After the Dream

By Jane


Chapter 1: Prologue: Breathing

SUNNYDALE, 2003:


Margaret-Deborah Wolfson stood on the brink of the end of the world.

This wasn’t right. This … this was just … this can’t be real.

But it was.

The softest of breaths escaped her lips, only to choke and die and be reborn as a sob. Once that first one slipped through, the rest found it easy to break free from her. Her body shook, her chest constricted, her throat clogged up, and still the sobs came, as unstoppable as the flood of tears that rebelliously leaked from her eyes. She hadn’t cried in so long; not since she left Sunnydale. It made sense, then, that the first time she would let herself go in almost 12 years would be the day she came home.

To this wasteland.

This can’t be Sunnydale. The Sunnydale she remembered had been a bright, idyllic small town, a representation of all things Southern California. It was the kind of place where people built their homes, raised their children, led their lives. The place where those who went out and challenged the world secretly dreamed of returning home to.

This can’t be Sunnydale. There was nothing here. No houses, no trees, no schools, no pubs … no life. Just a seemingly endless stretch of barren earth. This was unbelievable. What kind of earthquake could possibly be strong enough to swallow an entire town without even leaving anything behind? Like the earthquake had been a hungry child who’d polished his dinner plate clean. This just wasn’t natural.

But it was real.

And that’s what it all boiled down to. This was real. Sunnydale no longer exists. The people who lived here were long gone. To where? She had no idea. The only thing she did know, was once again, she was homeless.

Margaret realized that she was on her knees, hugging herself. The dry wind drank her tears and now there was nothing left but twin trails of salt on her cheeks. Her arms fell to her sides. Her fingertips brushed gritty dirt―the first contact her skin made with her home land―and Margaret came alive.

She stood up and walked back to her car. Tonight, she’ll sleep here, at home. Tomorrow she’d say her farewells.

Tomorrow would be soon enough.

~*~*~*~

The sign said ‘Keep Out: Danger’.

Margaret ignored it. She hadn’t survived this long on her own by following the rules all the time. Even if they were military rules. She hadn’t seen a single G.I. Joe prancing about. Spooked, most likely. Men were such big babies.

She lugged her sleeping bag with her. Her car wasn’t far away. She could sleep there, but she’d never really enjoyed sleeping in cramped places. She’d had to get used to it once, but she’d never enjoyed it.

Besides, she wanted to camp out.

The heart of Sunnydale was ground zero. This was where everything, they said in the news, had disappeared to. Every single evidence of human civilization in the small town had been swallowed by a crack in the earth. That crack was nowhere to be found now, and Margaret was disappointed.

She spread her sleeping gear on the ground, and then went back to her car for the bag of junk food she’d brought with her. It wasn’t dark yet. She won’t need to build a fire for another hour or so. She’d only need it for warmth, anyway, because the military had set up photo lamps all over the place, just in case anything crawled up out of the ground.

The thought gave her pause, but only for a second. She was tired, she’d spent hours exploring the remains of Sunnydale and she was determined that this be her last stop. And she was not a woman who gave in to fear.

She sat on her sleeping bag, chewing on a granola bar. And for the first time in years, she let herself look back.

Margaret-Deborah Wolfson’s was a classic story of the poor, little rich girl. The girl who had everything: brains, beauty, wealth. A bright future beckoned to her. She was the role model for other kids, the daughter/sister/girlfriend/best friend everyone wished they had.

The dark secret was that Margaret had been terribly unhappy. She lived with a tyrannical father who’s word was law, a powerless and indifferent mother, and a world where nothing less than perfection was expected from her. It was an old story, a cliché, even. But it had happened to her, and to her it will never be just a cliché. Her former life had been a prison that had slowly sucked away everything that was genuine and unique in her.

And so, even though it meant leaving behind everything she knew and loved, she did what every troubled teen seemed inclined to do. She ran away. And things got worse for her. Life became a downward spiral towards a pit of bad. She should be thankful she was made of stern stuff. She survived. And by sheer force of will, a helluva strong determination, not to mention a load of guts she hadn’t even known she possessed, Margaret made her life her own.

But now, sitting here alone in the graveyard of the town she had been born in, she felt very much like a lost little girl again.

