THE MEASURE OF MERCY

By four o'clock that afternoon, while the society columns in Nashville were erupting with scandalous reports of the broken Montgomery-Vance alliance, David was sitting in the corner of Room 1104.

He had removed his tuxedo jacket, bow tie, and cufflinks. He wore a simple dark wool sweater and canvas trousers borrowed from a hospital maintenance worker.

Across the room, Dr. Robert Sterling, the senior hematologic oncologist who had managed Clara’s case in secret for eight months, reviewed a thick leather folder of bone marrow biopsies.

""The acute myeloid transformation was arrested by the trial protocol, David,"" Dr. Sterling said, lowering his spectacles. ""Her blast counts are under five percent for the first time in a year. But her immune system is completely depleted. She cannot stay in a urban acute care facility; the risk of secondary nosocomial infections is ninety percent. If she is to recover, she needs isolation, pure air, and continuous palliative nursing.""

David stood up, walking to the foot of Clara’s bed. Clara was sleeping deeply, the rise and fall of her chest steady beneath the cotton blankets.

""I have the timber cabin in the Cumberland Plateau, Doctor,"" David said, his voice quiet and firm. ""Forty miles from the nearest highway. Surrounded by five hundred acres of old-growth pine and mountain springs. It was built by my grandfather with hand-hewn cedar logs and double-filtered air systems.""

Dr. Sterling looked at David, studying the raw, unyielding resolve in the younger man's eyes.

""She will need twenty-four-hour medical supervision, David,"" the doctor warned. ""Sterile protocols. Pain management. IV antibiotic infusions every eight hours. It is not a romantic retreat; it is a hospice that might become a clinic if you are vigilant.""