Wednesday morning arrived with the pressure valve delivery.
I had spent Tuesday evening re-reading the autoclave service manual. Highlighted the installation steps. Made a checklist.
The valve arrived at 9:00 AM via courier.
Small box. Heavy. $380 worth of brass and rubber.
Linda signed for it. Brought it to me like she was handling nitroglycerin.
"You're really going to install this yourself?" she asked.
"I really am."
"What if you break it?"
"Then I call a technician and pay for both the valve and the labor. But I won't break it."
"How do you know?"
"Because I'll follow the instructions exactly."
She didn't look convinced.
But she also didn't try to stop me.
The morning appointments were light. Two consultations. Both rescheduled from last week.
By 11:00 AM, I had three hours before the next patient.
I cleared the sterilization room. Set up the tools I'd need. Laid out the manual open to the installation page.
Marcus, the assistant, watched from the doorway.
"You want help?" he asked.
"Can you read the steps out loud while I work?"
"Sure."
I disconnected the autoclave from its power source. Drained the water reservoir. Removed the exterior panel.
The old valve was exactly where the manual said it would be.
Corroded. Seal degraded. No wonder it had failed.
"Step three," Marcus read. "Remove the retaining ring using the specialized tool or needle-nose pliers."
I used needle-nose pliers. The ring came off after some persuasion.
"Step four: Remove the old valve assembly. Note the orientation."
I took a photo with a disposable camera before removing it. Documentation in case I forgot how it went back together.
The old valve came out. I set it aside.
The new valve looked identical but cleaner. Shinier. Functional.
"Step five: Clean the valve seat with a lint-free cloth. Apply thread sealant to the threads."
I followed each instruction precisely. No rushing. No assumptions.
Marcus read. I worked.
Forty-five minutes later, the new valve was installed.
I reconnected the water. Reconnected the power.
Held my breath.
Pressed the start button.
The autoclave hummed to life. Pressure gauge climbed. Error light stayed off.
After five minutes, the cycle completed normally.
Marcus grinned. "You did it."
"We did it."
"You did the hard part."
"You kept me from skipping steps."
Linda appeared in the doorway. "It works?"
"It works."
She exhaled. "Thank God. I was already mentally rescheduling the entire rest of the week."
"We're back on schedule," I said. "Call the patients we postponed. See who can come in tomorrow or Friday."
"On it."
I cleaned up the tools. Disposed of the old valve properly.
$380 spent.
Autoclave functional again.
Crisis averted.
Not with money. With work. Following instructions. Being methodical.
Original Barry would have just called a technician. Spent $800. Let someone else solve the problem.
This Barry solved it himself.
Saved $420.
And proved he could handle things when they broke.
Thursday was the busiest day of the week.
Seven appointments. Including David Porter's braces installation.
That took two hours. Precise work. Bonding brackets. Threading wire. Adjusting tension.
David sat patiently through it all. Checked his phone occasionally—one of those early cell phones the size of a brick.
"How does it feel?" I asked when I finished.
He tested his bite carefully. "Weird. But not painful."
"That'll change tonight. Tylenol before bed. Soft foods for three days."
"Worth it?"
"Ask me in eighteen months."
He laughed. "Fair enough."
At checkout, he wrote another check. $150 for the monthly payment.
"I told my colleague about you," he said. "The one who referred me. He needs work done. I gave him your number."
Word of mouth. The best advertising.
"I appreciate that."
"You did good work. And you didn't try to upsell me. That's rare."
After he left, Linda updated the revenue sheet.
Thursday total: $2,240.
Week to date: $6,310.
We'd exceeded the weekly target by $2,410.
"This is the best week we've had in six months," Linda said.
"It's the first week I've actually been present."
"Don't stop what you're doing. You're not just being present. You're making good decisions."
"I'm making necessary decisions."
Maybe she was right.
Maybe necessity was just another word for clarity.
Friday afternoon, I made the payment calls.
First: The venue.
"Dr. Farber, we received your confirmation. First payment of $1,000 is due today."
"I'm sending a check via courier. It'll arrive tomorrow morning."
"That's acceptable. Thank you for being prompt."
One down.
Second: American Dental Supply.
"Dr. Farber, we're prepared to offer a payment arrangement. $1,500 down payment, then $1,150 per month for six months. Total: $8,400."
I calculated quickly.
$1,500 now. Plus $1,000 to venue. That was $2,500 of this week's $6,310 net.
Left me with $3,810.
Minus next week's expenses ($4,100 projected).
I'd be short $290.
But next week's revenue would cover it if I maintained this pace.
"I accept those terms," I said.
"We'll send the paperwork."
Two down.
Third: The caterer.
"Dr. Farber, we can offer seven monthly payments of $1,000. First payment due within ten days."
That would start in two weeks. I wouldd have another two weeks of revenue by then.
Manageable.
"I accept. Please send the agreement."
Three for three.
I hung up.
Stared at the numbers.
Total debt: $27,700.
Payment plans established: $27,700.
Monthly obligations: $3,150 for the next six months.
Current revenue trajectory: $6,000 per week.
Minus expenses: $4,100 per week.
Net: $1,900 per week.
Monthly surplus: $7,600.
After debt payments: $4,450 per month.
In six months, I'd have $26,700 saved.
Nearly a full emergency fund.
The math worked.
If I maintained this pace.
If nothing else broke.
If I kept making good decisions.
Big ifs.
But possible.
For the first time since waking up in this life, I felt like the ground was solid beneath my feet.
Friday evening, I stood outside Monica's building with a $12 bottle of wine I still couldn't afford.
But showing up empty-handed felt wrong.
The building was a walk-up in Greenwich Village. Red brick. Fire escape zigzagging up the front.
I found the apartment number. Climbed the stairs.
Knocked.
Monica opened the door immediately.
"You came!" She took the wine. "You didn't have to bring this."
"I wanted to."
"Come in. Everyone's here."
The apartment was small but immaculate. Everything organized. Color-coordinated. The kind of space that made you want to take off your shoes at the door.
The group was scattered around the living room. Chandler on the couch. Joey in the armchair. Phoebe on the floor near the window with a guitar. A tall man with dark hair standing near the kitchen.
And Rachel, coming out of the kitchen in jeans and a sweater. Not her waitress uniform.
They all looked up when I entered.
END CHAPTER 4 (2)
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