The Island
Path from the Cove to the Swan Hatch

Desmond Hume is running so hard he can't feel his feet or the ground, and his lungs are straining to keep up.

Behind him Kelvin Inman is dead, the blood flowing from the back of his head drying on a rock. Ahead of him Desmond pictures the Swan Station, the clock ticking down to zero and then those red and black images he saw flipping forward, the whole hatch shaking the way it had that time they'd lost track of who was on duty.

He remembers what Kelvin's told him over and over these past three years and he pictures an implosion, a huge flash, the end of the island and maybe the whole world.

"My God, my God," he runs harder, faster, and when he gets there he takes the steps down the side entrance two at a time.

He swings into the computer room to find it's still happily beeping its calm, bright steady beep. He looks up at the clock and starts keying in the numbers, and he's got the '8' in and is reaching for the 1 to enter '15' when he hears the first blare of the alarm. It barely has a chance to sound a second time and the room has only faintly rumbled under his feet when he pushes "execute".

The clock makes its whooshing, metallic bird wing sound and turns back to 108 minutes.

Desmond is panting, his eyes wild, sweat dripping down from his hair onto his hands which are folded in front of his mouth. Relief replaces his terror, until he realizes it: He's alone now.

On Board Oceanic 815

Thirty-six thousand feet above Desmond, 324 people are catching their breath, too.

The plane had plunged, bucked back up and then fell again throwing suitcases and several people into the ceiling, flinging them to the floor. Then it ended as fast as it had started. Everyone held their breath. When the turbulence didn't resume there were cheers, relieved laughter and a few tears.

"Are you okay?" Jack reached over to the woman to his right. He felt responsible for her, for telling her everything would be fine right up until the second it wasn't.

"I think so," Rose said. She took the hand he offered, but then hers went toward the back of her head and Jack stood and leaned over her, his hands following until he saw the contusion, a little blood, not too much. "One of the suitcases might have hit me."

"Looks that way, but don't worry," he leaned back, gave her a nod for reassurance. "It's not bad at all, just a small cut."

He saw someone walking their way as he checked on the others who'd been tossed around, and he guessed it was the husband she mentioned, who had been in the restroom. He was looking panicky, and Jack redirected his attention with a hand to his shoulder, pointing behind them toward the stewards' station in the mid-section of the plane.

"Can you see if they can bring us some ice in a bag for her? She just needs ice, she'll be fine."

Bernard nodded, turned back wordlessly. Jack saw everyone else around him was back in their seats, no obvious signs of distress, and so he reached up over Rose to press the call button. One of the attendants walked their way.

"Anyone else need help?" Jack asked.

"Are you a doctor?" Cindy asked, already motioning him to follow her as he nodded. "There's a woman up front: She doesn't appear to be injured but she's extremely pregnant and I think she's having a panic attack."

Claire was breathing into a white paper bag that had formerly held someone's sandwich from the airport cafe when Cindy pointed her out, and Jack stood silently for a second, pressing down lightly on the bag with one finger to catch her eyes.

"What's your name?" He asked.

"Claire," she said, into the bag, not moving it, "Claire Littleton," and he had to bite back a laugh, nodding, fighting to keep his face straight.

"Claire, I hate to tell you this, but breathing into a bag doesn't really accomplish much," she dropped it, then, and he saw she was still shaky, tears drying on her face. "Do you do yoga? Meditate?"

He asked it as much to hear her voice, gauge how much oxygen she was getting, as for her answer.

"No," she paused, coughing her voice raspy, "Not all that much into new agey stuff."

"Me either," Jack smiled, "But focusing on calming your breathing is the best thing to do. Try it: In through your nose, hold and breathe out really slowly through your mouth. You'll see, it'll work."

Claire nodded, tried it.

"Your doctor let you fly this many weeks in?" Jack asked, sizing things up as she breathed in and out several times, the color in her face improving by the second, the panic visibly melting away. "Do you have family meeting you there?"

"She said it'd be okay, yeah."

Jack crouched down next to her so as not to be looming overhead.

"What little family I have is in Sydney," she said, shrugging, squeezing back the additional tears his question had unexpectedly drawn out of her. "Not that it's much of a family at all because it sure isn't, never has been."

He flinched slightly, and Claire saw he was sorry he'd so personal a question. Then he squeezed her hand and she thought she'd never seen someone smile and look so sad at the same time. It made her wonder for a second why he was on the plane.

"But the couple that's adopting, I'm going straight to their house. They're expecting me."

"Good. Feeling better? No pain at all, no cramping? No dizziness?" Claire shook her head. "I'm sure they already have a doctor lined up. You should probably get in and see her or him tomorrow, sound good?"

"Yeah," she nodded, "Thanks, Doctor..."

"Jack," he stood, "No problem," and he started back to his seat with a nod and a wave.

"Thanks, Jack. See you later."

If he heard her he didn't react and Claire sat there, squinting at nothing at all in front of her and then looking back toward him.

"Why in the world did I say that?" she asked under her breath.

The flight home to LAX took much longer than it should have, by nearly four hours. One of the passengers was telling anyone who would listen that the plane had made a long, gradual turn after the jolt, like maybe the pilots realized they were going the wrong way or something. But everyone was so relieved just to be safely down that no one paid much mind to what Neil thought about the matter.

The Island
Swan Hatch
September 23, 2004

Fifteen hours after the close call with the button Desmond was standing on the top step of the side entrance to the hatch with a cup of coffee in his hands and his nose up high in the air. He was sniffing, teasing out the island smells of dirt and plant and ocean, and after three years of flat hatch air he felt almost drunk from it.

He remembered his last conversation with her.

"When're ya getting married?" She had looked shocked, not knowing he knew about her engagement or that her father had broken it to him in the cruelest way possible. But now it hit him that she hadn't only been shocked, she had been disappointed that he seemed to be letting her go so easily.

"Maybe in another world," Desmond said to himself, "maybe somewhere else I give up. Not here."

His eyes scanned the jungle, planning. He had 100 minutes to himself, on the safe side, before he had to be back. It might be enough time to just leave - get to The Elizabeth and sail away. But what if... what if it did matter, the button?

His hand reached to his throat, felt the edges of the key hanging from the chain.

Maybe he wasn't alone. He'd been here 35 months, but this was the most he'd ever seen of the place. Who could say what or who might be out there?

If he looked slowly, carefully, day-by-day, he thought, maybe he could find someone: A hero or a sucker, someone, anyone who would push the button while he went to find Penny.