The girl shook her head.
“Does it hurt when I do this?” He turned her arm to the right. Again, she shook her head.
“Okay. Does it hurt when I do this?” He tapped the tip of her nose. The girl giggled, shaking her head.
“Excellent! Well, your nose is in fine condition, and I think your arm is going to stop hurting very soon. You banged what’s called your funny bone, which is why it feels kind of tingly.”
“My funny bone?” the girl repeated.
“Yup. It’s not actually the bone that’s making it feel the way it feels, it’s a nerve that goes right by it.” He traced the nerve’s path with his fingertip, before straightening up and reaching for a glass jar of lollipops. He pulled off the lid with a flourish. “I’ve got cherry, lime, and grape, my personal favorite.” The girl said something quiet, and the doctor said, “Of course you can take one for your brother! You’re very thoughtful to ask.”
He’d sent the girl on her way, then turned toward the door, calling, “Who’s next?”
And then he’d stared at her, looking as shocked as she felt. “Abby?” he’d said. A smile was spreading across his face, crinkling his dark-brown eyes. “Abby Stern?”
“Mark,” she’d said, her voice high and squeaky as she finally recognized her summer-camp boyfriend, who appeared to have lost half of his body weight.
His haircut was different. No more bangs combed low over his forehead and hair raked toward his cheeks to disguise as much of his face as he could. Now Mark’s hair was cut short and combed back from his face. He’d traded his baggy sweatshirts and billowing basketball shorts for trim-fitting khakis, a crisp button-down with the cuffs rolled up to display lean, sinewy forearms, and a pair of leather dress shoes that she knew were stylish and assumed were expensive. But Mark Medoff’s kind eyes, and the awed way he looked at her, were both exactly as they’d been when they’d both been teenagers.
“Abby Stern. I can’t believe it!” He’d taken her by the shoulders to look at her. Then he’d hugged her, giving Abby a chance to feel the newly firm terrain of his chest, before holding her out at arm’s length again. “Look at you.” Abby felt her heart melting, an actual softening sensation beneath her ribs, because she knew that he wasn’t lying, or flattering her in an attempt to get her in bed. This was Mark, her first love. Once, he had known her better than almost anyone else in her life… and Mark had always thought she was beautiful. Best of all, he was, at that very moment, looking at her with the delighted regard she remembered from Camp Golden Hills; an expression that says How did I get lucky enough to get to be with you?
“Oh my God, what are you doing here?” said Abby. Her voice was embarrassingly loud, practically a squeal. What happened? she thought, and Where is the rest of you? She hoped those questions weren’t showing on her face, but Mark must have expected them, because he’d looked at himself and given kind of a rueful chuckle.
“I’ll tell you all about it if you’re free.”
“I can be free,” she said, her voice still a little breathy. “Want to get coffee?”
“Anything you like,” he’d said. “I’m all yours.”
When he’d seen the last of his patients, Mark got in his car, and Abby got on her bike, congratulating herself for the foresight and excellent taste she’d had as a thirteen-year-old. Thirty minutes later, she and Mark were at a table for two at La Colombe in Fishtown, drinking iced coffees （Mark’s black, Abby’s, with cream, plus a blueberry muffin on the side） at a table in the corner of the high-ceilinged room.
Abby discovered that Mark had almost gone to podiatry school at Temple—“You would have been so close!”—before deciding on California. He told her he had taken a job in a practice in Center City just three months before and had been looking for volunteer opportunities when he’d googled Gabi’s camp. She learned that he was single, that he and his graduate-school girlfriend had broken up （“amicably, for the most part”） after she’d taken a postdoc fellowship in Cleveland, and that Mark now lived in a two-bedroom apartment in a high-rise on Rittenhouse Square.
“Why Philadelphia?” she asked him.
“Why not?” he replied.
“I mean, I love it here, but I know it’s not for everyone.” Philadelphia was, currently, the poorest big city in America. Crime had been on the rise for the last few years, and it seemed like there were more homeless people than ever, huddled over grates in the winter, or panhandling at busy intersections or highway entrances. The opioid epidemic—as Mark had surely observed—was decimating users, and the previous summer, there’d been a shooting on South Street less than a mile from Abby’s house. More than once, Eileen had asked if Abby felt safe, if it wasn’t time to give up the apartment and come home. More than once, Abby had told her that the city was home.