I’m home, Daddy, she thought, feeling the wound in her heart throb anew.

She fell asleep without anyone saying, Welcome back, sweetheart.

~*~*~*~

9:00 on the dot, and the earth started to tremble.

Always a light sleeper, Margaret sat bolt upright, eyes wide, “What the―” she muttered. Beneath her, the ground was moving. She looked around her frantically, heart pounding. Oh shit, shit, shit. This was bad.

She got on her knees and crawled out of her sleeping bag, before gathering it up in her arms, including the packets of chips and chocolate littering the ground. She didn’t want to leave any evidence of her presence behind.

The crack appeared just as she was reaching for the empty can of Coke. Margaret stood there, unable to move, watching in deadly fascination as the earth opened its mouth in a yawn. The sound of rock sliding against rock grated in her ears. And then the crack started to widen, snaking towards her at an alarming speed. She snapped out of her trance, dropped her stuff, and ran for her life. This was the hungry kid who had polished off his dinner plate clean, only to discover that there was still some mashed potatoes left. He was out to finish the job.

Oh, great. I’m thinking in metaphors. I’m the metaphoric mashed potatoes. That can’t be good, Margaret thought as she zoomed for her car. She had parked it barely 50 feet away. She had never been so far away from anything in her life.

The earth was screaming now, and it was shaking so badly, Margaret fell on her hands and knees twice. She got up after each time and ran even faster. That was just the way she did things.

The battered sedan came into view. Margaret dove for the door handle, yanked it open, and dive bombed inside. “Keys, keys, keys!” she hollered at no one, searching her pockets. She found them in the breast pocket of her oversized denim shirt and shoved it in the ignition, turning it once, twice … the car coughed weakly.

“C’mon, baby, c’mon!” Margaret urged, “Please … not here, not now.” She could barely hear her own voice above the groaning of the land. She made the mistake of looking out her window.

And she abandoned all hope.

The crack came after her, moving like a living thing. It was like someone was cutting up the space formerly known as Sunnydale with a very sharp scissor. In a second, it would have her, car and all.

“Nooo!!!” she screamed, hands so tight on the steering wheel, her knuckles bled white.

One last ear-shattering groan, one last violent death rattle, and everything went still.

Margaret had her forehead pressed against the steering wheel, her shoulders kissing her earlobes. She took one breath in by instinct. The sound was audible and she realized that she had breathed. She took another. And another.

She was breathing.

She was alive.

Slowly, she opened her eyes and lifted her head. She peered out the window, afraid of what she’d see, but more afraid not to look. Her mouth dropped open.

The tear on the earth had stopped a good six feet from her car. Dust rose from the gaping wound like a mushroom cloud.

“Unbelievable.” Margaret muttered. She automatically opened her door and stepped out. Her legs gave way beneath her and she grabbed her open window for support. Her eyes went over the site where she had slept and she laughed. Her sleeping bag was half-way inside the slender chasm.

“And with all the racket, not to mention this poor imitation of the Grand Canyon, you can be sure the soldier types will be crawling all over this place,” she sighed. She made her way back carefully, but hurriedly. She retrieved her sleeping bag and fought her natural curiosity. No looking down.

“That’s it. This is the last time I am ever sleeping outdoors,” she tried to inject some humor into her voice, something to dispel the fear still lodged in her chest. She hated fear, battled with it everyday, “Maybe I should move to some other state, somewhere where they don’t have earthquakes.” She trotted back to her car, suddenly eager to leave and kiss her past goodbye.

She stopped. Turned around.

She didn’t know what made her do what she did next. She certainly hadn’t seen anything, nor heard anything. But she had sensed something. Like something knocked in her brain, or ice touching the back of her neck.

And the next thing she knew, she was walking back to ground zero.

This was crazy and dangerous. But something spurred her on. Margaret was a very practical woman. She had had to be. But this time, she abandoned rational thought and followed her instincts.

When the hand came out of the mouth of Sunnydale, Margaret jumped back, but didn’t run away. The hand was followed by its mate. They scrabbled around, long, lean fingers coated in dirt and blood searching for purchase. One hand dug its fingers into the ground, and the other one lunged, the arm connected to it becoming visible before landing flat on the rocky surface. And then it started to slither back. Whoever was connected to the pair of limbs wasn’t very light.

