Melanie clutched the microphone in her left hand and her notebook in the other as they neared Wisconsin Dells. Feet apart, hip braced against the back of the bus driver's seat, she pressed the "ON" switch.

"May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen," she tried to say. Instead of words, scratchy sounds like hens at work on sandy ground were amplified through the microphone.

She cleared her throat and tried again. More hens scratching. She smiled weakly and hoped she didn't look as helpless as she felt.

Melanie shrugged her shoulders and Mr. Elliott--the arrogant Mr. Elliott who hadn't spoken to her even once--came forward to take the microphone from her limp fingers.

"I'll try to help," he spoke into the microphone. "I'm sure Mrs. Corbin has everything in her notebook, and if you'll listen carefully, I'll do my best to interpret."

He looked at her notes and, as if he'd gone over them a thousand and one times, spoke about the coming afternoon's antique mall visit and the evening's Opry.

"Thank you," Melanie whispered. She collapsed into her seat and clutched her throat with her thumb and forefinger in an attempt to relieve the pain. Last night she had felt a throat tickle and bombarded it with every medication in her suitcase except Band-aids. The tickle had flourished and now grown to jet-blast agony. Her mouth felt as though it had been sandblasted inside.

She alternated between being grateful and remembering how unpleasant Mr. Elliott was. She wondered why he was on this trip. Not quite rude...just bored, and he showed it. The older woman he accompanied must be his mother. They had matching pairs of steel-gray eyes and blond wavy hair. Both were tall and slender. He seldom spoke and never smiled.

"I'll see to getting everyone settled in their rooms," Mrs. Elliott said, coming forward, "and between us we'll handle the rest of the day. You'd better go to bed and get some rest, Mrs. Corbin."

At the hotel, Melanie straggled to her room and changed into the Raggedy Ann tee shirt she slept in. Before removing her make-up, she tucked her blond hair into her green frog shower cap--last month's thirtieth birthday gift from her sister.

A knock sounded. She couldn't speak to say, "Who is it?" so she opened the door...to Mr. Elliott. He looked amazed and amused at her shower cap and tee shirt, but managed to pull himself together.

"Don't talk," he said. "I've been speaking with the hotel manager. He called his brother who is a doctor to see you this evening. You might want to put on a robe and, uhh..." he raised his hand to his head, "uhh...."

Another knock. "Dr. Temple here," a voice called.