Again, I wrote this about 6 years ago!!! Here I am again, disclaiming and what
not. It's time for me to undo all the suffering I inflicted upon our
unlucky engineer. This story does not contain such cruelty or violence as
its predecessor (after all, he must heal, mustn't he?), but there is at least
one disturbing scene. Nothing graphic. Nothing sexual or crude.
Just a hard way out of a tough bind. I would like to say that the depiction
of the relationship between Mike Stoker and his father (however briefly showcased)
is based on the episode, "Brush Fire." You might recall a scene
where Mike has just freed Chief Somebody-or-Other from beneath a fallen tree.
The injured man is talking about Stoker and says (as well as I can make out
from my multi-dubbed, God-awful sounding tape), "Mighty good man. I don't
care what his father says." It's not exact. But it's something
along those lines. I think! You might also catch a few references to
two of my favorite episodes, "The Inspection" and "An Ounce of Prevention".
Finally, I deeply appreciate all the commentary I received on "The Numbers
Game". What a tremendous, warm reception. And to the people
who, through their lively and encouraging emails, kept me focused on where I wanted
to go with this sequel, a special "Heap Big Thanks". Without even knowing
it, you folks made sure I kept the focus where it belonged - on Mike.
Susan #8, Barbara, Sailor J, Betty, Linda, and the site-maintainer extraordinaire
- Cathie! Vielen Dank und Alles Gute! Yours, Hyzenthlay The Lucky Number And all I know is we're still climbing up that hill. And all we need to sustain us is love of love, The Light of Life, The faith to know we can heal like children. "Children of Paradise" Justin Hayward From "The View from the Hill" It was eerie, just how quiet Rampart could be at five-thirty in the morning. The daytime bustle that filled the hospital's corridors could only be remembered as an illusion, when everything was so peaceful. Five hours had passed since Captain Stanley had sent his men home. He had intended to leave with them-no, no, he hadn't. No sense in lying to himself. He had no plans to leave Rampart any time soon. It was enough that he had left the ICC for the staff lounge, where he now stood, then sat, then paced, then sat again. He had not wanted to leave the ICC; but Mike's parents had arrived, and they now occupied the coveted bedside spot. It had taken less than sixty seconds for Brian Stoker to dredge up old arguments, and so Captain Stanley had left. He would not turn a room for recovery into a battleground; for despite the fact of his engineer's sedation, he could not be sure that some part of Mike was not hearing, or at least sensing, the disturbance between parent and boss. And the last thing Mike Stoker needed at this point was the added dilemma of two worlds that would never meet. Captain Stanley moved to the window. It was raining. He was struck with a sense of bitter irony, bordering on anger. "Where was this last night, when we needed it?" he said out loud. Then he waved away his own foolishness. "It wouldn't have made a difference anyway. The damage was already done." He scratched at the back of his head - a feeble reminder that he still needed to take a shower and clean himself up. His wife had brought him a fresh change of clothes earlier, and she had offered to stay with him. He had sent her home, just like he had sent the rest home. He would see them all tomorrow, here at the hospital. He was sure of it. They would not be able to stay away. That's how it happened every time one of them got hurt. Captain Stanley grimaced . . . . . . and he had a rather accident-prone crew. But this had been no accident. This could have been prevented. He could have prevented it. And so Captain Stanley had sent everyone home, so that he could be by himself for a while. So that he could be alone with Stoker for a while, to try and ease some forgiveness into his own conscience, even if he could not count on the same from his engineer. But then Brian and Jeannine Stoker had arrived. And now, Captain Stanley found himself with nothing better to do than lay blame on the elements, when he knew only too well who should truly be shouldering all the guilt. The door into the staff lounge opened, admitting Dixie McCall. "Still here?" she asked, her eyes far too bright and aware for five-thirty in the morning. "I thought, when you disappeared from Mike's room, that you'd finally decided to go home and get some sleep." Captain Stanley gave her a completely artificial smile. "No, I just decided to come down here for a cup of coffee." "Mm-hm." Dixie's response was doubtful. She poured two cups and handed one to him. "How are you doing?" Captain Stanley shrugged. The question made him uncomfortable. "Good enough, I suppose." "That doesn't sound very promising." "It's the truth." "Maybe you need to count your blessings," Dixie informed him. Captain Stanley made a sound of incredulity. "Am I supposed to find something that could be considered a blessing in all of this?" "If you don't want to call it a blessing, call it grace." Dixie's voice became grave. "But find something, for his sake. And for your own." Captain Stanley was a man of action. He was a man who said what he meant, and meant what he said. The profound was lost on him, and so he looked at Dixie McCall with a sense of bafflement, thinking that this excellent woman had lost her hold on reality. "I don't know what you mean," he said at last. "I can't pull any good out of this." "He's still alive, isn't he? And he's going to be alright. That doesn't qualify as a blessing?" Something about this statement boiled beneath Captain Stanley's skin. "No!" he burst out. "A blessing would be if this had never happened!" "Really?" Dixie eyed him with scrutiny. "Do you mean to tell me that you would have thought to be thankful every day because of something that didn't happen? Thank you for not allowing any of my men to be kidnapped and murdered? Or would you have done what the rest of us would do? Consider it luck and not give it a second thought? Your man was rescued. Your man was saved." Dixie's voice was almost harsh. "You get to have him back. Not like Wilkes or Hannover or McIntyre and Milner. Their friends will never see them again. And you don't see a reason to be grateful?" Captain Stanley leaned against the window. "Do you think Mike will see it like that?" "He will, if we help him to see it like that," Dixie replied. "But if all he sees is moping and self-pity, that's exactly how he's going to react." This was something Hank Stanley could understand. But, it was not so easy a thing as Dixie McCall made it sound. "I had never seen Mike scared," he said at last, in an uncharacteristically small voice. "Until last night." He paused, and his eyes narrowed, as if he were seeing that image of fear reflected in the windowpane. "I never want to see it again." "I don't think you have much choice in the matter," Dixie replied gently. "He's going to be scared when they bring him out of it. He's going to need you. He's going to need all of you." A pause. "But I think you boys are up to the task." Captain Stanley nodded his appreciation. "Now, why did you really come down here?" Dixie asked in expectant suspicion. "I came to get a cup of coffee," Captain Stanley insisted. "Are you sure you just didn't want to get away from Mike's parents?" Captain Stanley stared at her in blatant surprise. A homing pigeon. With a keen sense of direction. "That, too," he admitted. "What's going on there, Hank?" They sat down on the couch. "I couldn't really tell you," was his honest answer. "Mike's dad doesn't like the idea of Mike being a fireman. I don't know why. Mike doesn't talk