Margaret moved before she could think. She leapt forward, grabbed the arm and pulled back with all her might. Veins popped out in her neck, her eyes squeezed shut. She leaned her entire weight back. And still, when that other hand came up and grabbed her wrist, the strength in it was more than enough to pull her down.

Oh, God, “I’m trying to help you here!” she yelled through clenched teeth, “Can’t … do that … if I’m down there … with you …”. She reached down, folding her fingers around someone’s upper arm. She felt lean, wiry muscles bunch beneath her palm. Whoever he was, he was doing his damnedest to save himself.

Margaret can so relate. With a burst of fresh strength that surprised even her, she dug in her heels, pulled herself up and in one whiplash motion, threw herself backward.

At the same time, the one who owned the hand and arm, instinctively followed her lead, and pushed himself up in a lunging, all-or-nothing move.

A body fell on top of Margaret, heavy, like dead weight. She let out an embarrassing “Oommph!” as a head landed on her stomach. She had somebody’s torso settled between her legs.

For a second, they stayed still. Margaret stared up at the night sky, her heart kicking at her ribs. There were so many stars tonight, millions of them. Who needed a moon if you can summon up a nation of stars like that?

“Uunghh…”

Margaret lifted her head. Her stomach had grown a lump of the most tangled thatch of brown hair she had ever seen. She smiled, “Hey, there. You awake?”

“Ungghh …”

“Well, if you are, quit faking and get off me already. I don’t know you well enough yet.”

She saw arms that definitely did not belong to her, move on either side of her. The shoulders were bare. So her rescued victim was―Uh-oh―he was pushing himself up―naked.

He was lifting his head. Eyes the startling, mesmerizing color of the Pacific stared up at her, the centerpieces of a rugged, yet strangely elegantly sculpted face―which, at the moment, was covered in not-so-elegant dust and dirt.

He blinked. Margaret smiled even wider, “Hi,”

His lips moved, but all he could come up with was, “Ungghh?” only now it sounded like a question.

Then he lost consciousness.

~*~*~*~

Margaret stared out the window of her motel room. Outside, the sun was just rising. Day was breaking and soon, everyone who had something to do would wake up.

Everyone, except for Sleeping Beauty on the bed.

Margaret gathered her knees to her chest and watched him sleep. He hadn’t woken up, not even when she’d tried to drag him to her car. But he had been too heavy, and she finally had to drag her car to him. When they reached the motel, she had to pay extra to get the manager to help her carry him into the room. The fact that he was naked beneath an enormous Southpark nightshirt seemed to escape the rheumy-eyed man altogether.

She should call someone. The authorities―or whatever passed for authorities around here― like the cops or something. Hell, she should call those grunts that seemed to be in charge of ground zero. Someone had just crawled out from a crack in the earth. And that someone was in her paid-for motel room, in her bed, sleeping the day away.

What if he didn’t wake up? He certainly hadn’t even as she had done her best to clean him up with a wet wash cloth. But he was breathing, his chest rising and falling in the easy rhythm of sleep. And except for his hands, which were scraped from fighting with underground rocks, there were no other signs of serious injury on his body.

She left the chair by the window and moved to his side. She sat down, careful not to disturb him. She’d already had ample time to study ( all ) of him, and she had reached the brilliant conclusion that her sleeping patient was one attractive guy. Not the most gorgeous she’d seen; but it was really kind of unfair if she held all men up to the physical standards of Brad Pitt or George Clooney and the like.

His features were angular, the cheekbones strong, his forehead high. His lips were a stark contrast to the sharpness of his face. They were full and soft-looking. Margaret had a good imagination when it came to facial expressions since she’d seen nearly all of them, and she knew this guy could look very cruel if he wanted to.

He didn’t look cruel right now. Asleep, he looked very young, vulnerable. Almost peaceful. Impossibly long, thick eyelashes formed little half-moon shadows against his perfect skin. His nose was a little crooked, and she frowned at that. Was he some kind of fighter? A boxer, maybe? He was too lean, thin, even. Featherweight, maybe. She made a note to ask him about that once he woke up. If he woke up. She shook her head once, dispelling the thought. That was a bad thing to think about someone who was unconscious.

