I suddenly realised the computer was trying to authenticate her login over the Internet. Which, of course, didn’t exist anymore. Emily sat back, confused and slightly alarmed, looking at me with desperate eyes. “So...what do we do now?” Not wanting to disappoint her (I mean, she HAD just touched my shoulder with her arm!), I looked around the login screen for a solution. Eventually I found the answer on the Windows desktop: another icon, titled “NAPR - Offline mode”. I double-clicked it and waited. Up popped another login screen, but this one was different to the one before. It asked for an offline login and password. Emily leaned over me again (touching my shoulder again!) and typed in her password...but it didn’t work. Login incorrect. Note: you MUST use your offline login. She sat down, looking defeated and slightly upset. “Well...maybe there’s something else we can try,” I said, not wanting to disappoint her. “It must be storing all this data in a database. Maybe I can get into the database itself?” “Okay, do that!” she said. “You’ll be my absolute hero if you can do that!” I laughed. She knew exactly what to say to stroke a computer nerd’s ego. “Okay,” I said. “I just have to install some database tools.” “How do you do that?” “Well, the first step is walking out to my car. I’ve got them on a backup disk that I keep in my boot. I’ll be back in a sec.” I went out to my car while Emily went out to mingle with the other market folks in the hall. When I returned, she had laid out an assortment of snacks for me on her desk. “Thinking food,” she explained. I worked on the computer for two or three hours after that, while Emily chatted with the others, returning occasionally to bring more snacks and check on my progress. Finally, by about a quarter to five, while the others were packing up their stalls and talking about heading home, I finally got it all working. Her eyes lit up as I showed her what I had done. “You did it!” she said. “Michael, you are a genius!” She leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. I turned bright red. “So, er...it wasn’t too difficult, in the end,” I explained, pointing at the computer to draw her attention away from my bright red (and slightly sweaty) cheeks. “The database itself wasn’t password-protected, but all of the passwords and patient names are encrypted. I don’t know how to decrypt them, but I did find an installed copy of the software they use to do the encryption. So I wrote a web page which takes a patient’s name, encrypts it, and then searches the database for a matching encrypted name. You have to type the name in exactly - capitals, middle names, everything - so it can find an exact match. But if you enter it in right, it should find a match and bring up all of their prescription records.” Emily nodded. “Cool, great,” she said. “I understand some of those words.” She sat down to try it out. The first person we tried looking up was Nancy Clutterbuck - the old lady with the baked goods. It took a few attempts to enter her name exactly right and find her records, but when the screen flashed up with a huge list of medications, Emily actually screamed and clapped with delight. “Oh, Michael,” she said. “Nancy couldn’t remember the name of the heart medication she used to be on a couple of years ago. She knew there were two, and she was slightly allergic to first one, but she couldn’t remember which was which. But there it is, right in front of me. Oh Michael, this is perfect!” Then she looked up my records to really make sure it was working. It only took two attempts to find my details. “Okay,” she said. “I can see you were prescribed Amoxicillin back in April. Does that sound right? Did you have a sinus infection around then?” “Yep,” I said. “I did. That’s me.” “Okay,” she continued. “And last year you were giving Ambien. Were you having trouble sleeping?” “Yep, I did. That’s me again.” Suddenly it dawned on me. I sat up, slightly alarmed. “Hey, how far back do these records go?” “NAPR started in 2002.” A chill ran down my spine. “What about you?” I asked, trying to distract her from looking through more of my medical history. “Can you find yourself on there? I just want to make sure it’s all working properly.” “Okay,” she said. “Sure. I’ll just...hang on.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “You were on...Xeloda? And August 2008...Leucovorin Calcium?” I said nothing. I started to sweat. She looked up from the computer. All joy and excitement had vanished from her face. “Michael...do you have cancer?”

This is action without action!! WOW!!! ;-)