about it. He just says that him and his father have never been on the best of terms." He shrugged. "I don't know what's behind it." "You'd think a father would be proud of his son being a fireman," Dixie said. "Of course, it's a dangerous profession, but also one of the most respectable." "Maybe that's it," Captain Stanley replied without much conviction. "Maybe his father doesn't want him to be in danger. I don't know. I honestly don't know. But the few times I've met Brian Stoker, I certainly didn't get that impression from him. I got the feeling that-that he looked down on what Mike did, as if being a fireman were an embarrassment." He paused and drew in a deep, unhappy breath. "The last time I saw Brian Stoker was two years ago. He came to the firemen's picnic, of all things. I'll never know how Mike got him to go to that. But he just sat the whole time with this . . . hateful look on his face. I almost think he went to the picnic just to feed his own dislike for Mike's chosen profession. I talked to him a little. I tried to, at least. We got into a pretty heated argument. I haven't seen him since. I don't know when the last time was that Mike saw him." Dixie was silent for a few seconds. "Well, he's here now. And he seems to be pretty anxious on Mike's behalf." "I'm sure he is. But not in the way you think. You don't know what's going to happen in that room three days from now when Mike comes to. You have no idea," Captain Stanley replied, getting up and opting to pace this time. "Do you really think they'll upset him?" "I know they will." "I guess we'd better talk to Doctor Brackett, then, some time in the next couple days," Dixie decided, also rising and following him across the room. "They're his parents, Hank. We can't stop them from seeing him. But maybe Kel can have a talk with them before he wakes up. He doesn't need to be aggravated any further after what he's been through." She put a hand on his arm. "But for now, you should go home, Captain. Trust me, he's going to be okay. And you could use the sleep. The one thing you do owe him is to look at least half-human when he wakes up. Right now, the sight of you would probably scare him to death. It's scaring me." This time the smile was not completely artificial. "I guess a few hours sleep won't kill me. But I'll be back later on today." Dixie ushered him towards the door. "I expected as much." **** What a strange way to wake up. With no recollection of dreams. And Mike had always been able to remember his dreams, down to the smallest detail. An unusual ability, but one he had learned to appreciate over the years. Not that Mike spent a great deal of time studying or examining his dreams. Dream interpretation was not high on his list of interests. Still, it was an amazing facet of the human mind; and Mike had never shied away from the amazing. And he had never confused his dreams with real life. He did not confuse them now, either. The memories pushing their way to the foreground were memories of reality, not a dream. Mike knew well enough where he was and why he was here. And he knew what to expect when he finally summoned the courage and the desire to open his eyes onto a world that been less than kind, according to his recent memories. He recalled the fear more than the pain, although the pain was still with him - fresh and unrelenting. Still, he was surprised at his own calmness, for he knew that his memories had the ability to overpower him. They had the strength to drag him down and keep him there. But Mike would not permit that to happen. He would not allow his mind to remain trapped in a cell of disturbing, horrific memories. The thing was over and finished. There could be no undoing it. The only way to move forward was to leave it behind, where it belonged. It was an easy decision to make. There were people there with him. He listened to them talking. Sometimes they were speaking about him. Sometimes they spoke of other things. It wasn't until one of the voices began persistently saying his name, and someone began rubbing his hand and patting his cheek that he made a genuine, concerted effort to open his eyes. Doctor Brackett. And Doctor Early. And a nurse Mike did not know. What a strange way to wake up. "Good morning, Mike," Doctor Brackett smiled down at him. "Is it morning?" Mike asked in a raw, distorted voice. He noted a pain and stiffness in his cheek that made talking rather difficult. "Yes, it is," Doctor Brackett replied. Mike considered. "And I'm still tired." Doctor Brackett still looked down at him with the same smile, a combination of reassurance and empathy. "Well, you'll have plenty of time to get rested," he said. He did not think it was necessary to mention that Stoker had spent the last three days getting rested. That revelation could come later on, after the patient had gotten his bearing back, his feet planted on firm ground again. "Do you know where you are, Mike?" Doctor Early asked. "Yes," Mike replied. "Do you know why you're here?" "Yes." Doctor Early and Doctor Brackett exchanged glances. They had not been expecting such a calm awakening. But then again, it was too soon. There was a trace of bewilderment in Stoker's face, which both doctors knew to be the standard for people coming out from under sedation. He was not completely with them yet. Some part of him was still balancing between wakefulness and unconsciousness. "There's someone here who wants to see you," Doctor Brackett announced. "How would you feel about a visitor?" Mike did not really want any visitors. What he wanted was to go back to sleep. But even as he closed his eyes, he replied, "Sure." He heard the door open, and then the sound of Captain Stanley's voice eclipsed his despondency. "Mike?" Mike opened his eyes, but he did not say anything. He was not even sure what to say. He recalled his accusations. He knew he had not meant them. But they had been said, and what was he to do now to take them back? Captain Stanley waited a few seconds. "How do you feel?" he asked, at last. "Okay." Captain Stanley narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. "Bad," Mike corrected. "Well, the docs say you're going to be fine," Captain Stanley announced, trying hard to sound positive and optimistic. "You should be out of here in a few weeks." Mike gave a weak nod. Captain Stanley glanced up at the two doctors who discreetly left the room. Looking back down at his engineer, Captain Stanley noticed the wary expression that lay like a shroud over Stoker's features. Still, he did not let it deter him. "We've missed you, pal," he said. "The place hasn't been the same without you." He paused. Mike was staring at him, seeking some sort of reassurance, a confirmation that what he was hearing was the truth. Captain Stanley had never seen such a look before. "We were worried sick," he said quietly. This was the bare truth; and both men, having come from an environment that thrived on masculine bravado and communal daring, knew the importance of such an admission. "I've never been so scared in my life, Mike," Captain Stanley went on. "I'm not embarrassed to tell you that." Mike's response surprised him. "I'm not embarrassed to hear it." The awkwardness was gone. The ice had been broken. "The rest of the guys are chomping at the bit to come by, but I told them I thought they'd be too much for you. Kelly and Gage together might be enough to make you ask to be sedated. We come off shift Friday. Expect the whole barrel-full." Mike tried to smile - a sincere but unsuccessful effort, reminding Captain Stanley that Stoker was trying to speak through the wire and pain of a broken cheekbone. "But I'm sure Johnny and Roy will have the chance to pop in before then." "I'll be glad to