A soft sound reached her ears and she looked at him more closely. His dark brows furrowed slightly, and then his lids lifted, the heavy lashes rising from the slight hollows beneath his eyes like miniature stage curtains.

His eyes were more gray than blue now. The room was dark. She’d kept it that way just in case he did wake up. His lips parted and another soft sound escaped. It sounded like ‘huh’.

“Hey there,” Margaret greeted, voice hushed, “Good morning.”

“Morning?” he looked at her like the word belonged to a foreign language.

“The time that comes after night. Sun over the earth.”

“Oh.”

“How’re you feeling?”

Again, that look of confusion.

“Do you hurt anywhere? I would have brought you to a hospital, but this was closer and we kinda ran out of gas.”

More of the same.

“Habla Español?”

His eyes narrowed, “Si.”

She frowned, “ Uh … sorry. But for a while there, I thought you understood English.”

“I do.”

She stared at him. His expression of perplexity mirrored her own. “Let’s just stick to the tried and proven, okay? I’m Margaret-Deborah Wolfson. What’s your name?”

“Name?”

“Something other people call you by, a word you respond to.”

“I know what it means,” he sounded irritated, if a little groggy. The idea that he had an attitude made her smile.

His next words killed that smile.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?”

He looked worried, confused, anxious, and tired. His stomach must really be taking a beating now, “My name.”

“You don’t know your name?”

His gaze locked with hers, and his eyes were suddenly all pupil, “Is that bad?”

~*~*~*~

An hour later, Margaret was looking at a clothed Him, “Not bad,” she said.

He stood next to the bed in a pair of soft gray sweats that an old boyfriend had been stupid enough to give to her, ( he was never getting them back. They looked better on her than they ever did on him, anyway, ) And one of her free size white tees. She slept in shirts like those. They were more comfortable than any negligee, in her opinion.

But even in clothes specifically designed for comfort, he looked anything but.

“Are you feeling okay?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Translation: No.

“Whatever. I’ve gassed up the Wolfson-mobile while you were prettyin’ yourself up, and you look solid enough to walk to it, so … what you say we drive to the hospital?”

He scratched at his arm, “I’m … knackered.”

“Knackered?” she grinned, “Is that English?”

“Mm-hmm,” he looked slightly defensive, and also a little paler than before.

“You’re English,” Margaret realized, “So that’s what that accent is! I couldn’t place it immediately. Most of the English people I’ve met … well, they didn’t talk like you. You sound a little grittier.”

He sank on the bed. Margaret palmed her keys, “Come on. I can’t tell if you’re injured or not. For all I know, you’re internally bleeding. We need to get you to a doctor.”

He didn’t argue anymore, “Okay.”

They moved after he’d slipped on her flip-flops, “They’re tight,” he complained.

“Be thankful I have big feet,” she said, “One thing at a time, okay?”

He nodded and shuffled along with her walk. She opened the door.

He hissed and jumped back and by the time she’d turned around, he was huddled against the bed, “Close the door!”

“What is wrong with you?”

He held up his hands in front of his face, warding off something only he could see, “The light …”

Something cold and primal skittered down Margaret’s spine. Light. There was no light …except … from the sun. She stared at him; she stared outside. And she wondered what the hell she was doing, still standing there. She had her keys, she could just go.

“Please … the door …”

And the fear just melted away.

Margaret marched back to him. For a minute there, she’d felt like she was in the presence of something powerful and dangerous and it had frightened her. But looking at this tall, thin young man trying to make himself smaller … the thought was ridiculous. He could barely fend for himself, much less cause her any harm. So what if he was afraid of sunlight? Maybe he was photosensitive.

She knelt down in front of him, forcing down the sympathy his frail image evoked, “It’s nothing. It’s just the sun,” she said briskly, “We need to get you to a hospital.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Blue eyes flashed azure with rebellion, “No. I’m fine.”

She sighed, “What’ll it take to change your mind?”

He suddenly grinned. His teeth were white and endearingly uneven at the bottom part, “Make the sun go away.”

