of Oliver Twist. She sat back, laced her fingers behind her head, and sneezed again. Her breathing was still labored, even worse than before.
She had tried to dismiss it, but the truth was becoming more and more apparent. With something near terror, Sara knew what she had to do.
She reached for the phone and called her father.
The next morning the doctors confirmed Sara's diagnosis.
"Pneumonia," John told his daughter from her hospital bed. There were tears in his eyes.
"Third time for you in the last two years, Sara." "I know," she said.
"You have to slow down a little." Sara glanced up at her father but said nothing.
"Are you feeling okay?" he asked.
"Fine," she replied.
"How long will I have to be here this time?"
"The doctors don't know, honey. I can stay with you for a while, if you'd like."
She nodded.
"I'd like that very much."
John Lowell left his daughter's bedside at nine p.m. Sara did not want him to go. Irrational as it might seem, she hated being alone at night in the hospital. Despite all the time she had spent in hospitals, Sara was still scared to close her eyes, afraid that someone or something might sneak up on her. She felt like some movie character left alone to survive a night in a haunted house. It was the hospital sounds that made her shudder, the sounds that reverberated louder in the blackness and stillness of the night: footsteps echoing much too loudly against the tile floors; the constant beeping, gurgling, and sucking noises of lifesaving machines; the random moan of pain; the scream of terror; the squeak of wheels; crying.
Feeling lonely, Sara strapped on her Walkman and began to sing a little ditty by the Police. When her voice grew too loud ("Don't Stand So... Don't Stand So... Don't Stand So Close To Me!") the nurse came in, gave her a scolding glare, and told her to quiet down.
"Sorry."
She took off the headset and flicked on the television. She was immediately greeted by a sportscaster's voice.
"Great move by Michael Silverman. What a game he's having, Tom."
"Sure is, Brent. Twenty-two points, ten rebounds, nine assists. He's playing like a man possessed."
"And Seattle calls time out. The score in this fourth game of the NBA Championship Series New York 87, the Sonics 85. We'll be back at Madison Square Garden in New York City in just a moment."
Though not much of a sports fan, Sam watched the remainder of the game.
The Knicks won by five points, tying up the NBA finals at two games apiece. The series would now move to Seattle for the next two games and then back to New York if a seventh and final game was needed. She continued to watch as the inane sportscasters spewed out as many chiches as they could come up with while reviewing the game highlights.
After that there were interviews with numerous players and coaches, which lasted for another hour or so.
"Looking for me?"
Sara turned quickly toward the door.
"Who?"
Michael stepped forward from the shadows. His hair was still wet from his post-game shower.
"Miss. Nancy Levin," he said simply.
"What?" "You asked about my piano teacher. Miss. Nancy Levin. She was the music teacher at Burnet Hill Elementary School."
Sara swallowed, not sure what to say.
"It's past visiting hours." "I know," he said.
"I promised the security guard two tickets to a game if he turned the other way. One of the advantages of fame. Mind if I take a seat?"
Sam tried to speak but had to settle for a shake of the head.
"Thanks," he said.
"I called your office this morning and your editor told me you had pneumonia. He said you get it pretty frequently."
She shrugged.
"So I thought I'd pay you a visit. I hope I'm not keeping you awake."
"Not at all," she replied, finding her voice at last, "but shouldn't you be celebrating with your teammates?"
"We don't celebrate until we win four games. We've only won two so far."
"Didn't the reporters want to interview you after the game?"
He nodded, smiling.
"But as you well know, I don't really like interviews."
"Not even post-game victory ones?"
"Actually, I like those."
"So?"
"So I wanted to come here and see you, okay?"
She turned away from his steady gaze, summoning some inner strength before turning back to face him.
"How much does this championship series mean to you, Michael?"
"Do you always ask so many questions?"
"Occupational hazard."
"Well, how can I put it? It means everything to me. I can't tell you how many times I've dreamed about hitting the winning shot in the NBA finals. Since