see them." Neither man spoke for several seconds. "Is there anything you need?" Captain Stanley asked at length. "No." "You look tired. Do you want me to go and let you get some rest?" "No. You can stay. I want you to stay, Cap." Captain Stanley stayed. There was no more talking. Mike closed his eyes. He did not mean to fall asleep, and he wasn't quite sure whether or not he had when he heard Doctor Brackett's voice. "-asleep, and I don't want to wake him up." Mike opened his eyes. Captain Stanley was still there. But now, so were Doctor Brackett and two men he did not recognize. "He's awake now," one of the men said. Doctor Brackett turned, and seeing that Mike was indeed awake, he grimaced slightly. He had been hoping to postpone this moment a little while longer. But as long as the two men were here and the patient was awake, he might as well see if Stoker was capable. "Mike, these men are detectives from the LAPD. They've been investigating the firemen murder cases and your kidnapping. They'd like to talk to you. But only if you feel up to it." He added this last statement with a stern look at the two detectives. Mike looked from Doctor Brackett to the two detectives to Captain Stanley. All faces wore neutral expressions, but Mike knew there was considerable anxiety beneath the placid exteriors. "Alright." For the first time since the investigation began, Detective Zwick looked fulfilled. At last, he was going to get some answers. He introduced himself and Detective Shira, requested permission to tape the session, and acceded to Mike's request that Captain Stanley and Doctor Brackett remain present. "How far back do you remember, Mr Stoker? Do you remember getting called out to the accident on North Canyon Road?" "I remember everything." "Tell us." Mike's face took on the expression of a student recalling a school lesson. It was his method of detachment, of preserving himself against the danger of recollection. "Two men pulled up and asked if they could help. They said they had called the accident in." "Can you describe them?" "I only got a look at one. He was my height. Brown hair, cut short. His name was William. That's what the other man called him." "Did you hear a last name?" "No. The other man was Barry. They didn't use last names." Mike paused. "William was burned - on his chest and shoulders. He told me he had been burned in a fire at the Oceanic View Hotel ten months ago. He and Barry were getting revenge against the stations that responded to that fire." Everyone in the room was dumbstruck at the flood of information in those very few sentences. "What else, Mr Stoker? What else can you remember?" "Barry's family was killed in the same fire. They-they wanted-" His voice caught in his throat. "They wanted to inflict the same kind of pain on us that we . . . we inflicted on them." He was losing his forced calmness. "They blame us for not saving them." "It's okay, Mike," Captain Stanley put a supportive hand on his shoulder. "They said I was the last one." Mike closed his eyes and took a moment to collect himself. "No bargains. No ransom. I was the last one. But I'm not the last one, am I? I'm still alive." His eyes shot open. "You haven't caught them yet, have you?" "Not yet, but with what you've just given us, we should be able to pin them down pretty quickly. Mike turned his haunted expression to Captain Stanley. "Then it's not over - it's not over at all." "We're going to find them before they can do any more damage, Mr Stoker," Detective Zwick said assuredly. "They've already made their first mistake. They underestimated how determined your crewmates were to save you." Mike was struck at this announcement. He saw his captain gazing down at him. Captain Stanley nodded a confirmation. "They-they told me no one cared," Mike said in a near-whisper. Captain Stanley shook his head. "They lied." **** Close your eyes and try to sleep now. Close your eyes and try to dream. Clear your mind and do your best To try and wash the palette clean. "We Belong" Pat Benetar Marco ducked into the bay of the apparatus room just as the downpour broke loose. Johnny, only a few seconds behind him, yet thoroughly drenched, blustered into the shelter of the station with a show of his usual outsized temper. "Man, what is this?! Look at me - from my car to here! That can't be more than-than-twenty yards, and look at me!" Marco grinned. Gage did have the wet-rat look going. "You've got to change into your uniform anyway, Johnny." Johnny gave Marco a wry look. "I know that, Marco." Together, they headed towards the locker room. "We've been getting a lot of rain lately." Marco nodded. "Yeah, a day late and a dollar short." Johnny hovered in confusion for a moment at this misuse of a familiar adage. But then he realized what Marco was trying to say and he nodded his agreement. "Yeah, right." Both men began to undress. "Did you get to the hospital yesterday?" Johnny asked. "Yeah. I went in the morning. Cap was there." "Cap was there? He was there in the afternoon, too." "I think he's been there every day we didn't have to work," Chet announced, walking in from the dormitory. "I saw him there Thursday, too." "I didn't see you there, Thursday, Chet," Johnny said with suspicion, "And I was there most of the morning." He looked up and offered a greeting as Roy entered the room. "There's a whole second half to the day, Gage," Chet said in a droll voice. "I went in the afternoon. You know, I think Mike's gonna start getting tired of us hanging out in his hospital room nearly every day. He never liked us hovering over him. We're like mother hens." "Well, he'll get plenty of privacy recuperating at home," Marco replied. "Two months. That's a long time to be out." "Not really, when you consider what he's been through," Roy said. "But he's strong. He was in good physical condition to begin with. I think the speed of his recovery will depend more on what's going on up here-" Roy tapped his forehead, "-than anything else." Johnny hesitated before saying what was on his mind. Not a man given to deliberation, yet he found himself fighting a tenuous battle between what he wanted to believe and what he actually did believe. At last, he put forth feelers. "Do you think he'll come back?" "Back . . . here, you mean?" "Yeah," Johnny replied. "After what happened, do you think he'll still want to be a fireman?" "I don't know," was Roy's honest reply. "He's dedicated. He loved what he was doing. But I suppose something like this might be enough to make a man change his mind. I mean, they really did a number on him. We're just going to have to wait and see . . . and try to make sure we do the right thing by him. Don't forget that they spent a lot of energy trying to make him doubt us." Johnny nodded once. "You know, there's something else." "Yeah?" "That guy's still out there." The four men exchanged glances. "He might try again," Johnny continued. His speculation was met with silence. **** Mike had taken breathing for granted. He knew that now. The heaviness he felt inside his chest and the rawness that scratched at his throat forced the rancid truth upon him, the fact that even the healthiest of bodies was not immune from the toxins of nature, nor from the toxins of the human mind. His body had become an enemy, a persistent reminder of things he would rather forget. Why couldn't he force his thoughts in another direction? He had always been able to do so in the past. He had considered this ability to be one his greatest strengths - the ability to consign negative experience to the backburner and to forge ahead undaunted. The sooner he was able to put events behind him, the sooner he could move forward. But that wasn't happening this time. "It's too soon. You're