That night was an eternity. Donna's frozen TV dinners seemed to be the last thing Sam and Tina wanted. They had no taste, and the time it took to eat them seemed more like enough time to consume a seven-course meal. Tina went to bed early and cried herself to sleep; and Sam stayed up half the night studying his old medical and psychology books while drinking several cups of hot cocoa. Patches of neon-yellow marked sections that the physicist/ doctor thought would be most helpful once his ailing friend returned home. By 3:15, Sam could no longer concentrate on his work. The void of sleep was trying feverishly to overtake him. Leaving his materials scattered all over the kitchen table, Sam turned out the lights and crept upstairs and into bed. After pulling the covers up to his chin, he drifted into a quiet, calming world of sleep.

This seemingly brief void was shattered by the pulsing tones of Sam's alarm clock. He stretched and tumbled out of bed. He then woke Tina; and after they showered and consumed a make-shift breakfast, they dressed and jumped into his car.

The drive to the hospital dragged more slowly than it did the day before. Every time Sam's car hit a bump or came to a stop, Tina and Sam could hear his suitcase bouncing around in the back seat. Neither person said a single word during that long, agonizing fifteen minute drive.

As they slowly strode down the hospital's corridor, Sam felt anger gnaw at him, anger for the doctor who was the only person who seemed to stand in the way of Al's release and possibly his recovery. The pair was met by Doctor Streebing outside his office.

"Morning, Doctor Beckett," Doctor Streebing greeted in a monotone.

"Doctor Streebing," Sam returned the greeting frostily. He swallowed the seething anger that flared in his throat before continuing. "Is Al ready to go home yet?"

"I was just on my way to see him." The lab coat clad physician abruptly turned his back to Sam and Tina, and started toward Al's room; the two of them close behind.

When they entered the room, they were greeted by an empty bed. The emptiness and silence were shattered by the whirling, bubbling sound of a toilet flushing; and Al emerged from the bathroom hobbling on his good leg. When he turned to face his visitors, Al found three pairs of eyes directly focused on him.

"Al, how ya doing this morning?" Sam asked, concern reflected in his eyes as well as his voice.

A heavy feeling made its way from Al's heart to the top of his head and evaporated. "I'm okay, but . . . ." Al's head grew heavy again, and his dark eyes met his bare feet, "I still -- I don't think I'm remembering anything. Nothing's coming back to me."

"Don't worry, Honey, you'll start to feel better once we get you home," Tina assured her husband as she approached him and placed her soft hands on his shoulders. "Your memory will come back before you know it. It won't be long before everything is back to normal, and it'll be as if the accident never happened."

She tried to sound confident and sure, but traces of doubt ran across her face and colored her eyes; and these traces Al could see easily.

"I'm sorry, Nurse Calavicci," Dr . Streebing intervened, "but I really don't think I should send him home. A man in his condition must be kept under observation."

"Doctor Streebing," Sam snapped, "Yesterday, you and I agreed that if Al was all right and if I assumed full responsibility, I could take him home."

"I seriously doubt whether I should release him and turn his care over to a man who is too emotionally attached!" Crisp, sharp tones chilled Doctor Streebing's voice.

Doctor," Sam's words cut through the air and penetrated Streebing's ears. "We made a deal; Al looks fine to me. I mean," he gestured to Al, "look at him. He's standing; he can walk; and he certainly can function in society. Al is well enough to go, and I expect you to honor our agreement."

"Doctor Beckett, I--"

Before he could restrain himself, Sam charged toward the doctor who was responsible for the sudden flare of anger. He grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him against the wall. "I don't want to hear any more!" he roared, "You hear me Streebing!"

"Sam, stop it!" Tina screamed grabbing Sam by the arms and trying to tear the physicist away. "Don't you dare hit him!" She pulled with all her strength. The backward thrust forced Sam to release Streebing's lapels, and he and Tina tumbled to the floor. As they struggled to their feet, Tina used every drop of energy to drag the angry scientist out of the room. "We'll be back. I think Sam needs to calm down and have a cup of coffee," she said before disappearing through the doorway.

"I think he's had too much caffeine," Al commented before he realized no one was paying any attention to him.

In the personnel lounge, Tina found she had to force the coffee down Sam's throat. "I can't believe you did that, Sam," she began. "Do you want to make everything worse?"

