“What are you doing here?” Leila asked, studying Isobel over the top of her tortoiseshell glasses.

“I worked at the clinic the whole weekend,” Isobel replied. “And I’ve got a load of comp time I need to take. This is my day off.”

Leila crossed her arms. “That’s exactly what I mean. Why are you here, at Medpax? Shouldn’t you not be working? Sleeping or reading like a normal person? Doing yoga?”

“I hate yoga. And I hate people who do yoga.”

“Yeah, they are rather annoying,” Leila agreed. “So what are you doing?”

Isobel showed her the folder she had been leafing through. “Old memories. Did you know I practically grew up here? I used to come after school.”

“Is that why you’re here today? Nostalgia?”

“I don’t know,” Isobel said slowly. She had come on a whim, but now she was in a strange mood she couldn’t shake. Maybe it hadn’t been so wise to come here after all. As a girl she had been so desperately lonely. She couldn’t tell Leila that, but she had always come here hoping to feel closer to her mom, hoping that Blanche would notice her. Which she never did. It was rather pathetic that she, as a grown woman, still couldn’t get over this need to seek love and attention from her mother.

Isobel wondered whether maybe that was one of the reasons she enjoyed being in the field so much. It was almost unbearable at times, but in some strange way things were much simpler when everything but life and death was taken out of the equation.

“I really am feeling better now,” she said, as if to convince herself. “Liberia was tough—the Ebola outbreak was the worst I’ve ever seen. But I’m fully recovered, I want you to know that.”

“I know, you look it. I was worried for a while, but I would never let you go to Chad if I wasn’t sure you could handle it. Your well-being is my number one priority.”

“Thanks. I spoke to Idris over the weekend,” she said.

Idris Toko was the local doctor in charge of the pediatric hospital in Chad. They Skyped from time to time. Idris was glad she was coming back; they made a good team.

“I’m assuming you still have all the visas and vaccinations you need?” Leila asked.

“Yup, so it’s actually a pretty perfect solution that I go again.”

Isobel spoke French; was used to fieldwork; and had all the necessary stamps, visas, and vaccinations. She would stay for a month while Leila looked for another doctor willing to head out there for longer. And she would get to spend time with Marius again. Was he hoping for her to return? She wanted him to feel that he was important to her, that there was one person who truly cared. It felt important. Not disappointing him.

“It’ll be rainy season,” Leila said.

“Yes, but that just means it’ll be a little muddier.”

“One thing I was curious about … When did you last have any kind of safety training?” Leila asked, giving her a piercing look. Isobel scoffed.

She had been a volunteer since she was sixteen, for a number of more or less organized groups. Before she’d gone to Iraq to work in a refugee camp on her first mission for Doctors Without Borders, she’d taken a comprehensive preparatory course in safety, among other things. After that, straight after her medical degree, she traveled to Haiti to work amid the chaos following the earthquake there. And working with Ebola had required a whole new level of caution. There was, in other words, very little she didn’t already know about safety in the field. And besides, she wasn’t some kind of cowboy doctor. She knew that evolution dealt rapidly with careless field-workers.

“It was a while ago,” she said cautiously, not liking where this was going.

“I signed Sven up for one—you can take his place,” Leila said, confirming her suspicions.

Isobel started to protest, that she was much too experienced, much too senior, much too not interested in going to stupid security courses, but she was interrupted by Leila’s cell phone. “It’s not up for discussion,” Leila said curtly before she disappeared to answer the call.

When Leila came back, Isobel was deep in inventory lists and field reports from Chad. Her grandfather, Henri, who’d died in Chad, had left behind reams of notes in his dry, archaic French. Idris Toko, and all the doctors who had preceded Idris, had also sent regular reports back to Medpax over the years. All this meant three decades’ worth of fascinating reading on malaria treatments, cholera outbreaks, and the constant battle against undernourishment. Isobel couldn’t help but feel proud. This was her family’s legacy, after all.

“Guess who that was on the phone,” Leila said from the doorway.

“The pope? The king? I don’t know,” Isobel replied absentmindedly. She had found an old newspaper clipping. Her mother and grandfather outside the hospital in Chad. Simple buildings. A jeep. A vast, sandy landscape.

“Alexander De la Grip. He wants to meet you.”

Isobel looked up from the folder. “Is that a joke? Why?”

