hollywood handsome. His narrow face ended in a square chin; deep-set, dark eyes placed second to his melt-the-nurses smile. Medically, he was competent beyond his years of experience; I trusted him to cover my back. Personally, I was concerned he might stab me in the same place. He played Robin to my Batman. Moriarty to my Holmes. Dr. Corwin Donovan, preeminent surgeon and sire to young Patrick, instilled in his son the drive to be the best. That drive brought young Patrick to my ER.

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