Deanna Calavicci pressed her lips together as she performed a front t-stop, her arms stretched out to her sides, palms up and chin raised, as she fought to slow her momentum while maintaining a certain amount of grace and balance. The grating bite of the figure skate blade rattled up through her straight, extended right leg, and she winced as she let the toe of her left boot rest against the outside of the right boot. She stood there for a few moments longer, to reassure herself that she had, indeed, completed the movement, then stumbled out of the position and reached for the plastic edge of the boards that surrounded the ice rink.

Her black-gloved hand fell short of its goal, and she dropped to her knees in exhaustion. Several sharp points of pain shot through her body as she hit the ice—but she judged it to be a bearable amount of pain—and she tried (for perhaps the fifth time that day) to tell herself that she should be grateful. Results had been achieved. Many hours of intense rehab went into achieving that one simple word. Bearable. It didn't feel like such an achievement when the nerve endings in her body screamed out in protest, however.

"Damn it," Deanna panted. She pressed her covered palms flat against the cold white surface and let her head hang down, her jaw clenched in irritation as she searched for the energy to pull herself back together.

"Deanna!" The sharp cry of concern that echoed across the silent rink made her close her eyes in irritation.

"I'm fine," she said in a sullen voice, without looking up. A steady patter of footsteps slowed as they neared the open gate of the rink, then stopped. "I'm fine, Dad," she repeated. "Just give me a minute."

She opened her eyes again as Admiral Albert Calavicci extended a hand to her. With some reluctance, she reached out for it and let him tug her gently onto the smooth rubber floor that surrounded the makeshift rink.

"Honey…" he began in a halting tone.

Al's intended words of gentle admonishment trailed off as he helped Deanna regain her feet—with some difficulty. His first stroke, eight months ago, had left him with minor but permanent weakness on his left side. The second one he'd suffered a few weeks earlier (although it had been treated quickly to reverse its effects) did little to help his long-term recovery. He braced his thin legs and helped her up with a grunt of effort, then accompanied her over to a nearby bench where the both sat down on the cool wood boards. For several minutes, the two Calaviccis stared out at the harsh scratches that Deanna's figure skates had made across the dull surface of the ice. Al waited until Deanna's sharp, rapid breaths had slowed to a more controlled rate before he spoke again.

"I don't know what to say," he confessed. He reached down and caressed his left leg with his hand, then gave her a pained expression. "You're pushing too hard. You can't force your body to recover any faster than it wants to."

Deanna gave a slight jerk to her head. "I have to push it," she replied as her gaze followed the movement of his hand on his half-numb thigh. "I have to get back into the Imaging Chamber. You can't keep doing double duty with Sam and Sammi Jo like this, day after day. You need some time off." She gestured in front of her. "Rehab was hard, and getting back on my feet was no treat. Being the ice after so long was no picnic, either, but I did it. I just proved that I could do it. Now I can get back to work—"

"No," he retorted in a stern voice. "Not until the doctors have cleared you, and according to their last report, you're not ready to resume your duties yet." Al's voice took on the tone of Interim Project Leader, with a touch of his Admiral's background in it, as he spoke. "We have a very demanding, stressful position here. I ought to know. And until the doctors say it's okay…"

"Doctors." She emphasized the "s" and gave him a sideways glance, not willing to or wanting to challenge his authority, but subtly indicating that she knew what he meant by "doctors." Her primary care doctor in Albuquerque had done all he could, and he had no more input on her condition; orthopedics had signed off, she had no more need of regular medications, and the rehab specialists had expressed astonishment and admiration at how quickly she'd managed to get her body back into shape. But her psychologist had other reservations.

Deanna shut down any further thoughts on the matter and pulled her gloves off, then fumbled with the laces on her skates until they loosened enough to allow her to remove the boots. She dropped the skates onto the floor, reached beside the bench, and tugged on a pair of well-worn gym shoes.

Al's restless hand curled itself into a still, solid fist. "Do me a favor," he said in a soft voice. "Today's Thursday. Take the weekend off. Don't have anything to do with this place for the next three days. Just go away from here for a little while. You used to love to travel."

Deanna looked away, sat back, and let her gaze wander over the large, windowless room—the ceiling lights tucked up among the metal roof beams, the plain white walls, and the small ice rink her father had given permission for her to construct as a recreational distraction from the stresses of their shared roles as holographic assistants. It had cost her about $80,000, but she didn't mind the financial sacrifice, because it offered a nice break from the duties assigned to her… or, rather, impressed upon her, with the integration of her cells into the facility's super-computer, Ziggy.

The rink occupied what had been an unused storage room three floors below the surface of the New Mexico desert, one of many empty spaces created after the government came in to clear out any items that they deemed unnecessary for the facility's operation. The budget cuts went right to the bone, leaving Project Quantum Leap with a skeleton crew and support staff, but the Project had to be kept open until Doctor Samuel Beckett returned. Now an additional wrinkle existed because Doctor Sammi Jo Fuller, too, had experimented without authorization and "Leaped" through time. Due to a reconfiguration, Sam had gone fully into his Leaps, but Sammi Jo—whose Leap worked off the original Project Quantum Leap plans—did what Sam had once done: she left behind what the Project termed a "visitor" in her place, one that looked like her on the outside, but turned out to be a total stranger from another time and place.

As a result, both Al and Deanna Calavicci—forever linked to Ziggy's circuitry by the cells that had been taken from the backs of their hands, both carrying a slight scar on the skin just behind their thumbs to mark their sacrifices—had become Project Observers for each lost scientist. Deanna, however, had the tougher arrangement, tending not only to an uncooperative and unappreciative Sammi Jo (the two women had a long-standing dislike of one another) but also to Sammi Jo's displaced visitor.

But if Al's responsibilities seemed to have lightened with Sam's rewiring efforts, which erased the need for Sam to exchange places with someone in time and to deal with an incoming stranger on each Leap, they'd increased in another direction. Sam no longer had someone else's persona to protect him, which meant that with each of his new Leaps, he went as-is, with whatever clothing, identification and money he had on him, which only increased the struggles that he found himself in. Sam had no more of an "in" on a given situation.

And after Deanna's accident, Al then took on doing double duty in order take care of both Sam and Sammi Jo… less than a month after his second stroke. Al's own doctor urged him to quit or find a replacement, but that simply could not happen. So, as soon as she could stand up from the hospital bed, Deanna began to force herself back to physical health. Unfortunately, the trauma had played havoc with her mind, and the PTSD refused to heal as well or as quickly as her broken bones.

"Go somewhere," Al urged her. "See some old friends, visit a new place. Something."

Deanna stood up with some effort, braced one arm against the wall, and gave her head a slow shake. "If anyone needs a break, it's you."

He released his characteristic rough chuckle. "Yea, that's never gonna happen. You and me are the only ones who are hard-wired to do this job. Which means that sooner, rather than later, Tina and Gushie and the other techs better damned well figure out how to get Sam and Sammi Jo home."

"Yea." Deanna looked away again, the word little more than a puff of air.