Prologue

      Hudson Stack, M.D., sat in the office of George Blake Stimson, Chief of Surgery at Boston General, his irritation rising as he learned the results of his mandatory physical.

      “Your blood pressure is in the red zone,” George said, continuing a long harangue. “Your cholesterol is off the charts, your triglycerides are completely out of whack. Your caffeine consumption is three times what it ought to be. Your reflexes are slow, you’re sleep deprived, and you’re irritable. And no doctor, I don’t care how famous or how popular, is going to operate on patients in my hospital when he’s falling apart.”

      “Are you telling me I’m fired?” Hudson asked, alarmed. He’d had these little discussions with George before. Usually the crusty old surgeon warned him to take it easy, eat healthier, get more sleep, that sort of thing.

      Hudson had believed his job was secure. He’d recently become the hospital’s best public relations tool. Inventing an artificial valve that was going to save millions of lives had put Hudson’s name in the medical journals. Saving the mayor’s life with an emergency quintuple bypass had put his name in the headlines. Most recently, Boston Life magazine had named him “Boston’s Hottest Bachelor,” ensuring he remain in the public eye far longer than Hudson would have liked.

      “Of course you’re not fired. Administration would tar and feather me if I did that. But you are going on vacation, starting now.”

      “I can’t,” Hudson immediately replied. “I’ve got two surgeries in the morning and three more—”

      “Those surgeries will be reassigned to other surgeons.”

      “You can’t do that.”

      “I can and will do whatever it takes. Would you want a surgeon in your shape operating on your heart?”

      “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

      “Your test results speak differently.”

      Hudson knew that arguing was fruitless. George’s word was like God’s around here. Hudson could appeal to no one; no one would take his side.

      “I suppose I could use a few days off,” he finally said, grudgingly. And maybe it was true. He hadn’t seen his daughter in a week—at least, not awake. He usually got home long after she