"Ya know, I don't think he's ever gonna release Al. He -- I think he just said that he would so I'd shut up and go away," Sam burst out, shoving the half-full cup of coffee away, almost knocking it from Tina's hand. He told me I could take Al home today, but now he wants to keep him here!"

"Don'tchoo realize getting angry and hitting will only make it harder to get Al out? If you keep yelling and fighting with Doctor Streebing, you could be making sure Al stays in here for a very long time; and Streebing might not let you or me come near him. If you really want to help Al, you'll have to stay calm and try to work it out without getting angry or losing your head."

"We wouldn't have this problem if I was Al's doc--" Immediately, the wheels began to turn. Gusts of inspiration and relief swept over Sam like a cool breeze on a hot summer day. "Wait a second . . . wait a second. I can't believe I didn't think of this in the first place." He started to pace, summing up his thoughts and voicing them out loud. "When Al was brought to the hospital, he was unconscious. He couldn't sit up on that gurney and tell them who his doctor was. So, the doctor on hand, Doctor Streebing, signed him in and made sure his injuries were treated." He ceased his repetitive motion and turned to face Tina. "Streebing may have the authority to release Al, but so does Al's personal physician!"

"Sam, it'll never work. You can't pass yourself off as Al's doctor. Doctor Streebing and the other nurses know you as Al's friend and not his doctor."

"Yeah, but nobody recognizes Verbina Beeks. She can pass herself off as Al's personal doctor, check him over, and order his release."

"I don't know if this'll work, Sam."

"It has to work. Verbina is Al's only hope," he countered solemnly.

Sam immediately dashed for the nearest phone and contacted Doctor Beeks, the Project psychiatrist, filling her in on everything that had been going on.

"Al needs to get out of here if he is to resume a normal life and overcome this memory loss. I know I can help him get most if not all of it back . . . . No, he doesn't have brain damage, just a nasty blow to the head . . . . Physically, he seems to be fine. His finger and ankle are nothing to worry about. I'm only concerned with getting him home, so Tina and I can do something about his memory. Al needs his personal doctor to order his release so he can go home and get on with his life . . . . All right . . . . I'll see you in a half hour . . . Okay . . . . Goodbye."

Doctor Beeks didn't arrive soon enough for Sam and Tina, who sat waiting in Al's room. Sam's eyes wandered back and forth, from Al to the clock on the wall, and then back to Al. Tina sat on the edge of the bed massaging Al's tense shoulders.

"Where is she?" Sam's voice reflected restlessness.

"Sam, she'll be here," Tina sighed.

Al broke into the conversation, "Who? Who are you talking about?"

"Your personal physician's coming. She'll hopefully get you out of here," Sam answered.

"She?" Al's eyes popped open and a look of surprise colored his features. "My doctor . . . uh . . . Doctor Donnalley . . . is a man."

"You changed doctors back in '93. Now you see Doctor Verbina Beeks," Sam improvised. "I'll go see if she's here yet." Sam gave Al and Tina one last look before he exited.

No sooner did he enter the hallway, when the elevator doors opened to reveal a tall, attractive woman with a chocolate-colored complexion and an air of intelligence.

"Verbina, thank God you're here," Sam let out a sigh of relief. "Al's room is this way." He led the way, only to be summarily halted by Doctor Streebing just before re-entering the admiral's temporary domain.

"Excuse me," Streebing said coldly, "what have we here?"

"Doctor, my name is Verbina Beeks, and I'm Admiral Calavicci's personal physician." Doctor Beeks flashed her AMA membership card before him. "I have come to see my patient."

"If you are his doctor, why did it take you two days to come and see the admiral?"

"I was called out of town, but Doctor Beckett was smart enough to leave a message with my service. I got here as soon as I could." Her voice was forceful, and her words, full of conviction. "Now, I can stand here and let you interrogate me, or you can let me go in there and have a look at the admiral. Which is it going to be, Doctor?"

Doctor Streebing stalked off in a huff, his face red and his eyes bulging. Sam and Doctor Beeks exchanged glances before entering Al's room.

"Hello, Al," Doctor Beeks' voice was now soft and friendly, "I know you don't remember me. I'm Verbina Beeks, your doctor."

"Oh?" A Cheshire cat grin crossed the patient's face. "Now I see why I changed doctors."

"Al," Sam scolded, "cut it out. She's here to help you, not to listen to your cheesy remarks!"

"I'm sorry," he apologized, looking at the two doctors with wide eyes. He was like a child who used sad puppy-dog eyes in hopes of avoiding parental discipline. "Sam said you could get me out of here?"