trying too hard." He grimaced against a dull pain that seemed to travel from one extremity to the next in a haphazard circuit. "Liar." This was his self-accusation. "You're not trying hard enough. You have to stop thinking about it. You told the detectives what they wanted to know. Now, you need to stop. You don't have to think about this any more. Get a hold of yourself." Still, his thoughts were unkind, malevolent, working in concert against him. Everything had been shattered, and he could not gather up enough pieces to make a whole. Gone was his strong, healthy body. Gone was a relatively care-free existence. He could not even look after himself. He could scarcely move without assistance. He heard the door open and pretended to be asleep. "Asleep again." This was his mother's voice. "Of course." This was his father. Mike did not have the strength to continue his deception. He opened his eyes. Jeanine Stoker startled. "Oh! Mike, dear, did we wake you?" "No," Mike replied. "I was awake." "You didn't hear us come in?" his father asked. Mike regarded him for several seconds before answering. He had not seen his father in nearly a year - by mutual decision, until a few days ago. There had been times when he had thought the separation might be doing both of them some good. But several days ago, when he had woken up to see his father's cold, unyielding eyes staring down into his own, without compassion and certainly without love, he knew his error. His own feelings had not changed; nor had his father's. Exhaustion and pain had been built-in feints, and Mike had used them consistently since regaining consciousness. It was the most painless way he knew of avoiding a scene with his parents. He held himself to one-word answers, closing his eyes and shutting down any time things looked like they were headed towards unpleasantness. But he hated the falseness he was creating, and he could endure it no longer. "I didn't know it was you until I heard mom talking," he finally replied. "How do you feel today, dear?" Jeanine asked, running a careful finger along her son's brow. "Lousy," he replied. "But that'll pass." "Of course, it will, dear. I only wish my worry would pass, too." Mike searched her face. She did not look worried, and he had not expected her to. He did not need to look at his father to know the sentiments he would find displayed there. "So, how did this happen, Michael?" Michael. His father still called him Michael. He did not mind being called Michael. The name had a noble sound to it. It was the name of the most powerful of Heaven's angels. It was the name his parents had chosen for him. But the only person who called him Michael now was his father; and coming from him, the name was anything but loving, anything but eternal. Mike wasn't even sure if his father believed in angels anymore - arch or otherwise. He had at one time. Just as he had believed in God, Heaven and hell. Mike remembered those days from his childhood, but now Mike was not sure what his father believed in. And he could not remember a time when he had not been too afraid to ask. "What do you mean?" "I mean, how the hell did this happen?" "Didn't they tell you?" "I want to hear it from you. You tell me how this happened." Brian Stoker stood with his arms folded across his chest, his chin held high, eyes staring dubiously down over long, flat cheeks, to cast a cool regard at his son. Mike struggled with an answer, then finally managed, "They kidnapped me." "They? How many is 'they'?" "Two men." "Two men did this to you?" "Yes." "How? How could two men do this?" "I thought they were there to help-" "Did you try to fight these men at all?" "My hands were tied behind me. I was blindfolded. I couldn't-" "You didn't fight them at all, did you?" "Brian, don't badger him." Jeanine Stoker placed a hand on her husband's arm. "It wasn't his fault." Brian ignored her. "How could you let this happen to you, Michael? How could you let something like this happen?" Mike looked up from one parent to the other - his father, bitter and disappointed; his mother, indifferent and aloof. Jeanine Stoker had not always been that way, but as her husband had grown more angry towards Mike, so had Jeanine distanced herself from her son. She was a devoted spouse. She knew where her own comfort and maintenance resided. As the schism between husband and child had widened, it was not difficult for Jeanine Stoker to decide which side of the rift she wanted to be on. "Just go away," Mike said quietly. "Like usual," his father grunted, shaking his head. "You tuck tail and run." "Go away." "Is this what the fire department teaches you-" "Dad, just stop it!" Mike's shouted words terminated in strangled coughs. The door opened to admit the duty nurse. "What's going on in here?" she demanded, hurrying over to where Mike was struggling to catch his breath. "He got a little upset," Mrs Stoker replied. "Then he started coughing." "I'm going to have to ask you to leave," the nurse replied, then she picked up the intercom and paged Doctor Brackett. **** "Sit down, please." Brian and Jeanine Stoker sat. "I was hoping to catch the two of you before you went in to see Mike," Doctor Brackett began. "I wanted to avoid a situation like the one that just occurred." "Like what?" Brian asked. "I understand that you and Mike aren't on the best of terms." "Those people from the fire station brought this on, didn't they?" Brian Stoker got up and leaned over Doctor Brackett's desk. "They're trying to stop me from seeing my own son!" "Mr Stoker, please sit down. No one is trying to stop you from seeing Mike." Doctor Brackett took a deep breath and glanced over at Doctor Early. He was glad he had brought reinforcements. "We just don't want Mike to be agitated. Listen, whatever the reasons are that you two don't get along, we don't want to know-" "That's because it's none of your damned business-" "Brian." Jeannie Stoker placed a hand on her husband's arm. "Calm down. Let's listen to what Doctor Brackett has to say." "Mike's been through a terrifying experience. You know that, and you've seen his injuries. We don't want to do anything that might risk upsetting him in his condition-" "In his condition! In his condition! What is his condition? You make him sound like a little porcelain doll. He's recovering, isn't he? Maybe if everyone stopped handling him with kit gloves, he'd be pulling out of this faster. First, that damned fire department and now you people . . . let him spend some time as a POW in Korea, and then he'll know what torture is. Then he'll know what suffering is." "Mr Stoker, if you don't think that what your son's been through is a traumatic experience, then you might want to listen very carefully when he tells you what they did to him," Doctor Brackett shot back. "They beat him, they burned him, they almost drowned him. They kept him bound and blindfolded in a dirt cellar. They didn't feed him or give him any water. They tormented him continually. That doesn't sound like torture to you?!" No response was forthcoming. Doctor Early looked intently at Mike's father. "Mr Stoker, were you a POW in Korea?" "Does it matter?" he asked dismissively. "It might," Doctor Early replied. "Yes, I was - for two years." He clenched his jaw against unquenchable anger. "And my own son - my first born - didn't even go to Vietnam." A dark glower crossed his face. "He took the easy way out. I suppose Canada was too far." "Mike was a fireman before Vietnam even started, Mr Stoker," Doctor Early pointed out. "He made that choice long before anyone had even heard of Vietnam." "You go on making excuses for him, doctor, but I don't want to hear anymore. Michael and I have stayed out of each other's way for over a year