Contagion by Robin Cook

company's generous return policy. Colleen had cleverly made it appear as if the child were bringing the doll to the new National Health hospital. The tag line was “We cure anything anytime.”
         As soon as the video stopped, the lights came on. For a few moments no one spoke. Finally Colleen broke the silence. “You don't like it,” she said.
         “It's cute,” Terese admitted.
         “The idea is to make the doll reflect different illnesses and injuries in different commercials,” Colleen said. “Of course, we'd have the child speak and extol the virtues of National Health in the video versions. In print we'd make sure the picture told the story.”
         “The problem is it's too cute,” Terese said. “Even if I think it has some merit, I'm sure the client won't like it, since Helen via Robert would certainly trivialize it.”
         “It's the best that we've come up with so far,” Colleen said. “You'll have to give us some direction. We need a creative brief from you; otherwise we'll just keep wandering all over the conceptual landscape. Then there will be no chance to put anything together for next week.”
         “We have to come up with something that sets National Health apart from AmeriCare even though we know they are equivalent. The challenge is finding that one idea,” Terese said.
         Colleen motioned for her assistant to leave. Once she had, Colleen took a chair and put it in front of Terese's. “We need more of your direct involvement,” she said.
         Terese nodded. She knew Colleen was right, but Terese felt mentally paralyzed. “The problem is that it's hard to think with this presidency situation hanging over me like the sword of Damocles.”
         “I think you've got yourself in overdrive,” Colleen said. “You're a ball of nerves.”
         “So what else is new?” Terese said.
         “When was the last time you went out for dinner and a few drinks?” Colleen said.
         Terese laughed. “I haven't had time for anything like that for months.”
         “That's my point,” Colleen said. “No wonder your creative juices aren't flowing. You need to relax. Even if it's just for a few hours.”
         “You really think so?” Terese asked.
         “Absolutely,” Colleen said. “In fact we're going out tonight. We'll go to dinner and we'll have a few drinks. We'll even try not to talk about advertising for one night.”
         “I don't know,” Terese voiced. “We've got this deadline...”
         “That's exactly my point,” Colleen said. “We need to blow the tubes and clear out the cobwebs.
         Maybe then we'll come up with that big idea. So don't argue. I'm. not taking no for an answer.”
         8
        
         WEDNESDAY, 4:35 P.M., MARCH 20, 1996
         Jack navigated his mountain bike between the two Health and Hospital Corporation mortuary vans parked at the receiving bay at the medical examiner's office and rode directly into the morgue.
         Under normal circumstances he'd have dismounted by then and walked the bike, but he was in too good a mood.
         Jack parked his bike by the Hart Island coffins, locked it up, then whistled on his way to the elevators. He waved to Sal D'Ambrosio as he passed the mortuary office.
         “Chet, my boy, how are you?” Jack asked as he breezed into their shared fifth-floor office.
         Chet laid his pen down on his desk and turned to face his officemate. “The world's been in here looking for you. What have you been doing?”
         “Indulging myself,” Jack said. He peeled off his leather jacket and draped it over the back of his desk chair before sitting down. He surveyed his row of files, deciding which one to attack first.
         His in-basket had a newly replenished pile of lab results and PA reports.
         “I wouldn't get too comfortable,” Chet said. “One of those looking for you was Bingham