Dr. Hiram Baker wiped the dust from the window of the empty building on Main Street. The space was perfect—two large rooms for examinations, a small office in back. He pressed his hand against the glass and smiled. This would be his clinic, right here in Walnut Grove. He'd heal the sick and earn the trust of the town. And maybe, if he was lucky, he'd find someone to share his life with along the way. The next morning, he stood before the building with a paintbrush in hand. The white clapboard gleamed in the sunlight after hours of work. Above the door, he hung a simple wooden sign that read "Hiram Baker M.D." The letters were black and clean. He stepped back and studied it. His own practice, finally real. Inside, he arranged his medical instruments on a metal tray. The examination table sat ready against the wall. But would anyone come? He needed patients to build his reputation. Hiram walked to the general store and found a copy of the Walnut Grove Gazette on the counter. He paid for an advertisement announcing his new practice. The paper would print it next week. On his way back, he stopped at the circular water trough near the town square. The water inside was clear and cold. He splashed some on his face and looked around at the buildings and shops. This was his home now. The clinic was open, the town was waiting, and his new life had begun.