Frank felt pressure in his chest. Not heart-attack pressure. Something vaguer. Like a pebble in his shoe, except the shoe was his body and the pebble was inside his ribs. Not fatal. Just annoying. He went to the company doctor. The doctor said everything was normal. "Probably stress," the doctor said. But he did not think it was stress. His job had been easy lately. His boss did not like him but did not give him trouble. His son was doing okay in high school. His ex-wife had remarried and stopped calling about child support. He had nothing to stress about. But the pressure was still there. Frank went to a community clinic. It was a small clinic on Main Street, next to a pawn shop and across from a barbershop that had been closed for two years. In the waiting room, there was a woman on her phone and an old man reading a newspaper. Frank sat and listened to the air conditioner hum. Dr. Samira Hussain called him in. She was a regular doctor—not fat, not thin, not tall, not short, wearing a white coat, hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. "Where does it hurt?" she asked. "My chest," Frank said. "Pressure." She asked him questions. His job. His family. His diet. His sleep. Then she said something: "You owe other people money." Frank blinked. "What?" "You owe other people money. Not a lot. But some." Frank thought. He remembered the travel expenses he had overclaimed from the company—about eight hundred dollars. He remembered the repair bill he owed his neighbor—about three hundred. He remembered the bonus from a project he had taken from a coworker—about fifteen hundred. "Those do not count," he said. "They count," the doctor said. She told him to do a few things. Return the overclaimed money to the company. Pay the neighbor. Write an apology letter to the coworker. "And then?" Frank asked. "Your chest should feel better." Frank did the things. He returned the eight hundred dollars to the company. He sent an email saying "there was an error in my previous claim." No one replied. He paid the neighbor three hundred dollars. The neighbor looked at him, said nothing, took the envelope, and closed the door. He wrote an apology letter to his coworker. Three lines. "Sorry," he wrote. "I should not have done that." He sent the email and closed his computer. That night, he lay in bed with his hand on his chest. The pressure was still there. But it felt a little lighter. Just a little. Like a pebble that had been partially removed, but a piece remained. The next day, he went to the office. His boss called him into his office and said there was a new project that needed someone to lead. Frank knew how much bonus that project would bring—about five thousand dollars. He looked at his boss. His boss looked at him. Frank thought about what the doctor had said. You owe other people money. Then he thought: that was nothing. Eight hundred, three hundred, fifteen hundred—those were small things. But this project—this was big. He took the project. Frank never went back to see Dr. Hussain. The little pressure in his chest remained. But he had gotten used to it. Like getting used to the hum of the air conditioner, the neighbor's dog, his boss's frown. He kept doing his job. He kept overclaiming travel expenses—just a little less than before, but not nothing. He kept taking projects from coworkers—just less openly. He kept being petty to his neighbor—just less directly. He felt a little better. Then a little worse. Then a little better. And so on. One day, he ran into Dr. Hussain at the supermarket. She was in line buying milk and bread. "Do you feel better?" she asked. Frank thought about it. "Better," he said. Then he pushed his cart away. He bought a frozen pizza, a bag of chips, a can of beer. He went home, turned on the television, sat on the sofa, and ate the frozen pizza. His son was in his room playing video games. His ex-wife did not call. He felt a little better. Maybe that was life. Not cure. Not worsening. Just—better. Not good. Not bad. Just.