“Are you okay?” a woman’s voice asks. “Are you okay? Can you talk?”

On the lawn of a small cottage, a woman is frantic as her companion doubles over in pain on the grass. I pull Aimee off our walk and toward the couple.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“I don’t know. We were walking and all of a sudden he froze.”

The man claws at his throat.

“Do you have allergies?” I ask. “Did you eat something?”

He shakes his head no. I scan his body and notice the hives on his legs, arms and neck.

“Is he allergic to beestings?”

The woman shrugs. “It’s never come up.”

“I’m a doctor. I think you’re having an anaphylactic reaction.”

The man nods.

A few other people have come out of the house to check on the commotion. I direct them to lay their friend down flat and check for a stinger. Someone calls out that they found it; another runs inside for some tweezers.

“No, that will push more venom in,” I warn. “Scrape it with your fingernail or a key.”

I rummage in my purse and dig through to find my EpiPen. Beckett has a severe tree-nut allergy, and though he’s not with us on this trip, I no longer leave home without several medical-grade epinephrine injectors. It’s a doctor perk that comes in handy. Last summer, I saved a neighbor from an unknown shellfish allergy after eating shrimp at a kindergarten graduation party.

“I need clear access to his outer thigh.”

“His eyes rolled back in his head,” the woman explains.

“Farah, he’s fainted,” Aimee says.

“It’s okay. That’s why I had you put him down.”

I lunge toward the man with the injector in hand, but pause to sweep in a deep, calming breath.

“What are you doing? Don’t wait,” the woman shouts. “He’s dying.”

I ignore the panic. Careless mistakes are more costly than the seconds it takes to center myself. I open my eyes and jab him in the thigh. I press down steadily on the plunger and count.

“It’s not working,” the woman cries.

I remove the empty needle and set it down next to me. I take his wrist and check his pulse.

“Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not working. His heart rate is getting faster and stronger.”

“That’s good, right?” Aimee asks. She watches me, waiting for my command. A crowd has gathered from the cottage. I have an audience.

“Give him some space. He needs oxygen,” I say with authority.

His eyes begin to flutter. I lean down to explain that he’s had an allergic reaction, I’ve administered epinephrine, and he’s going to be all right. His fingers tighten around my wrist.

“You’re welcome,” I whisper.

We move through the house to the front while we wait for the ambulance to arrive, and I give his wife some information. “Expect the ER doctors to give him Benadryl, Pepcid, and an IV of steroids. That’s the anaphylactic-shock cocktail.”

I make the EMTs take note of the time the patient received epinephrine and tell his wife they’re going to have to monitor him for four to six hours. When the ambulance pulls away, the cottage crew erupts in applause. I’m embarrassed, more for them than for me. This is my job.

Aimee and I return to our place on the walk, but this time we agree to head back toward the astrology house.

“Farah, you gave that man life,” Aimee says. “Right here. Gave him life.”

“I stopped his body from going into full anaphylactic shock.”

“And what happens if someone goes into full anaphylactic shock?”

I skip over the technical medical analysis to the drama she wants.

“They can die,” I say.

“But he didn’t. Because you gave him life.”

“Saved his life, maybe.”

“That’s hot.”

I blush then, my neck red and burning with shame.

“Stop,” I say to Aimee, but I’m also talking to myself. She’s using the word hot like Paris Hilton in the 2000s. She’s not saying I’m appealing to her. Or is she? There’s a twinkle in her eye that I cannot deny.

“Wanna have some lunch on the back deck?” Aimee asks.

“I snuck in some Veuve,” I say.

Aimee wraps her arm around me and puts her head on my shoulder. “Goat cheese salads and champagne. That’s why I love you,” she says.

I smile, no longer mortified by the way I read into everything she says. I can choose to have fun with it, especially while the fantasy lives in my mind.

Rini said the transit is coming to its end, that the energy will shift. A door will close. It occurs to me that the practice of astrology foretells something acting upon us. That’s a foreign concept for me as a doctor who plays God. But maybe here, unlike in a delivery room, I don’t have to do anything. Perhaps my future with Aimee has already been set in motion and all I need to do is wait for it to play out.

Or at the very least I should have the confidence to believe that when the opportunity arises, I’ll spring to action without a moment’s hesitation. Just like I did today, like I do every day. I’ve put too much weight on matters of love versus matters of work. The truth is I am who I am. I’m a person who knows how to take action when the moment arrives.

AIMEE

Farah and I finish lunch and our bottle of champagne on the deck and head inside to check on the busted itinerary. Ted, Rick, and Eden are sipping cocktails in the living room. Adam and Margot appear, Margot with her arms crossed over her chest, Adam with a beer in hand.

“Farah saved someone’s life an hour ago,” I say, feeling warm and floaty from the champagne.