now. I only came here to make sure he was going to be okay. And I can see it for myself. He's fine. A few burns and bruises. A few broken bones. I think I've seen enough." He stood up. "Come on, Jeanine. We can go home." "Mrs Stoker-" Jeanine faced Doctor Brackett. "It might help his recovery to know that you care about him." "Oh, Mike knows I love him. He'll be alright. Brian is right. Mike's okay. He'll bounce right back from this. He always does." She smiled an utterly inappropriate smile. "He's 34 years old, doctor. He's not my little boy anymore. Mike does his own thing these days. He considers Brian and I to be . . . interference." "And what do you consider Mike to be, Mrs Stoker?" Doctor Early asked. "I beg your pardon?" "You said he considers you and your husband to be interference. What do you consider Mike to be?" "Well, he's my son, of course." Doctor Early frowned. "Of course." **** "You sure look better than you did a few weeks ago." Mike grinned slightly. Gage really knew how to throw a compliment. "Going home tomorrow, eh?" This from Roy. "Yeah. Chet and Marco are going to pick me up." Mike looked down thoughtfully. "I gave Chet the keys to my apartment. He says he's got the place all ready for me, filled the freezer with stuff that I just have to pop in the oven . . . I'm not sure that was such a good idea, putting him in charge of doing that." "Well, don't worry. We've all been helping him out. And you know, the offer still stands for you to come stay with us - any of us," Roy reminded him. "I'm still not convinced that you shouldn't have someone around to look after you." "I'll be fine. If I need help, I've got everyone's phone number. Besides, I'm anxious to get out of here." Johnny squeezed his good shoulder. "Well, we're anxious to have you back." "A few more weeks-" "Eight weeks, Mike," Roy corrected. "Eight weeks," Mike conceded. "Don't worry. The engine will still be waiting for you," Roy teased him. "Yeah . . . well, don't you guys get too attached to Jack Ferguson." Johnny's mouth widened deviously. "Actually, now that you mention it, Jack makes a mean lasagna." "But I don't think the engine likes him," Roy added, an upward curl tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Charlie's been out six times in the last three weeks." Mike sat up, and a faint ember glowed in his eyes. Its appearance was something for which Roy and Johnny had been waiting seemingly ages to see. That possessive love. That insistent jealousy. "Six times?" Mike made a distasteful gesture. "What is Ferguson doing to my engine?" Johnny and Roy exchanged glances. Mission accomplished. "You'd better lie back and get some rest, Mike," Roy said. "Tomorrow's a big day." He and Johnny were headed for the door. "We'll check in on you at the apartment in a couple days, okay?" "Thanks, guys." Mike watched them leave. Then he lay back and closed his eyes. He could not stop a comical image of a boxer-gloved Charlie from chasing a grease-stained Jack Ferguson through his head. The idea actually made him smile, and with this thought to ease the loneliness that followed upon his crewmates' departure, he sunk into a contented sleep. **** "You sure you're gonna be okay by yourself?" Mike had heard the question so many times it was becoming like a recording in his brain. Still, these were his friends, and they were showing concern. For that, he was grateful. "I'm sure, Chet. It looks like you guys have thought of everything," he replied honestly, making a sweeping glance to encompass his entire apartment. "Well, if you change your mind, make sure you call one of us," Chet pressed. "Yeah, the invitation still stands, Mike," Marco added. Mike nodded. "I know. I'll keep that in mind; but really, guys, you don't need to worry so much. I'll be fine." "Okay then . . . " Chet turned and faced Marco. "I don't think he's going to let us do any more for him." Mike cast him a droll eye. Marco merely shook his head and grinned as he and Chet shuffled towards the door. "We'll stop by next week. Call us if you need anything," Marco offered. "And be careful." "I will. Thanks for everything, you guys." He stood in the hallway, watching them until they reached top of the stairs. When they were out of sight, he went back inside and closed the door. His apartment. The place was cleaner than he had left it. It was mildly disconcerting to think that his crewmates had been rummaging through his accumulated mess, sorting and discarding, folding, washing, scrubbing . . . who knew what else. Not that Mike was not a good housekeeper. In fact, quite the opposite. He was meticulously neat, yet there were times when things seemed to pile up - on the coffee table, in the kitchen sink, in the dirty clothes hamper. And the two weeks preceding his abduction had been one of those times. Yet, here he was, looking over a pristine apartment and making a mental note to add "putzfrau" crewmates to his list of things to be thankful for. Now, he had the entire day to spend as he pleased, to reacquaint himself with the life he had known before kidnappers and fires and hospitals had intervened. An entire day to fill with whatever he wanted to do. Eight weeks to fill . . . He walked into the kitchen, surveyed the mountains of food left in his freezer and cupboards, and ended up choosing a Hostess Fruit Pie. He sat down on the couch in the living room, took a few bites, leaned his head back, and promptly fell asleep. **** Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. "What is that noise?" Mike thought irritably. "I'm sleeping. Leave me alone." The tapping continued. Mike opened his eyes. The tapping was, in fact, knocking. Someone was knocking at the door. Mike got up, the half-eaten fruit pie dropping from his lap. He wiped the crumbs and a splotch of purple-blue filling from his jeans. So much for his clean apartment. In four long strides, he was at the door, his hand on the doorknob, about to turn . . . He stopped. After a second's hesitation, he looked through the peephole. "Ridiculous," he thought. "You left the door unlocked, anyway. Anyone could have walked right on in." Safety. Security. Two more things he had taken for granted. The caution he had forced into his actions during the months preceding his kidnapping, when the other firemen were disappearing, had never had the chance to become part of his daily routine. The greater part of him still wanted to believe that it was safe to leave his doors unlocked, that it was not necessary to view every visitor before opening the door, that he could still walk from his apartment to his car without the threat of attack. But a smaller part of him, and by far the more powerful, was exercising a formidable degree of control where his activities were concerned. It was the part of him that refused to be relegated beyond the safekeeping of memory. It stayed with him, a flicker of vigilance whose light constantly reminded him that he was still at risk. They were all still at risk. Cap, Marco, Chet, Johnny, Roy. They were all at risk, perhaps more now than before. And so, Mike Stoker found himself looking through peepholes and hoping that he could make himself remember to lock his door from now on. But at least, this time his visitors were not threatening. Andrea and Elaine, his downstairs neighbors. They were two very attractive, very California girls. Not overwhelmingly clever or witty, yet they were kind and thoughtful, and only a nuisance sometimes. They had moved in nearly a year ago, and ever since their first encounter with their dashing upstairs neighbor, they had entertained a collective, girlish crush on him, owing not only to his subtle good looks, but also to his profession. There was something glamorous and