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The next hour goes on painfully slow.

We’re introduced to a cardiologist named Martin, who went to Princeton and makes sure we know it within the first two minutes, and every two minutes thereafter.

Martin asks Cal what he does, and when Cal says music, Martin gives him a small, polite nod before turning straight back to me.

I ask about his current research.

Martin forgets Cal exists within thirty seconds.

We meet several other medical professionals, including a woman named Sandra who is receiving some kind of research grant and who, when she hears about Cal’s music, says, “Oh, how fun. My nephew plays guitar too. He’s fifteen,” in the tone of someone who genuinely believes this is a helpful comparison.

Cal smiles graciously.

I can see the exact moment his soul leaves his body.

Then we meet Professor Edwin Bell, who isn’t a doctor but, apparently, receives a permanent invitation because the Bell Family Foundation is one of the hospital district’s largest donors.

His late father funded an entire research wing.

Professor Bell has chosen to honor that legacy by spending the last fifty years investigating whether a duck’s quack produces an echo.

I assume this is a joke.

It is not.

For forty-five minutes, Professor Bell explains acoustic reflection, pond geometry, and what he calls “the persistent public misunderstanding of duck-based sound propagation.”

At one point, he pulls a folded diagram from the inside pocket of his suit.

Cal catches my eye over Professor Bell’s shoulder.

Help me, he mouths.

I take a sip of champagne and smile.

You brought me here.

Professor Bell continues talking.

“The real issue,” he says, tapping the diagram, “is that ducks rarely quack in acoustically ideal conditions.”

“What assholes,” Cal says solemnly.

Professor Bell nods. “Precisely.”

I nearly choke on my drink.

Dr. Fox receives his award for innovation in surgical education—something about a training program he’s rolled out across three hospitals—and gives a speech that is technically about medicine but mostly about Richard.

By the time the applause starts, Cal has endured five separate people asking what he does, hearing the word music, and immediately losing interest.

The fifth is particularly brutal.

“Oh,” the man says, with the same polite blankness people use when a child announces they want to become an astronaut. “How creative.”

Cal smiles.

It’s a good smile. Convincing, even.