Doctor Beeks nodded. "How are you feeling today?"

"How am I feeling!" he erupted, "What the hell kind of stupid question is that! I can't remember the last twenty-four years of my life; I woke up and found out I'm an old man; and nobody gives a damn! How would you feel if it happened to you!"

"Al, Honey, calm down," Tina gasped.

Ashamed, he hung his head. "I . . . I . . . God, why can't this all be just a bad dream? I would wake up and . . . and everything would make sense again."

"But it's not a dream, Al," Sam's words were kind, yet firm. "It's real and we have to accept it. This isn't some kind of brainless sitcom where the amnesia victim just wakes up one day and remembers everything again, or cracks his head on the kitchen cabinets and it's as if he never lost his memory. All we can do for you now is try to bring those missing years back. You can get over this, but only if you really want to. It's all up to you."

"I would kill to get it back," Al made a tremendous effort to hold back his tears. "God, how I want it back. I feel like there's a big hole in my life . . . a blank space.

"That's why we're all here, Al, to help you get out of the hospital, resume a normal life, and recover," Doctor Beeks said as she sat on the chair next to the bed and rested a cold, yet gentle hand on his arm. "Now let me take a look at you."

"They already ran their stupid tests on me, and I don't have brain damage."

"Just a quick look," she assured him. After getting a nod from Al, she retrieved a pen light from her bag and studied his dark, brown eyes. "Any headaches?"

"When I first woke up two days ago, but not now."

"Do you hurt anywhere?"

"A little when I touch the lump . . . It's kinda like when you touch a bruise."

"Do you feel dizzy at all?"

"I'm missing twenty-four years! I don't have headaches or dizziness da--" Realizing he shouldn't yell at the doctor, Al stopped himself; after all, she was his only ticket home. ". . . I'm sorry . . . I . . . ."

"It's all right, Al, I know this must be very frustrating for you." Doctor Beeks studied his chart, which was at the foot of the bed. "You know, I really don't see any reason to keep you in the hospital. If Doctor Streebing had half a brain, he'd know that by looking at you and by studying this chart. You don't seem to have any symptoms, and there's no reason you can't go home today."

"It would be a mistake, Doctor Beeks," Dr Streebing suddenly appeared in the doorway. "That man is not ready for discharge."

"I don't agree," Dr Beeks' face was like stone. "Extra time in the hospital would only add to his bill. You'd only be wasting your time and Al's. If releasing him would be a mistake; it will be my mistake, my problem. Tina, get me the papers necessary for Al's dismissal," she ordered.

With a nod, she acknowledged the doctor's command and quickly exited.

"He stays here!"

"You heard Doctor Beeks," Sam snarled at the obstinate physician. "Al's going home."

"He's still not fully recovered." Streebing stepped in and became a human barrier separating Al and Sam.

This barrier was nothing Sam couldn't handle. Boiling anger heated his body and reddened his face. "Doctor Streebing, I'm usually a patient man, but you're pushing me beyond my limit. Now get out of my way," he growled. Doctor Streebing shook his head, unwilling to step aside. As if controlled by a magnetic force Sam's eyes bulged and his right hand curled into the fist that barreled into the physician's jaw.

The doctor tumbled to the floor, too stunned to react. When he rose to his feet again, he directed a cold stare Sam's way and snorted, "I wouldn't count on the admiral's regaining his memory if I were you . . . not at his age." He stomped out, cursing, as Tina returned with the blank release forms.

"Al, why don'tcha get dressed while we fill out all this stuff," Sam suggested as he retrieved a bright red shirt, silver jacket, navy blue pants, and high top sneakers from the closet.

"These are mine?" Al asked as he eyed the curious, yet strangely attractive garments. After seeing Sam's nod, he took the outfit into the bathroom and quickly shed his hospital gown. The white, plastic wrist band was not so easily discarded. "Damn, I'll have to cut it off later," he muttered to himself. The clumsy splint on his left ring finger turned the simple task of getting dressed into a chore. After he succeeded in this minor challenge, Al re-emerged to see Sam and Doctor Beeks filling out the release papers, and Tina walking in with a wheelchair.

"Okay, Al, " Sam said to the older man, "all you have to do now is skim over these and sign them; then your free to go."

Al carefully studied the papers. "Great, I'm history!" he announced as he scribbled his signature on the dotted line.