intriguing about firefighters - at least, Andrea and Elaine saw it that way. "Welcome home!" the two women chimed in unison. Obviously, they had rehearsed. Mike gave them a one-sided smile, all he could manage for the moment. "Thanks, girls." "We saw you come home this morning, but we figured it'd be best for us to wait a while before coming to see you," Andrea, the more forward of the two, explained. "We brought you some brownies." Mike accepted the plastic-wrapped bundle. "Thanks." He looked from one girl to the next. They were waiting to be invited in, but Mike was simply not in the mood for company. How to put them off without putting them down? "This is really great of you girls. Maybe we can get together in the next day or two and share these," he said pleasantly. "But I'm really beat right now. I don't think I'd make very good company." "Oh, we know that, Mike," Andrea replied eagerly. "We just wanted to come by and let you know we're glad you're home and you're okay." "That was very nice of you." He could not help but notice that the two girls' gazes were wandering, however minutely, over his face, looking for clues as to what he must have suffered. It was a morbid curiosity, but Mike was used to it. He had seen it at the scene of every accident and mishap. The siren, the lights - they seemed to be beacons that attracted that kind of horrible fascination. Having such a look turned towards him, however, was something he had had to come to terms with during the last two weeks. For although most visible signs of his torment had faded, there were still a few notable exceptions. And in those exceptions, it seemed that people were trying to discern some scrap, some lingering residue of the tortures that Mike Stoker had endured not so long ago. Visitors from other shifts, friends, neighbors - they had all been looking for something. Even some members of the hospital staff, with their friendly, sympathetic words and faces, had not been able to completely camouflage their desperation for details. But Mike did not give details. He was not going to give details. The detectives had not pressed him for the particulars of his captivity. Tortured was the word that satisfied them in their investigation. As for the doctors, Mike had offered up a bit more. Beaten. Burned. Drowned. Stick. Arm. Cheek. Shoulders. Anything else the doctors had needed to know, they had been able to see for themselves. This way, he had been able to hold the recollection of his physical injuries at a safe distance, making discussion of them, while still uncomfortable, yet possible. But of the mental aspect of his captivity, he would speak not a word. The few things he had let slip immediately following his rescue, he never referred to again. And the taunting, the attempts at manipulation - these, he kept to himself. He pulled himself back to the two girls on his doorstep. "I'll come down in a few days, after I get settled back in." "Sure, Mike," Andrea said with a love-struck smile. She turned to Elaine, and the two of them went away giggling. Mike shut the door, locking it this time. He set the brownies down and went into the bathroom. He leaned over the sink and examined his face in the mirror. He had not taken a close look at himself during his stay in the hospital. The lights had been too harsh and bright, and his injuries still too outlandish and ugly. He had not been able to completely avoid seeing the damage; there was, after all, hygiene to consider. But this was the first time he had purposefully sought out a mirror in order to look at himself since the abduction. What he saw brought a frown to his lips. The bruises around his eyes had faded into a pale green that looked a beautician's wand run amok. His left cheek was still discolored and slightly swollen. And along his jaw, there was the highly visible line of a burn mark. It was certainly the most gruesome sight in the mirror, but Mike knew his clothes hid worse. He leaned closer, staring into his own eyes - cool, blue circles peering back at him with equally intense concentration. "Such a handsome face." He drew back, stunned. "Don't think that," he said out loud. "Such a handsome face." He would never forget the sound of William's voice. But he could at least force himself to stop thinking about it. William's fingers on his cheek. "Tell me you're afraid." Mike had been more than afraid. He had been terrified. William's words, his touch, his entire manner . . . He reached up and gingerly touched his cheek. "You don't like me touching you, do you?" Mike's hand began to shake. "Get a hold of yourself," he demanded, and the shaking stopped. He turned away from the mirror. "You weren't so handsome to begin with," he ground out, walking across the hallway and into his bedroom. He had no idea what he meant by this statement or why he had said it. It only made him feel better - for a moment, at least. For a moment, until, dropping down to sit on the edge of the bed, he admitted, "Yes, you were." And for the first time, Mike Stoker regretted his good looks - his clean-cut, wholesome good looks. The face of the untouchable, the unreachable. The face of the trusting, the unsuspecting. The face of a decent man. **** If you need a reason to begin again, I am, I am. You will find an answer at your journey's end. I am waiting there, my friend. "Remember Me, My Friend" Justin Hayward and John Lodge From "Blue Jays" "Wow, aren't you guys the early birds?" Dwyer remarked with a grin when Roy, Chet, and Marco walked into the station an hour before shift change. Martin Pearcy, C Shift's engineer, looked up from the sports section. "What are you all trying to do, earn some overtime? You know we don't get paid for that sort of thing." Chet gave a small, accommodating grin and set a bag of groceries down on the counter. "We just wanted to check up on you guys, make sure you're earning your own pay." "Actually," Roy glanced at his watch, "The rest of the guys should be arriving any minute." "What's going on?" Dwyer asked. "Well, it's Mike's first day back at work, so we wanted to, you know, do something special to welcome him back," Roy replied. "Mike's coming back today? He didn't tell me that. Boy, those two months went by fast," Pearcy noted. The three A-shiftmen regarded each other with knowing expressions. "Speak for yourself, Martin," Chet said. "Oh, come on, Jack's a good guy," Pearcy grinned. "Although I don't know what he's been doing to the engine." "Jack's a great guy," Chet replied. "That's not what I meant. It's just that Jack's not Mike, and . . . well, it's time for Mike to come back." "You guys are too sugary sweet." Dwyer could not resist poking some fun. "So, what do you have planned?" "Nothing too elaborate," Roy replied. "We're just gonna do some nice things for him." Chet pulled a box of fresh blueberries out of the grocery bag. "And for starters, we're making his favorite breakfast: blueberry pancakes." "I like blueberry pancakes." Dwyer announced. "Isn't that fascinating," came Chet's bland rejoinder. Captain Stanley and John Gage entered the room. "Flowers?!" Dwyer cried, looking at the bundle in Captain Stanley's left hand. "Yes, flowers," Captain Stanley thrust back at him. "My wife's idea, to make the place look a little brighter. And I happened to agree with her. Now, why don't you get me a vase, Dwyer?" Dwyer did Captain Stanley one better and took the flowers himself. Captain Hookrader entered the dayroom. "I thought I heard your voice in here, Hank. What brings you fellas in so early?" "Getting my engineer back today." Captain Stanley did not even attempt to camouflage his sheer joy at the prospect. "No kidding? Stoker's coming back today, huh? That's great news, Hank." Captain Stanley