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him?”
    “Yes, he has a son, two step-children and a daughter — Kate — with Mrs. Merrivel,” answered Nikki, reciting the facts off her mental dossier. “Kate is a three day hike away from a phone in Africa somewhere doing AIDS research for the UN.”
    “Oh,” said the doctor looking impressed.
    “The two step-children are in Kentucky and Oregon respectively. They could both be here by tomorrow.” She had met Darrin and Sean. Darrin was doing computer programming in Oregon and Sean was raising horses in Kentucky; they were both good guys who would fly out immediately, she had no doubt.
    “Blood would be better,” said the doctor, uncomfortably.
    “That would leave Brett. He’s in Virginia.”
    “You’d better call him,” he said, which was when Nikki knew it was serious. Up until then, it had simply seemed like family would be a safety net, but the look in the doctor’s eyes told Nikki that this was beyond safety and into required equipment.
    “Can I talk to Mr. Merrivel, please?”
    “Yes, he’s asking for you, but don’t take too long. He’s very tired.”
    Nikki went behind the white curtains and found Mr. Merrivel looking nearly as pale as the curtains. His shirt had been taken off and Nikki glimpsed two large scars running diagonally in jagged bands across his chest before the nurse tucked a blanket up to under his chin.
    “Hey kiddo,” said Mr. Merrivel, in a small voice. “Sorry to have given you a scare.”
    “You know I’ve always wanted to drive through a sand trap,” replied Nikki with a shrug and reached out to hold the hand that wasn’t swaddled in blankets.
    “What’s the doctor say?” he asked, his voice still paper thin.
    “He says you’re going to die if you don’t have surgery and that you might die if you do.” Nikki caught the nurses startled expression as she pulled the curtain closed, but ignored it. Things were serious – it was no time for soft-pedaling.
    “And I might get hit by bus walking out of the house,” he said, twitching. Nikki watched in fascination as the graph on the heart monitor picked up the pace.
    “He says there might be decisions to be made while you’re under that require a next of kin,” she said, as the monitor settled back down.
    “You’re not to call Miranda home. Nikki, did you hear me?” He squeezed her hand.
    She looked away from the monitors and into Mr. Merrivel’s hazel eyes. “Yes,” she said, relieved that she didn’t have to make the decision. “I’ll call Brett in Virginia and he can fly out and you can go into surgery tomorrow.” Mr. Merrivel was silent and the way his lips twisted and puckered she knew he was thinking.
    “No, call Angela at the firm first. Have her come here.”
    “I’m not calling Angela,” said Nikki. Angela was Mr. Merrivel’s assistant at his law firm. “I’m going to call Brett.”
    But Mr. M shook his head, then looked at Nikki’s stubborn expression and sighed. “All right, go ahead and call him. Call all the kids. Leave a message for Katie, for when she gets out of whatever hell-hole she’s in. Tell them their old man’s in the hospital and going in for surgery. They’ll be upset if they don’t get called. But first call Angela. She’s going to come over and draw up a power of attorney for you.”
    “For me?” Nikki frowned; she didn’t want that responsibility.
    “Yes. Look Nikki, I don’t really talk about it much, but Brett and I, we don’t get along very well. He doesn’t think I’m much of a father.”
    Nikki was shocked. Mr. M was a fountain of wisdom and encouragement. He had rained fatherly pride and love on countless youngsters who had crossed his path. He was doted on by the young and not-so-young lawyers at his firm. His step-sons and daughter adored him and Nikki, well, Nikki worshipped him. How could anyone not think Mr. Merrivel the best of all possible fathers?
    “He’s not wrong,” said Mr. M, gazing out at something only he could see. “I wasn’t