"Al," Doctor Beeks reminded, holding up one hand, "you're being released into my care, and I'm turning that responsibility over to Sam. Not only is he a medical doctor; he knows you inside and out, and he may be your best chance at recovering your memory."

Al nodded in agreement and was about to walk out when his friend's firm hand clamped his shoulder. "Al, you have to . . . " Sam gestured to the wheelchair. "It's the rules."

"Do I have to sit in that stupid thing?" Al complained. "I may not be able to remember the last twenty-four years, but I sure as hell can walk."

"I don't want you to overdo it on that ankle . . . " Then Sam decided to change his approach. "All right, look. You don't have to use it; you can put'cher gown back on, climb into bed, and stay here with people like Doctor Streebing who don't care about you or whether or not you'll ever remember anything. The choice is yours."

"I'll sit in the stupid thing," Al sighed.

"Tina, why don'tcha go take care of the release forms. I'll meetcha in the parking lot," Sam instructed as he helped Al into the wheelchair and rolled him into the corridor.

Tina gathered all the pages and was about to leave when she remembered her husband's wedding ring was still sitting on the night stand. She snatched the piece of jewelry and tucked it into her pocket before exiting.

"Thank you, Verbina," An expression of sincere gratitude colored Sam's face. "I owe you one."

"Me too," Al added.

"I'm glad to help." Doctor Beeks gently squeezed the admiral's hand. ""Now you take care of yourself and trust Sam to know what he's doing. He'll get you through this even if it kills him."

"Thanks." Al's half smile was the last thing Verbina Beeks saw before Sam turned the wheelchair toward the elevator. When the doors slid open, the three of them boarded the waiting car and descended to the ground floor.

Incredible pangs of disorientation and tension were knives that seemed to stab Al from every direction as he saw his unfamiliar surroundings flash by. Nothing made sense to him; in fact, he became more unsettled with every foreign building, street, sign, or billboard. Without any memory of the past twenty-four years, he felt as though he was suddenly thrust into another dimension; here he was in a strange world, a different time--a new century for that matter. These feelings strengthened as Sam pulled the car into the driveway in front of the Calaviccis' new home.

"Well, here we are," the younger man announced, bringing the car to a stop.

"Where are we?" Al's inquiry was tinted with a quivering tone.

"We're home now, Honey," Tina's eyes met those of her husband.

"You're home, Al."

After Sam deactivated his car's engine, he and Tina climbed out of the vehicle. While Sam was helping his injured friend out of the back seat, Tina retrieved her temporary 'guest's' suitcase.

"Are you all right? Can you walk on it?" Sam asked, gesturing to Al's bad ankle.

Yeah, "Al droned.

"Are you sh--"

"I'm fine!" Al bellowed as he lunged forward freeing himself from the strong arm that served as a means of physical support. "I can walk into my own house!" He abruptly turned and clumsily limped up to the front door. Once Tina unlocked the door, they all filed inside.

"Sam, would you like me to take this up for you?" Tina asked, holding up Sam's single piece of luggage. "I also have to make your bed."

"I can do that later, Tina," Sam politely countered.

"No, you're a guest, and guests shouldn't have to make their own beds," Tina insisted. "You stay here with Al; I won't be long."

Before Sam could finish the argument, Tina disappeared with his bag. He stood, staring down at the brown carpeted staircase for a second before wandering into the kitchen. He found Al there, rummaging through the drawers in search of something.

"Where are they!" Al whined out-loud.

"What'cha looking for?" Sam inquired.

"Scissors," he answered shortly as he fumbled through a messy drawer full of miscellaneous objects. "Ah, found 'em." He slammed the drawer back into place and tried to grasp the right-handed instrument in his awkward, splint-bound left hand. It was obvious to Sam what Al's objective was.

"Do you want some help?" he offered.

"I can do it," Al responded. Just as he opened the blades and held them to his hospital bracelet, the sheers fell to the floor. "Damn!" he grunted.

"Al, let me cut it for you. You can't hold those things, not with that finger."

"I have a memory problem; I'm not an invalid!" Al exploded, angry and insulted by the unwanted special treatment Sam seemed to volunteer. "It's bad enough I don't have a whole memory; but you don't have to treat me like I'm not a whole man! You can just stop walking on your tippy-toes around me; and, for God's sake, don't get all over-protective and treat me like I'm made of glass. I came home in a car . . . not in a crate padded with Styrofoam peanuts! I'm perfectly capable of cutting some cheepy little piece of plastic."

