Chapter One

     Cecelia walked through the lobby of the convention center, dodging islands of chatting academics as she followed the signs for the parking garage.
     "Dr. Shanahan!" cried a voice behind her. Cecelia turned around to see who was going to ruin her plan for a stealthy exit from that morning's meetings.
     "Hi Miles," said Cecelia to her colleague. Miles was a fellow in orthopedic surgery at Boston Medical Center, and Cecelia was his boss.
     "Are you going to the reception this afternoon?" asked Miles.
     "What reception?" asked Cecelia.
     "The one that Boston University is sponsoring." said Miles. "There's a consortium that will be presenting some research on the use of new polymers in artificial joints."
     "Sounds riveting." said Cecelia.
     "Yeah, a bit of a snoozer," said Miles, "But I know some of the panelists from BU who are going to be there."
     "So you're just going for the meet and greet?" asked Cecelia.
     "Nope. For the free booze." said Miles with a grin.
     "Thought so." said Cecelia. "I'll pass this time. There's something I have to take care of this afternoon."
     "Okay," said Miles, "Have fun. See you later!" But Cecelia had already turned and was rushing down the hallway.
     "See ya!" shouted Cecelia, as she waved at Miles over her shoulder.

     Cecelia dashed out into the parking garage, and ran over to her rental car. She threw her briefcase in the passenger seat, started the engine, and sped out of the garage. Twenty minutes later, she was pulling up to the porte cochere of the posh hotel on Miami Beach where she was staying. Cecelia handed the car keys to the valet, and cantered through the hotel lobby to elevators. She took the elevator to the fourth floor, then ran down hallway to her room at the end of the hall.
Five minutes later, Cecelia strolled out of her room. Her white button-down blouse, navy skirt, and tan pumps had been replaced by a turquoise bikini and cork sandals, with a navy sarong wrapped around her waist and a canvas tote hanging from her shoulder. Cecelia strolled down the hall to the elevator, went down to the lobby level, then headed straight for the beach.
     Cecelia sighed when she got outside and felt the sun on her face. She only had one rule when she had to go out of town for business trips and conferences: one afternoon was set aside just for her. Since she learned that she was coming to this convention in Miami, she knew exactly what she was going to do on that day: walk on the beach with her feet in the water. It was a silly little diversion, but it was something she could not do back home.
     Setting goals like this was Cecelia's way of convincing herself that she was not a complete workaholic. She also did not want to waste the trip to Florida. She could get plenty of seafood back home in Boston, but getting the chance, let alone having the spare time, to put on a swimsuit and stroll on the beach was very rare.
     Cecelia walked south along the boardwalk, and started wondering who would be attending the reception she was skipping. Almost immediately,she realized that she was thinking about work, and tried to shake the thoughts of the convention from her head. She walked out onto the beach, past a brightly colored lifeguard stand, and stopped about twenty feet from the water. She stared out at the cruise ships passing Key Biscayne, and started thinking about the next day's agenda.
     "Dammit, Celia!" she yelled at herself, "You're supposed to be relaxing!" Suddenly, something flapped in front of Cecelia's face. She jumped back, and as she stumbled to get her footing, she saw a flock of seagulls darting and swirling in the air above her. She started to swear at the birds, but quickly realized how odd that might look to the other people on the beach. Cecelia decided to ignore the birds and walk along the water's edge instead. She threw her sandals into her canvas bag, then skipped down to the water's edge, strolling through the cold, foamy water.
     The cold water between her toes and the sea breeze on her shoulders gave Cecelia goosebumps, and she finally started to relax and forget about work. She smiled as she felt the water splashing around her knees, then she felt a sudden sharp pain in her left foot. Her ankle gave way, and Cecelia fell face first into the wet sand. She grabbed at her ankle, which was shooting with pain, and she felt something warm and slippery. When she brushed the sand from her face and looked at her hand, it was covered with blood.
     Cecelia winced at the intense pain radiating from her leg. She examined her foot, and saw that a fragment of a scallop shell had become deeply impaled into the bottom of her foot. She carefully removed the shell fragment, and tightly wrapped her sarong around her wound. Slowly, she stood up and began limping back toward the hotel. It took almost ten minutes to retrace her step with the soaked sarong weighing down her foot, but Cecelia eventually hobbled across the pool deck and sat down on a stool at the pool bar. A young bartender wearing Bermuda shorts and an aloha shirt walked over and placed a cocktail napkin in front of Cecelia.
     "What can I get you?" the bartender asked.
     "I need some alcohol, please." said Cecelia.
     "That's usually the case around here," said the bartender as he gestured around the pool bar, "hence my earlier question: what can I get you?"
     "I don't need a drink, you idiot!" said Cecelia, "I sliced my foot open on a broken shell! I need rubbing alcohol!" Cecelia unwrapped her tourniquet and showed the bartender her bloody foot"
     "Oh god!" said the bartender when he saw the blood. "Just wait here, I'll call a manager!" Cecelia rolled her eyes and waited while the bartender phoned for help. A couple of minutes later, an older man wearing khaki pants and a dark polo shirt walked over to the bar. He was carrying a bright orange duffel bag and a bag of ice.
     "Hi, Ma'am." said the man in the polo shirt. "I'm Patrick, the shift supervisor. I understand you need some medical help."
     "You think so?" said Cecelia as she showed him her foot.
     "Wow." said Patrick as he looked at the still-oozing puncture wound. "You're going to need a doctor. Are you a guest here?"
     "Yes," answered Cecelia, "room four twelve."
     "Okay," said Patrick, "I'll give you a ride to the emergency room. I just need your name - I'm going to have to file an incident report. Miss...?"
     "Doctor." said Cecelia.
     "Yes," said Patrick, "You need a doctor. Miss...?
     "Jeez, now you're Abbot and he's Costello?" shouted Cecelia as she gestured to the bartender, "My name. It's not Miss, it's Doctor! Dr. Cecelia Shanahan."
     "Oh." said Patrick, "Of course. Dr. Shanahan. Can I help you to the lobby? We have a car there. It's only a short drive to the hospital."
     "Fine." said Cecelia as she grabbed Patrick's arm and limped across the courtyard and through the hotel lobby.