Brent was the last patient Shirley was scheduled to see at the university health center that day. And the most puzzling.
"I don't get it," she said, flipping through lab results. "I've given you every test I can think of. They all say you're a perfectly healthy twenty-one-year-old man. No diabetes, no infections, no apparent tumors. There doesn't seem to be any reason why you should feel so fatigued. Have you been working out more than usual?"
"Not really, Doc. Soccer season's over, and I'm not on the swim team this year."
"Hard midterms?"
"Not this semester," Brent replied.
Shirley frowned. "Well, we can do a few stab-in-the-dark exotic tests on you, but maybe we should just wait a month and see how you feel then."
A wrinkle of concern crept across his forehead. Shirley was instantly reminded of her husband when he was being stoic and close-lipped. Sometimes men were all the same.
"Is there something you haven't been telling me?" Shirley asked.
Brent glanced down, chewing his lip like a burglar caught with a stereo in his hands. "It's, uh, not just fatigue."
"Go on." Shirley sat in a chair, making herself less imposing.
"I have this girl friend back home. I only get to see her every second or third weekend. Usually we're ... we..."
)