Huh. A smart ass. She should have known. She grabbed the blanket off the bed, “I can’t do that. I guess you’ll have to settle for this,” she threw it over his head, grinning as he fought valiantly until his head emerged amidst the fabric, “Well?”

Odd. The term ‘security blanket’ flitted across his mind and he blinked. So that’s what it meant. The coarse, stained cloth was suddenly the most comforting thing he had ever felt. The sun didn’t seem so scary any more.

He stood up and headed for the door, Margaret at his heels. He hesitated at the threshold, tightening the blanket around his head and shoulders, before stepping outside. Sunlight spilled over him and panic seized his chest. An alien feeling of something kicking against his ribs came over him. He stood there waiting for … what?

“Okay, what’s next?” Margaret sounded amused, “You start melting or …”

He let the blanket slip off him as he stared at his arms in wonder. What’s next? He had no idea. But whatever was supposed to happen, didn’t. Relief flooded his being, along with a feeling of lightness and complete, utter freedom. He turned to Margaret, “Let’s go for a drive,” he said.

~*~*~*~

They drove together in silence for several minutes. Margaret was dying to ply him with questions, but he looked so tired, leaning his head against the window, that she held her tongue. Her questions could wait until she was certain answering them wouldn’t end up killing him with exhaustion.

This surge of protectiveness was completely unexpected and almost foreign to her. The past 12 years hadn’t been very conducive to nurturing her soft, compassionate side. It was nice to know that she was still human enough to care.

“Margaret.”

She glanced at him, “What?”

“Margaret.”

“Weird name for a guy.”

“I meant yours. Margaret-Deborah Wolfson?”

“It’s hyphenated. One of my ancestors was called Deborah-Margaret, I think.”

He smiled, “Maggie.”

She nodded, “Works for me.”

“Where … where did you find me?”

She pursed her lips, choosing her words carefully, “What exactly do you remember?”

“You,” the answer came in an instant, “You’re … my first memory,” he laughed softly, “My only memory.”

She smiled, “A romantic. Huh.”

“Am I?”

“I don’t know, buddy.” Margaret kept her eyes on the road, “I found you in Sunnydale. That’s a town―well, it used to be. I’ll try and tell you everything later, when you’re up for it. For now, suffice it to say that Sunnydale no longer has what we need, so I had to take you to the lovely pit stop we just left behind. And I’m thinking that despite my generous nature and genuinely good intentions, I’m not enough for you. What you need is a doctor. There’s another town a little bit ahead. They’ve got a hospital there.”

“And food?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, but I guess it’s better than Doritos,” she grimaced, “Or not.”

Another silence settled between them. This time, it was companionable. Margaret started humming, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.

“What is that?”

“Hmmm? Oh, it’s an old McDonald’s jingle.”

“Jingle?”

“A little song for commercials. If it’s catchy enough, people pay attention. And when people pay attention to a commercial, it usually means money.”

He smiled and leaned his head back against the head rest, “That’s nice,” his voice had a dreamy quality to it. Pretty soon, he was going to drift off to sleep again.

He better not sleep too heavily. I’m gonna have to―what the … “Hey, buddy, heads up.” Margaret said, “I think there’s a checkpoint up ahead.”

“Checkpoint?”

“Some military or army guys or whatever.” Margaret puffed out her cheeks and blew air noisily, “Great. Just how am I gonna explain you? They’re not gonna like my little oddventure in their ‘cordoned’ off ground zero.” She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, “Well, at least we got help on your medical situation, right, Bud?”

“Turn back,” he hissed.

“What?” she looked over at him, alarmed by his urgent tone. And even more alarmed by the fear on his face, “Hey, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He ran his lower lip between his teeth. He had no idea what just happened, but all of a sudden he felt … uneasy. He suddenly felt like he had to get away. The car crowded in on him. He can see the checkpoint clearly, even though he knew that from this distance, the men in the camouflage uniforms should be nothing more than just vague spots of drab color. His glance went to his legs and he wondered if they’d move on their own just to get him outta here.

“Please … I … have a bad feeling about this,” he pleaded with Margaret, “I can’t. I mean, don’t let them see me!”

