Author's note: And Doug Stone makes four.
Helen rolled over in the Belém hotel bed and smiled up at her husband. "Morning, honey."
Bob just stared at her wonderingly. He was still finding it hard to believe that the previous evening hadn't been a dream: that he and Lucius had actually flown to Brazil, hacked their way through two or three miles of Brazilian rain forest, and then, just when they were both starting to believe that they would die of malaria before they picked up Helen's trail, had turned a corner and spied her lying beneath a rubber tree, gaunt, bedraggled, and sunburned from her sojourn in the jungle, but still more beautiful than her Trojan namesake had ever dreamed of being.
And it was all thanks to Syndrome II. That was the surreal part. If it hadn't been for the president-for-life of the International Criminals' Union, Helen might very well have perished from exposure before anyone had managed to locate her.
"It puts the ICU in a different light," Bob murmured to himself.
Helen frowned. "What does?"
Bob turned to her, and smiled. "Just the way I saw you last night."