simply smiled. Captain Hookrader poured a cup of coffee for himself and one for Captain Stanley. The two captains sat down at the table. "How's he doing, anyway?" Captain Stanley replied honestly, "Good, good. I saw him the day before yesterday. He looked good, seemed to be in good spirits. I think he's been going a little stir-crazy, but that just means he's ready to come back to work." Pearcy added, "I was at his place Saturday. He told me he couldn't wait to get back to work, but he didn't say he was coming back today. Listening to him, you'd think nothing had ever happened. He bounced back pretty quickly." "Mike's always been like that," Captain Stanley replied, a measure of misplaced pride in his voice. Behind him, at the counter, Johnny listened to the conversation without offering up his own thoughts on the matter. He, too, had been impressed by the rapidity of Stoker's recovery; if, in fact, it had been a recovery at all. From both a physical and a mental standpoint, Mike appeared to have left the worst behind him, emerging from his ordeal much the same as he had gone into it - quietly self-assured, cool, unsullied by human cruelty. John Gage had seen amazing recoveries before. It did happen. And he knew Mike to be stolid and determined. If anyone could beat a bad situation, it was Mike Stoker. So, why did Johnny feel like he was witness to a tremendous deception? A deception so powerful and encompassing that it threatened his own understanding of the situation. As he looked around at his crewmates and their complaisant faces, he wondered if, perhaps, he was the one in error. Could it be that the uneasy feeling in his gut was nothing more than unfounded paranoia? Roy was always accusing him of being too uptight; and now, Johnny wondered if his partner might have a point. After all, Mike had not given Johnny any reason to doubt his progress. Earlier in the week, Johnny and Roy had met him for dinner; and by all accounts, Mike appeared to be fine. He still sported some visible testimony to what he had been through, but his demeanor was unaffected. "Misleading," Johnny found himself unwillingly delving deeper into the perceived falseness. "He's misleading us, and we're letting him." John upbraided himself. He was being ungracious again. It was only the fact of Stoker's lack of bitterness that had allowed Johnny to begin to forgive himself for his earlier transgressions. Johnny had tried to talk to Mike about it on several occasions, but it had become clear right away that Stoker held no malice and was not interested in talking about what Gage's feelings and motivations had been. "We all say things we don't mean." That had been Stoker's explanation, and it was all the explanation the engineer needed. Johnny had let the matter drop. His own queer jealousy, Stoker's abduction, the whole numbers game to which they had been witness - these subjects were off-limits. At least, they were off-limits with Mike Stoker. "He, uh . . . he knows that those guys are still out there, right?" Dwyer asked, setting a vase filled with flowers on the table. "He knows," Captain Stanley replied. "And that fact doesn't scare him?" Dwyer pressed. "I didn't say that." Captain Stanley took a long sip of coffee. "I don't know how he feels about it." "I guess he doesn't like to talk about it much, hm?" Hookrader supposed. "He says as much as he feels comfortable with," Captain Stanley replied. "Which amounts to nothing," Johnny added privately. "Well, at least he decided to come back," Hookrader said. "I'll be honest, Hank, I thought we were going to lose him." Captain Stanley nodded his agreement. "I had my doubts, too." There was a moment of quiet, before Pearcy spoke up with a pretense of nonchalance. "So, do we get to welcome him back, too? Or is this a private party?" "You just want to eat our food, Martin," Chet replied. "That could be true," Pearcy conceded. "But it's not. I mean, we engineers have to stick together. Besides that, he's my friend." "You all can stay. I think Kelly brought enough supplies to feed an entire battalion," Captain Stanley said, standing up and going over to dump his coffee in the sink. "But for crying out loud, when are you guys going to learn how to make some decent coffee?" *** Mike's eyes widened as he pulled into the parking lot behind the station. He was used to being the first man to arrive for shift change; but now, he made a worried glance down at his watch, wondering if he had missed a time change somewhere in the last two months. There was Cap's car parked next to Chet's parked next to Roy's parked next to- Gage's car! Gage! "Even Gage beat me here?" Mike said out loud, pulling into the first vacant spot he could find. "I must be completely out of it. Cap's gonna kill me." He covered the ground to the engine bay in a matter of seconds, not even taking the time, as he had planned, to savor the moment when he crossed the threshold - for the first time after a self-imposed 77-day hiatus from his second home. He had not stepped foot inside the station once during his convalescence. He was too worried about fouling up on his first day back to do more than give Engine 51 a longing glance as he ran into the dayroom. But here, his worries ended; and the flush of concern that had colored his features gave way to the pinkish blush of surprise and humbleness. A chorus of welcome back's met his startled expression. He felt like laughing, and so he did. Until, seeing the flowers on the kitchen table, he suddenly panicked. "Are we being inspected?" An odd silence followed, with the assembled firemen looking at each other, wondering where they'd lost a certain deductive step. At last, Captain Stanley replied, "No. No inspection. What made you think that?" Mike scanned the bewildered faces, then looked at his captain. "Well . . . the last time there were flowers on the kitchen table, you were . . . putting stuff in Kelly's car." The red flooded into Captain Stanley's face. Johnny burst out laughing; and beside him, even Roy could not suppress a deep, guttural laugh. "I seem to remember that pretty well myself," Chet added. "The inspection that took place without us-" "It wasn't even an inspection. It turned out to be just a visit," Marco corrected. "But boy, we were running around like-" "That's enough reminiscing for now, Marco, thank you," Captain Stanley broke in, but the floodgates were open. "Poor Boot-" "Poor Boot?! What about my poor car?!" Chet cried plaintively. "Cap was stuffing all sorts of-" "Chet, we're still waiting on those pancakes," Captain Stanley cut him off. But it was too late. The members of C Shift swarmed like vultures. "I knew it!" Dwyer's voice coursed with triumph. "The reason you guys always look so good is because you stash things during inspection! Okay, what sort of contraband are we talking about here?" "Well, the company dog, for one-" Chet began. Roy, seeing that Chet was in his element, took over as fry-cook. Captain Stanley turned to his engineer, nonplussed by Stoker's look of contrition. "Your first day back, Mike, and already the whole place is in an uproar. Congratulations." "Hey, Cap, I think my watch is three minutes fast-" Chet was on a roll. Mike smiled and looked around at the characters who comprised his world at the moment. There had to be as many as four different conversations going on at the same time, with each man trying to speak over the next. These men were crazy. How he had missed them. Mike turned his still apologetic gaze back to his captain. "Sorry, Cap . . . the flowers threw me off. I didn't mean to start something." Captain Stanley was not moved. Stoker cleared his throat and edged towards DeSoto and the stove. "Hey, are those blueberry pancakes?" **** Hank