She wanted to ask why. She didn’t. Instead, she said, “Look, we can’t just turn back. They’ve probably seen us already; after all we’ve seen them and it’s not like we’re hidden. If we turn back, they’ll only get suspicious,” she saw the panic he was so bravely fighting back and felt an immediate burst of pride that even now, he was keeping his cool, “So here’s the plan …”

~*~*~*~

“Hey, officer,” Margaret greeted brightly.

The gorilla on her side glowered at her, “Where ya been?” he growled.

“Tiny little pit stop called Earl’s?” Margaret fanned the air in a back-there motion, “Outskirts of Sunnydale, I think.”

He didn’t like the word ‘Sunnydale’. His eyes narrowed in suspicion and he leaned down, checking the inside of her junk-heap car, “Is that right? Whatchou think you were doin’ in the place formerly known as Sunnydale?”

Margaret blinked, “We didn’t go to Sunnydale. Well, we were gonna …” she glanced, irritated, at the pale form beside her, “But somebody decided to get sick just when we were so close.”

“ ‘S not my fault,” the figure nearly smothered in blankets mumbled, “It was the water. I think we drank half the water-borne germs in Southern California.”

The second G.I. Joe stared at her ‘guest’s’ face, “Hey, buddy, you all right?”

“If you define all right as the condition of a pitch n’ roll stomach and feeling the fervent urge to regurgitate, then yes, I’m just walking on sunshine.”

Maggie bit her lip to keep from grinning. The attitude she had sensed in him earlier was coming out past his gritted teeth. Then she realized that it was her turn in the spotlight. “Ooh … hey, I don’t suppose you guys can tell us what really happened in Sunnydale?” she asked eagerly, “I mean, I heard there was this gigantic earthquake, like intensity … 11 or something, and that―”

Her sarcastic, blue-eyed patient groaned, “Jill, will you please …”

“Just a minute, Hal,” she shushed him, “They say the whole town had disappeared! I wanted to get pictures, but well …”

“Can we go now? Please?”

“They haven’t told us anything yet. Maybe they even have brochures!”

”Hey, lady, this ain’t no tourist spot,” the soldier by Maggie’s side growled. She wondered if that was just the way he talked all the time, “Now maybe you should just step out―”

“Oh, God!” Blue Eyes practically kicked his door open, causing the soldier standing on the other side of him to step out of the way. Blue Eyes bowled over, gagging sounds issuing from his throat.

“Oh, that’s okay,” Maggie said reassuringly, “Vomit is easy to remove from boots.”

The soldier wasn’t reassured, “Go! Gah! Just go!” he ordered, waving his arms forward.

“But we haven’t …”

“We’ll send the brochures in the mail. Get him outta here!”

“Okay!” Maggie grinned and waved as she drove away, “Have a nice day!”

“Tourists,” the soldiers muttered.

~*~*~*~

Maggie was laughing so hard, her sides ached, “Whoo! Now that was something, wasn’t it? For a minute there, I didn’t think we could pull it off.”

“Me neither. You think they bought it? Did we act touristy enough?”

“I’ve been a tourist too many times to count, buddy. I know how to be touristy,” she grinned at him, eyes dancing with mirth, “The whole barfing thing, though. Definitely closed the deal. Couldn’t have done it better myself.”

“And the Oscar goes to …” he intoned, “Buddy!”

She shook her head, “Never really thought about it, but I don’t think that name fits you.”

He shrugged, “What’s in a name?”

“There’s gotta be something in it. Why else would every one in the world have one?”

“Except for me.”

“Well, then, pick one.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Okay, I’ll do it,” she paused, studying him. They were on a flat stretch of dusty, deserted road anyway, so she didn’t need to be so vigilant, “Hmmm … how ‘bout ‘Sam’?”

He blinked, “Do I look like a Sam?”

She frowned, “No … not exactly. You’re not the boy-next-door type, so no friendly, easy-on-the-tongue names with three-letter abbreviations for ya.” She turned the car into the desert that surrounded the road and killed the engine.

“What’re you doing?”

