JACK

Jack cursed loudly. The phone was ringing again. Didn't these people ever sleep? He thought as he rolled over in bed to glance at the digital clock: 5:21. He groaned. Nearly a year after their rescue and people were still calling for an interview with the "hero" of the island. That was something Jack blamed Hurley for, although he couldn't have known the impact it would have had that day they'd disembarked from that tramp steamer and Hurley had grabbed Jack and told all the reporters and everyone else gathered around the dock that Jack was the hero, the man who had saved all of their lives. Then, Jack had been touched. Now, however, he was irritated. He didn't really blame Hurley; it was the reporters that got on his nerves. They'd called him so often he'd had to move and change numbers. Apparently, that didn't stop them. His mother was getting calls so often she had her number changed and privatized. And yet the phone never stopped ringing.

Jack wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, but he was getting sick of these calls. He picked up the receiver and yelled, "Look, I don't know who you are or how you got my number, but all of you reporters and paparazzi need to quit calling me. I'm sure you've got something more important to cover, so tell all your buddies to take me off whatever list you're all passing around and LEAVE ME ALONE."

He moved to hang up the phone, until he heard a woman's voice, barely a whisper, saying: "Jack?"

It wasn't a voice he recognized at once, but it wasn't the voice of a reporter, he knew that much. He frowned. Was this one of his old patients? But who would call at five in the morning and why? "Hello? Who's—who's this?"

The other person uttered a strained laugh. "Don't you recognize my voice? Then again, it's been a year and a half; maybe you've forgotten. Do I sound that different?"

"I—don't understand." He thought of Claire, wondering if she'd forgotten the time difference. But he'd only just talked to Claire two weeks earlier, asking how she and Charlie and Aaron were doing, when the new baby was due…Shannon? No, Shannon wouldn't call Jack. They hadn't been in contact since Charlie and Claire's wedding almost a year ago. It couldn't be Rose either; her voice was deeper than this fragile whisper. Kate—that was impossible. Kate would still be in jail…

"It's me," The voice said, coughing slightly. "Jack…it's me. It's Kate."

There was a long pause. Then, "What—Kate, I thought you were—you know…"

"I broke parole," she said simply. "I just need a place to stay, and I looked up your number…Jack, listen. I—I did it again."

"Kate…"

"I couldn't help it. I—could you come pick me up? Jack, I'm scared of what they'll do if they find out, but I had to see you, I had to." She made a noise that sounded like a whimper. Jack looked at his clock, which now read 5:27. He sighed.

"Kate, it's the middle of the night. This couldn't wait three more hours?"

"Please?" Her voice sounded anxious, weak and pleading. "Please, Jack."

"Alright. Where are you?"

"I'm down by—" She paused, overcome by a fit of coughing. He could tell from the muffled sound that she was trying to lessen the severity of whatever it was she had. He might have laughed, had the situation not been so serious. His eyebrows knitted together, concerned. "Kate—what's wrong?"

He heard her taking a deep breath. "Nothing. I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm at the bus station. Can you—" More coughing. Jack was alert now, and hunting around his room for a pair of jeans to throw on over his boxers. "Kate, listen, stay where you are, I'll be right there."

"Thank you," was all she said. "I don't know how to thank you enough."

"Just stay there."