“He wants you to tell him about Medpax and explain why his foundation should give us money.”

Isobel had been so sure she had blown it. Had actually been relieved not to have to see him again.

“Can’t you do it?” she pleaded. “Considering how I acted last time.”

Leila leaned against the door frame again. “But he wants to meet you.”

“I don’t know why.”

“You must have made an impression on him.”

“That’s one way of looking at it. It’s just that he annoys me.”

“This isn’t like you, Isobel.”

“Fine, I’ll go see him. But I just want to say, on record, that I hate this, having to suck up to someone like him just to get money,” she said, knowing she had already lost.

Leila snorted. “I just don’t understand the issue here. I’ve seen you fawn over people before. What’s the problem?”

“Nothing. Aside from the fact that I’m used to dealing with older men. He’s so young,” she said, knowing even as she spoke that it was a ridiculous excuse.

Leila gave her an incredulous look. “Alexander De la Grip is rich and he’s hot,” she said slowly, with emphasis on each syllable. “He turned twenty-nine this past January, so that makes him twenty-two months younger than you.”

Isobel didn’t ask why Leila had memorized that fact. Leila stored masses of information in her super-brain. She was like a data bank on the people she met, their qualities and weak points.

“I’ll give him a call then.” Isobel sighed. She wasn’t looking forward to that conversation. He would probably be drunk, was no doubt planning to humiliate her in any number of ways.

“No need.” Leila turned her wrist and looked at her watch. “He’ll be here any minute.”

“Here?”

“Now you’re just playing dumb. Count Alexander De la Grip, Sweden’s most coveted bachelor, according to verified sources, is on his way here. And you, Doctor Sørensen, need to be on your very best sucking-up behavior.” Leila looked her up and down. “You should know that if you didn’t dress like a pious social secretary and didn’t criticize people the moment they turn out to be less moral than yourself, you could bring in a lot of donations.”

Isobel drew for breath. “I don’t criticize people, do I?” she asked, offended. She decided to ignore the comment about her dress sense for the moment. “You make me sound like some anal psych case.”

Was Leila right? Was that what she was like? No, criticizing Alexander De la Grip was practically a civil duty, but otherwise she wasn’t a moral snob. Was she?

“Isobel, you’re the best doctor I have ever known. No one is as good with their patients as you. You’re warm, empathetic. If someone is dying or ill, you’re the one they want at their side. But even the people who won life’s lottery can actually be okay. You can’t judge someone just because he was born rich. Alexander De la Grip is a person. More important, he’s one we need.”

Isobel hadn’t realized how obvious it was that she tended to—occasionally—look down on people who sailed through life. It was embarrassing. Her entire identity rested on the notion that she didn’t distinguish between people, but here was Leila, poking at her most vulnerable spot. Though that was Leila in a nutshell. She lived to push people’s hot buttons

“Okay,” Isobel mumbled.

“Don’t be so hard on him.” Leila came into the room and put a hand on Isobel’s shoulder. “And don’t be so tough on yourself. He looks good, you’re single. Try to have a bit of fun.”

“You’re not telling me I should use some kind of female charm?” If there was one thing Isobel despised, it was women who batted their eyelashes to get what they wanted. “If I start to act like an idiot, you’ve got carte blanche to analyze me to death.”

Leila rolled her eyes. “I mean that if you listen within, you’ll realize it might even be fun.”

Listen within. It was Isobel’s turn to roll her eyes.

“Sometimes I think that psychologists are the worst occupational group in the world.”

“Not at all,” Leila replied, unfazed. “There are much worse. Politicians. PR types. Passport police. And those are just the ones starting with p.”

“Thanks for your input,” Isobel said. She was petty enough to make sure she sounded cool and collected. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

“Isobel …” Leila began, but then she shook her head and sighed. “I’ll send him in when he gets here.”

“No,” said Isobel, getting to her feet. “I’ll wait in the lobby.”

She wanted to take back control of the situation. Leila could be a pain in the ass when she decided to root around in your psyche, but she was right about one thing. Isobel was driven by a desire to do what was right, what was important, and she didn’t want to be fumbling about on the edges of morality. It was important to see the bigger picture, and in this instance, that was the future of Medpax. So. She would put on some lipstick and do what she was good at when she really put her mind to it. She would charm that rich good-for-nothing into giving them what they so badly needed. Money.

Alexander wouldn’t know what had hit him.