Maggie was serious, “This is business right here, pal. We’re not leaving until you’re baptized,” she tapped a finger against her lips, thinking, “Jake, Danny, Chris …” she trailed off. Somehow, none of them suited him. They were too … ordinary. And he was anything but.

“Larry, Curly, Moe …” he recited.

“You have no idea how lucky you are. You get to pick your name; you should take this more seriously. Unless you wanna end up with a hyphenated moniker that doesn’t suit you at all.” Maggie lectured, “You need something that is really you. Something … derived from your true essence.”

“You okay, Maggie?”

“You need a good, strong name. Doesn’t have to be very long,” she eyed his slender frame, “Just has to have … substance.”

He looked pleased and embarrassed at the same time, “Oh, I’m full of substance, all right. The soldier we left behind nearly ended up with my true essence all over his boots.”

She ignored his sarcasm. Something told her that whatever his name had been, that most personal of titles that he couldn’t remember, it hadn’t been some wimpy nickname. It had been a real name, meant for the man he would become, “Came from the earth …” she murmured, “Earth, land … tierra. Hey, how ‘bout that, huh? It’s foreign, it’s exotic … women will fall all over you.”

“For a man named tierra?”

“No, no, not tierra. How ‘bout … Tierre? How ‘bout that?”

From Spanish to French. Wasn’t he supposed to be English? But she looked so pleased with herself …, “Tierre,” he said, tasting the name, rolling it off his tongue, “Tierre. I could get used to it.”

“Of course you will,” Maggie gunned the engine and got back on the road, “I am good.”

“Yes, you are,” Tierre said quietly, sincerely, “Thank you for not … telling those army blokes ‘bout me. I really appreciate it.”

Maggie was quiet for a few minutes. Her mind was whirling, logic demanding that she stop neglecting it and start using her brain again. But for some reason, logic had flown out the window since she met Tierre, “I should tell you something, Tierre,” she said, “I don’t do this. I’m not the kind of person who just jumps in and does something just ‘coz she feels like it. That’s too … reckless. I don’t do reckless. I can’t afford it, it’s much too expensive.”

His eyes were intense, like he was reading into her thoughts, “You didn’t have enough time to be young, did you Meg?” he murmured, shortening her nickname into yet another nickname.

No, not even close. I’ve never been allowed to be young.

“So what made you help me? Booze? Drugs? A bipolar condition?”

“Are you really an amnesiac? You seem pretty up to date with the world and its pet syndromes.”

“It’s not the world I forgot.”

“No. You never forget that.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So what made you help me? Obviously, it’s not your non-reckless logic.”

“Instinct,” the answer was instant, right at the tip of her tongue, “I don’t know why, I just did it. Same with the soldiers,” she shrugged, a helpless, frustrated shrug, “I don’t know you. I have no idea what you are. Do you remember, do you even know that I pulled you out of the ground? Completely naked too, like … like you’ve just been …”

“Born?”

“Jesus, that sounds crazy,” she closed her eyes, opened them again. The road remained the same before them, seemingly endless, “Even crazier is that I’m sitting here with you, laughing and talking, and I don’t feel weird. And that, lemme tell ya, is …”

“Weird?”

“Stop finishing my sentences for me. I’m not sure if we’re at that level yet.”

“Sorry,” Tierre hid a smile. He could tell she was uncomfortable with this whole gut-level thing, but she won’t be for long. Something told him that Wolfson was an ally. More than that, she was a friend.

“I trust you,” he said simply.

“Whaat?” she looked at him like he’d just told her he was the Second Coming.

“Eyes on the road,” Tierre directed calmly, “I said I trust you. That’s instinct, too. I think it’s weird … and nice.”

This time she laughed, and the tension disappeared. He liked the sound of her laugh. It was comforting, “Boy, you are something, aren’t ya?” she said, smiling at him. He liked her smile, too. It made him feel warm, “So, Tierre,” she was still grinning, and he saw the spark of mischief and adventure in her eyes, “Where’s instinct telling you to go now?”

“Why do you wanna know?”

“Because I might just go with you.”

“Don’t you have a life to get back to?”

“Lemme tell ya something, Blue Eyes,” Maggie floored the pedal and they shifted to the speed of sound, “Life is where you live it.”

TBC