Sunday morning arrived with the weight of consequences.
I woke at 6:15 AM without an alarm. Old habit from my previous life—the mind remembers routines even when the body changes.
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
In my first life, Sunday mornings had meant family breakfast. My wife cooking pancakes. Kids arguing over the remote. The comfortable chaos of a life built over decades.
In this life, Sunday morning meant an empty apartment and a mountain of problems that wouldn't wait for Monday.
I made coffee. Black. The machine sputtered and hissed, producing something that tasted like it had been brewed through old gym socks.
Original Barry had bought the cheapest coffee maker available. Another small economy that added up to a life of cutting corners.
I sat at the kitchen table with the clinic ledgers spread in front of me.
The answering machine still blinked. I had ignored it last night after the venue manager's call. But problems didn't disappear just because you refused to acknowledge them.
I pressed play.
[BEEP]
"Barry, it's your father again. We're coming over. Don't leave the apartment."
Great.
[BEEP]
"Dr. Farber, this is Linda. I'm heading to the clinic this morning to assess the autoclave situation. I know you said you'd handle it, but I want to see what we're dealing with. Call me at home if you need anything."
Linda. Fifty-three years old. Receptionist for eight years—five under the previous owner, three under original Barry. She'd watched this practice slowly decline and said nothing because original Barry never asked.
That was going to change.
[BEEP]
"Barry, it's Mindy. I heard from Rachel. She's staying with Monica Geller—remember her from high school? Anyway, Rachel's a mess and I'm worried about you. Call me back."
Mindy. Rachel's maid of honor. Soon to be involved in one of the more awkward storylines if canon held—she had ended up dating and eventually marrying the original Barry.
Not this Barry.
I deleted all three messages.
Picked up the phone.
Dialed the clinic.
Linda answered on the second ring. "Dr. Farber?"
"Yes. You're already there?"
"Got here twenty minutes ago. I wanted to—" She paused. "How are you holding up?"
"Better than expected. Tell me about the autoclave."
A brief silence. She'd expected emotional processing. I was asking about equipment.
"Pressure valve failure," she said. "The error code indicates the main seal is compromised. We can't sterilize anything until it's fixed."
"Can we repair it or do we need replacement?"
"The machine is ten years old, Dr. Farber. Replacement parts are hard to find. And even if we repair it, it's living on borrowed time."
I did the math. New autoclave: approximately $6,000. Repair: maybe $400 if I could find the parts.
Bank balance: $1,847.
"I'm coming in," I said.
"Now? It's Sunday morning."
"I need to see what we're dealing with. I'll be there in thirty minutes."
"Dr. Farber—"
"Linda. Thank you for going in. I mean it. But I need to handle this."
Another pause.
"Okay," she said quietly. "I'll put on more coffee."
I hung up.
Looked at the ledgers one more time.
Then I grabbed my keys and left before my parents could arrive.
The subway on Sunday morning was sparse. Early risers heading to work. Night shift workers heading home. A guy in a tuxedo that had seen better evenings sleeping against the window.
I got off at West 4th Street. The clinic was a ten-minute walk from there.
Greenwich Village at 7:00 AM was quieter than I'd expected. A few joggers. Dog walkers. Street cleaners finishing their routes.
The clinic was on Bleecker Street. Ground floor of a four-story walk-up. Red brick. Black awning that needed replacing. Window display that original Barry had never updated—generic stock photos of smiling people with unnaturally white teeth.
I unlocked the door.
Linda looked up from the front desk. She had two coffee cups waiting. Steam rising.
"You look terrible," she said.
"Good morning to you too."
"I'm serious. Did you sleep?"
"Some."
She handed me a cup. "Drink this. Then we'll look at the autoclave."
The coffee was better than mine. Still not great, but better.
"Where did you get this?" I asked.
"There's a coffee shop two blocks over. Central Perk. They're open early on Sundays."
Central Perk.
Of course.
The show's primary location. Where Rachel had run yesterday. Where the gang usually gathered.
"I'll have to check it out," I said carefully.
"They have decent pastries too." Linda set down her cup. "Okay. You ready to see the damage?"
We walked to the back. The sterilization room was small—barely large enough for the autoclave, the supply shelves, and one person to work comfortably.
The machine sat silent. Control panel dark. A yellow maintenance tag hanging from the handle, dated three months ago.
"When was the last time this was serviced?" I asked.
Linda shifted uncomfortably. "Dr. Farber... previously ... you weren't big on maintenance schedules."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we only called repair services when something broke. Preventive maintenance wasn't in the budget."
I opened the service panel. Examined the interior.
The previous life's knowledge helped here. I had spent years in medical offices, watching equipment fail because practices cut corners on maintenance to save money short-term while bleeding cash long-term.
The pressure valve was corroded. The seal around it had degraded. But the motor looked functional. The heating element seemed intact.
"This is fixable," I said.
"You know how to fix autoclaves?"
"I know how to read service manuals and follow directions. There's a manual somewhere, right?"
Linda pointed to a filing cabinet. "Bottom drawer. But Dr. Farber, even if you can fix it, the parts—"
"How much is a replacement pressure valve?"
"I don't know. Maybe $300? Plus labor if we call a technician."
I pulled out the service manual. Thick. Grease-stained. Held together with duct tape.
Flipped to the pressure valve section.
Diagrams. Step-by-step instructions. Parts list with manufacturer codes.
"Can you call suppliers tomorrow?" I asked. "Get quotes on a replacement valve. If it's under $400, we repair. If it's more, we start budgeting for replacement."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, we reschedule patients who need sterilized instruments. Move the simple consultations and adjustments to this week. Push the complex procedures to next week."
Linda pulled out the appointment book. Started making notes.
"You're thinking clearly for someone whose wedding just fell apart," she said.
"The wedding falling apart is the best thing that could have happened."
She looked up. "Really?"
"Really."
"Can I ask what happened?"
I closed the service manual. Met her eyes.
"Rachel and I realized we weren't ready. Neither of us wanted to admit it until yesterday. So we stopped it before it got worse."
"That's very mature."
"It's practical."
Linda smiled slightly. "You keep saying that word."
"Because it's true. Being emotional about it won't fix the autoclave. Won't pay the bills. Won't save the practice."
"Is the practice in trouble?"
I hesitated.
Then decided honesty was better than pretending.
"Yes."
Linda set down her pen. "How bad?"
"Bad enough that we need to make changes. Soon."
"What kind of changes?"
"I don't know yet. But I'm going to figure it out." I picked up the service manual. "I will take this home. I want to study it."
"Okay." She paused. "Barry?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're finally paying attention."
"What do you mean?"
"You've been here three years. But you've been... absent. Going through the motions. Like your mind was somewhere else."
Original Barry. Focused on Rachel. On proving himself to her family. On building an image instead of a business.
"That's changing," I said.
"I can see that." Linda gathered her papers. "I'm heading home. You should too. Rest. Process. Whatever you need."
"I will. Soon."
She gave me a look that said she didn't believe me.
END CHAPTER 2 (1)
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