Our motel had a courtesy car service which we decided to use; by notifying the main desk in advance, the service was almost always available when we needed it, free of charge. The motel had both a car and a van, although generally the van toted us to the clinic and back again; thus, hastening to the lobby, we caught the van as other passengers hoisted themselves into their seats. The van droned into motion, taking us past residential streets and avenues until the clinic buildings grew above the trees with an air of infinite superiority. Pulling in front of the Mayo building, the driver coasted slowly forward, awaiting the closest parking place, and finally plunged toward the curb as a taxi drove away; then, braking quickly, he opened his door the moment the van stopped and dashed to unclasp the sliding door. We stood, each clumsily jumping to the curb as the driver supportingly grasped our arm. The door rolled shut with a bang. "See you later," the driver remarked as he swung himself into his seat. We entered the gray marble building and wove our way through the mass of people to the elevators. After watching and waiting several minutes, we finally found an elevator which could be persuaded to take us down to the subway level; in a building with nearly 20 floors, most people, it seemed, desired to travel up from the main lobby. The traffic dwindled as we approached Curie. A long subway tunnel connected it to the mainstream of clinic activity, yet Curie itself was singularly remote from all else, as if, being the nucleus of cancer treatment and related disorders, it was purposely kept at a safe distance. Following the dim corridor to its end we met with a set of glass doors and admitted ourselves into the waiting room. I sat down, drained of energy; the room had not changed, yet I had. I no longer wore the smile of agitated insecurity and ignorance of the previous day. My smiles were only for people whose eyes met my own in a chance union. While Madame Curie looked over her patients, the receiving body of radiation or chemotherapy, she seemed to me a menace of happiness though carved of stone, for upon her death, she bequeathed no true wealth... her offering bore a great price for its recipients. Indeed, some "beneficiaries" paid with their lives upon receipt of Curie's great gift. "But it's for your own good," the voice echoed, pushing madness aside. If I did not believe the voice, I heeded it; perhaps it formed my sole resolve to continue, and to endure.