Al's second attempt to break the bracelet resulted in a half- inch flesh wound; and when Sam heard his friend mutter several four-letter words under his breath, he repeated his offer to help. Al slammed the scissors onto the counter; and just as Sam was about to snip the white band, a terrified scream sent their hearts into their throats.

"Tina!" Al jerked his wrist free from Sam's grip and tried to run up the staircase. His wounded ankle proved quite painful, hindering his pace considerably. Refusing to let a sore ankle keep him from the frightened woman, he hobbled to the top of the stairs to find linens strewn all over the hall floor and Tina sobbing hysterically. Sam, who had beaten him to her side, was trying to calm her down.

"What's the matter, Tina?" He stood with his hands on her shoulders and his eyes aimed directly into hers. "What is it?"

"It's . . ." Once she caught sight of her husband standing at the top of the steps, she shook her head and shrugged, "it's nothing."

Sam realized he would get no answers from Tina as long as Al was standing there. Looking at the newly released patient, he could tell the man was in more agony than he was letting on -- his red face, pained expression, and uneven stance were clear give-aways.

"Al," Sam directed a deadly serious face his friend's way, "you shouldn't be standing; that ankle can only take so much. C'mon, let me help you downstairs. You've gotta rest that ankle before you make it worse."

"There you go again . . . on tippy-toes again! Anyway, Tina's my wife; I may not remember her, but I'm still supposed to be here for her."

"As a doctor responsible for your care, I'm ordering you to stay off that ankle!" Sam barked. Before Al could protest, he wrapped one arm around his waist and escorted the injured admiral downstairs. He helped him onto the couch in the den and took a look at the limb. He touched it gingerly, causing Al to wince. "There, ya see," his voice was tinged with an 'I told you so' tone, "You're gonna have to keep it elevated. I'll getcha something to take care of that swelling." Sam disappeared into the kitchen and soon returned with a home-made ice pack. He then eased his friend into a prone position, propped Al's bad leg up on a cushion, and placed the ice bag on it. "Just lie still and keep that on for about . . . oh, fifteen or twenty minutes."

"But what about Tina?"

"It's okay. I'll get her to come down once she pulls herself together. You've gotta remember she's under a lot of stress right now."

Al shrugged weakly, and Sam raced upstairs again. Sitting on the floor amidst the scattered pillows, sheets, and blankets, Tina was still trying to collect herself.

"Tina?" Sam reached out a helping hand and pulled her to her feet. "Do you wanna talk? If you're worried about Al hearing you, don't be; he's downstairs."

"I can't go in there, Sam," Tina unloaded. "I can't. That's where I found him . . ." She couldn't hold back the tears. "I saw him just lying there. He wasn't moving, and I got so scared. It seems every time I see a doorway I expect to see Al on the floor. I keep thinking . . . if I left . . . if I just said 'Oh well, he dropped something' . . . ." Desperate for someone to hold her, Tina fell into Sam's arms and clung tightly to him. After a few sobs, she recovered her speech. "Oh, God, Sam, what if I left and didn't find him? How long would he have been lying there, unconscious? What would have happened if he woke up and I wasn't there? He wouldn't remember the house, and he might have gotten up and started to explore. He wouldn't know where he was and he'd get scared. Sam, Al . . . coulda panicked, fallen down the stairs . . . and made himself worse. "

Tina, stop it!" Sam snapped, drawing back and holding her at arms-length, "Stop torturing yourself like this. You found Al; he didn't wake up alone in the house; and he is gonna be all right! We've got a lot to do without borrowing trouble. Our top priority is to help him get his memory and his life back on track. We sure as hell don't need to keep thinking about what could've gone wrong!" Hot tears stung Sam's eyes before flowing down his cheeks. "Al needs us now. He needs us to be strong and supportive and to believe in him . . . to believe that he can get better. Al's depending on us, Tina."

"I know. It's just -- I saw the room again and the step ladder's still there. It keeps reminding me . . . ."

"Then let me take care of the step ladder and make the bed. You know, Al's down there, and he's worried about you. Why don'tcha go to him; he's in the den resting his ankle." After a weak smile, Sam squeezed Tina's arms gently. As he began to gather the fallen bedding, he continued softly, "Hey, Al needs a little help getting his hospital bracelet off. It's okay; I'll take care of everything up here."

13