"Rosa," Icall out.
Rosa marches over. She looks at the tree. She looks at the delivery man. She pulls The Black Binder out of her tote bag.
"Sir," Rosa says, her voice dropping to that terrifyingly calm register she uses on unruly drunks. "You are blocking a sterile corridor with a fungal vector."
"I... I just deliver the plants, lady," the man stammers.
"This is a hospital," Rosa says, stepping closer. "That soil contains nematodes. Do you want to be responsible for a nematode outbreak in the ICU? Do you want to explain to the CDC why you brought a weeping fig into a sterile zone?"
"No?"
"Remove it," Rosa commands. "Take it to the lobby. Burn it. I don't care. But if it stays here, I will have security tow your van."
The man grabs the tree and runs.
I walk into Max’s office. He is sitting on the floor, surrounded by medical journals. He looks up, his eyes wide behind his glasses.
"Did I hear screaming?" Max asks.
"Just a delivery," I assure him, sitting on the desk. "Your mother sent a tree."
"A tree?" Max frowns. "What species?"
"A Weeping Fig."
"Ficus benjamina," Max nods. "It is prone to dropping leaves when stressed. A heavy-handed metaphor."
"Rosa neutralized it," I say. "Max, she’s not going to stop. That was the opening salvo."
Max picks up a blue journal and places it next to a slightly darker blue journal.
"I know my mother well enough to know that she will escalate" Max says, his voice steady. "She operates on a pattern of Denial, Bargaining, and then... Invasion."
"We need a strategy," I say. "A blockade."
"We have one," Max says, pointing to his phone. "I have activated the Preston Protocol."
The Preston Protocol, it turns out, is terrifyingly effective.
I am in the kitchen, making toast, when the intercom buzzes. It has been buzzing every hour on the hour since 06:00.
"Doorman," I answer. "Yes?"
"Mr. O'Connell," the doorman sighs. "She’s back. She sent... a choir."
"A choir?" I repeat, dropping the butter knife.
"The Boys' Choir of Harlem," the doorman confirms. "They are in the lobby. They are singing 'Ave Maria'. It is very loud. And she sent a crate of vintage Dom Pérignon with a note that says'Let us toast to new beginnings.'"
I look at Preston, who is sitting at our kitchen island wearing a silk robe and reading the Financial Times on an iPad.
"She’s moved to bribery," Preston notes, not looking up. "Predictable. The champagne is likely a 2008 vintage. Good year, but the emotional manipulation ruins the finish."
"Preston," I say. "Handle it."
Preston slides off the stool. He tightens the belt of his robe. He looks like a samurai preparing for battle, if samurai wore Italian silk.
"Patch me through to the lobby," Preston says.