Stanley hated warehouse fires. The old wooden hangars he was looking at now were remnants from the Second World War, transitory hangars for mass-produced warplanes enroute to the Pacific theatre. Now, they were being used to store blankets, cots, tents, and other items that had suddenly become excess with the cessation of hostilities in Vietnam. Station 51 had been the third station to arrive at the scene. Chief Houtz had directed them to the west side of the building with orders to try to keep the fire from spreading to the neighboring hangar. Captain Stanley sent Chet and Marco in with a two-and-a-half. And as there were no victims that anyone knew of, Roy and Johnny found themselves playing hose jockey on the inch-and-a-half. It might not have the glamour of being a paramedic, but there was something about manning a hose and forging through smoke and flame that was undeniably compelling. The forced closeness and mutual reliance had the effect of tightening bonds that were already immune to sunder. And if anyone doubted the strength of those bonds, they had only to look as far as Mike Stoker. It had been only three days since his return to work, but it was as if he had never left. Everything had fallen immediately back into place. Whatever doubts William and Barry had tried to inject into his brain, either they had been put to rest or they had never quite taken hold to begin with. Mike did not question the devotion of his crewmates. In fact, he was amazed at just how doting they could be. He didn't mind it, though. How could he really ever mind anything they did? Captain Stanley moved in behind Roy and Johnny who were moving steadily forward into the large, cavernous structure through a small side door, beyond which could be seen the fringes of fire. He followed them inside, drew up for a moment, then craned his head back over his shoulder. He could not get a clear view back out through the door. It was not conscious thought that moved him back out into the open, back to where he could set eyes upon his engineer. It was something much more subtle, yet its roots were not so mysterious. Mike stood next to the engine. He saw Captain Stanley come out of the hangar, and he could not help but notice that his captain's entire focus was on him. And he knew why. Mike turned his attention to dials and gauges that he had just checked. A mild embarrassment crept into his cheeks. This was the first response they'd had during the entire shift that had presented a situation where he might be fully and completely separated from the rest of the crew. He had not given the scenario any thought, if the truth be told; and he did not think any of his crewmates had been overly concerned about it either. But there was Captain Stanley, clearly not intending to let Stoker out of his sight. Mike hovered at the panel as long as he reasonably could before turning around to see Captain Stanley still standing outside the building, O-2 mask removed, bringing the handie-talkie to his mouth. He spouted off some instructions to his own men, then a status report to the battalion chief, all of which Mike could hear over the engine's radio. Mike could also see the nervous strain in his captain's manner - the dilemma of wanting to be in two places at once. Cap wanted to be in there with his four men on the hoses. But an irrational fear held him in place, in remote contact with the men inside the hangar, in visual contact with the man for whom he feared the most, despite the ever-increasing number of engines and firemen who were arriving on the scene and adding to its safety. At last, Mike could not stand it anymore. He broke from where he was standing, trotted over to Captain Stanley, and assumed a helpful stance. "Do you need me to do something, Cap?" "No, no, Mike, everything's under control," Captain Stanley replied, giving Stoker a placating pat on the arm. He gave no indication that he intended to head back inside the hangar. Mike hesitated a moment before heading back to the engine. His subtlety had been lost on Captain Stanley, and now was hardly the time to point out mother-hen-like behavior, especially when such over-protectiveness was completely understandable. There would be more appropriate moments after the flames had died down. **** "Cap, you got a sec?" Captain Stanley looked up from the department memo that he had been trying unsuccessfully to read. Such dry stuff could be considered a prime candidate for spontaneous combustion. The voice of his engineer offered a welcome diversion. "Sure, Mike, what's up?" Mike came in and sat down. "I was thinking about that hangar fire." "Yeah, what a mess that was," Captain Stanley nodded appreciatively. "I'm just glad the rest of the day's been pretty quiet - except for the squad." He chuckled. "Poor Gage and DeSoto. They just don't get a break." Mike gave an ambiguous grin. "So, what about that fire, Mike?" Captain Stanley resumed the original subject. Mike was normally a very direct man, and he saw no reason to change his ways now. "You didn't go inside. You stayed outside the whole time. I don't think I've ever seen you do that before, not when you had men inside." Captain Stanley did not pretend to be surprised. "That's right," was all he said. There were times when Mike thought he knew his captain inside out. There were other times, like now, when he was sure he didn't know the man at all. "I-I thought you might have done that because of me-" "That's right." The two men regarded each other in silence, the captain and his engineer. The former waiting patiently with an expectant look. The latter finding himself more at a loss with each uttered word. Seeing that Stoker was having some difficulty, Captain Stanley prodded gently. "You have something to say about that, Mike?" "Look, Cap, I appreciate all that you and the guys have done for me, really I do. But I don't want you to worry about me," he replied. Captain Stanley's smile was almost apologetic. "It's too late for that, Mike." He leaned forward in his chair. "We're gonna worry. It can't be helped. But this is still your first shift. It's only been three days. Give it some time. We'll ease off eventually. But for right now, you can humor us." And coming from his captain, what choice did he have? He had done his part, pointed out and made a mild protest. And even though he considered it to be so much wasted energy, he would let them have their worry. As for himself, he had left his own worries behind where they could not touch him. It was the only way he knew of to move forward, and he was not going to let anything hold him back. He would not be caught in the pool of the incessant past. Even if others were. **** I believe what is lost forever Has brought the change in me. "You" John LodgeFrom "Blue Jays" Four months later. "Everything looks good, Mike." Mike pulled his shirt back on, smiling at Doctor Early's pronouncement. "I figured everything would check out. I've been feeling fine." "Have you given any more thought to seeing Doctor VanEisen?" This reference to one of Rampart's attached plastic surgeons put Mike a bit on edge. The man's name had been mentioned at least once during every follow-up visit. "I'm still considering," Mike replied with manufactured ease. He might be somewhat vain, but he wasn't Narcissus. Besides, the ugliest wounds were hidden beneath his clothes, and anyone who might be fortunate enough to get that close would have to love him for a lot more than his looks. That, of course, did not take into account his crewmates, who had grown used to the sight of his scars and had managed to do a creditable job of camouflaging their fascination and squelching the pressing desire to offer sympathies that were no longer necessary. |