Get it over with and call Rorbeck.

“Oh come on.” You mutter as you cancel out the call to Dr. Rorbeck at the sound of the doorman's buzzer in your apartment.

Shoving your cell into your coat pocket you go over and hold down the answer button on your digital intercom and answer, “Yes?”

“Dr. Anderson,” Truman replies in his nasally voice, “my apologizes, but there's a woman here and she insists that I page you."

“I said no reporters!” You curtly answer as you're getting close to losing your patience with the young man.

“I'm sorry Dr. Anderson, but she made me call you. She took my doorman keys and won't give them back unless I called.”

“What?” You hope you have heard Truman correctly. “She did what?”

“I don't understand,” he whispers into the com, “they were in my pocket one moment and now she is holding them . . . She's very pretty, but I'm scared.”

“What does she want?” You smile for the first time in days,

“She says you have a date.” Truman then sheepishly corrects himself, “To be precise, she says you have a blind date.”

“I bet her name isn't Novak.” You think to yourself. “Cats can be very precocious.”

“Dr. Anderson, are you there?" The intercom interrupts your pondering. "Should I let her in?”

“Yes, of course.” You quickly agree.

“Really?!” Truman's voice breaks, surprised by your answer. “Is everything okay, Doctor?”

“Everything is perfect.” You purr.