I couldn't find anything satisfactory online that would give me good phonetic Arabic phrases. I did manage to find what I hope is a fairly decent Swahili phrase that means what I think it should mean and not something horrible or dreadfully inaccurate (the Swahili website I did find went into such grammatical detail that I got a headache, and so I dug around a bit until I found the same phrase translated on a messageboard and just hope it means what I think). So anyway – spoken sentences and words that are supposed to be in Arabic are in italics, underlined: italics.

I've always wanted to have a character reference ZZ Top's 'I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide'. I mean...a beautician at the wheel? Really? Dwight Yoakam just tore up on that song. Listen it to if you can.

If Seaborn's talks with her doctor seem wrong or not realistic...well...I didn't look up 'rape counseling' online or talk to victims or experts. I just went with my instincts and will leave it at that. It sure wasn't easy to write, and I've never been through anything like it. I certainly wish nobody ever had to.

Mopping up operations were never much fun, and considering that al-Murad's remaining lieutenants were scattered all around the region, and were probably already at a flat run for parts elsewhere, they had their work cut out for them. But General Davison had been clear on the matter – find them, catch them, and bring them in.

Hannibal watched his men as they went through the miserable little house they had busted into. Murdock, holding a snub-nosed pistol, was casually kicking over some crates and muttering as he found a copy of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, which he kicked across the room. The pilot didn't usually take part in these types of runs, as he usually just manned the chopper, but he had come in with them this time, and was as calm and professional as always in these situations. But Hannibal saw the bleakness in his face – the light was gone from the younger man's eyes, and that was pretty hard to take.

It had been a week since the 'incident', as it was officially being called. Face called it a major cock-up, B.A. called it something unrepeatable even by the most hardened grunts, and Murdock never said a word. A week of various interviews had passed, starting with al-Murad refusing to talk about anything, until Murdock walked into the room. Then the little weasel had started jabbering, giving up names and maybe even inventing a few, just to get away from the pilot, who had just stood there, green eyes boring into him. The Geneva Convention probably didn't have much on the notion of the psychological effects of a hard stare, but Hannibal figured that look would scare anybody into talking.

So far, Buchanan's name had not come up. Murdock had not asked about her, or made any sign that he had gone to see her. She was leaving for Germany in another two weeks, after which she would return to the States. According to Davison, she had accepted her honorable discharge without any sort of objection and would indeed receive a good pension – Lee had called in a few favors, made a few threats, and had gotten his way on the matter. As for what she was going to do after she was officially released, no one knew.

Now, they were doing a sweep of the town, checking every remaining lead before moving on to the next site. They had caught one of al-Murad's men in the house, in bed with what they assumed was the guy's wife, and had hauled him out while he jabbered and Murdock translated as best he could. The woman was screaming bloody murder, even though no one had touched her and made no attempt to, and the ear-splitting shrieks were getting on everybody's nerves. Face told her to be quiet a couple of times, but his Arabic had never been good on his best day, and she was still screaming and giving him a headache.

Murdock, heading through the bedroom toward the front door, stopped in his tracks, moved his pistol from his right hand to his left and turned to face her. Her eyes widened with terror at the sight of him, and even Face flinched at the coldness in his eyes.

"Shut up."

Face, on his knees beside the bed, from under which he had found two rifles and some other small arms, rose to his feet and carried the weapons out, ignoring the woman as she resumed sobbing – though far more quietly now. Hannibal followed the pilot and his XO out into the blinding heat, and B.A., standing guard outside the door, looked at them, eyebrows up. Al-Murad's lieutenant was on his knees on the ground, Baracus's rifle pointed at his right ear. Murdock went around to stand in front of him.

"Ask him his name, and where his friends are," Hannibal commanded quietly.

"What is your name, little pig?"

"Abdul al Rahib."

"Where are your fellow murdering swine friends?" Murdock glanced at the sky, searching for the right words. Hannibal knew he spoke fluent Arabic…and Farsi and practically any other Middle Eastern dialect. How, where and even why he had learned those languages remained a mystery to them all. He knew Murdock also spoke all the major Latin-based tongues, along with Polish, Croatian, Serb…and a good deal of freaking Hindi, Mandarin Chinese, Japanese and could get by in Russian when called upon. He had confessed to not being very good at some of the African tongues, but could manage the important phrases. Murdock had said once that he could order lunch and get directions in any country in the world. He could, he admitted, also get blindly, hopelessly lost in any country in the world if he got a verb wrong.

Al Rahib shook his head, and Murdock gestured to B.A., who put the nose of the rifle in the man's ear. Murdock squatted down, looking the man right in the eye. "See these green eyes, asshole? The devil's eyes are green, just like mine. I'm the devil's own son. I'm bad, little man. I'm nationwide. So tell me where they are…right now…and I know you understand every word I'm sayin', you disgusting little worm."

Face and B.A. looked at each other, and finally al Rahib couldn't hold Murdock's gaze any more. He began babbling in Arabic, then in English. Hannibal scribbled down names and places, while Murdock translated in a cold, flat voice. Finally, it appeared the man was finished and was yanked to his feet by Face and B.A.

"What'd you tell him?" B.A. asked, as the man was loaded into the transport truck and taken away.

Murdock shrugged. "Devils and worms, man. Works ever' time." He walked away, throwing his rifle into the back of their truck and leaning against it, waiting for them to finish up.

Seaborn was finally sitting up in bed, letting the nurse feed her. Her right arm was broken, and three fingers on her left hand were broken, so she was essentially helpless. Her right ankle was sprained, badly, and still had fingerprint-shaped bruises around it, but she had insisted on standing on it so she could use the bathroom instead of the bedpan. She still had all her teeth, the doctor had said, but she couldn't see out of her left eye, which was still swollen shut.

She only barely remembered actually waking up the first time, a day after arriving at the hospital. It had been so hazy, with the strong sedative still making her eyes seem to cross and uncross and refuse to focus, and the nurse had been sitting there, gently holding her hand and not saying a word as Seaborn began sobbing again. She had just let her cry herself out again, which had actually felt strangely better, and she had gone back into a deep, black sleep, with no dreams, thank God. The nurse hadn't asked her any pressing questions – just how could she make her feel more comfortable, did she have anyone she wanted them to call? A shake of the head, a memory of a red Hawaiian shirt, gunshots, and the tears started again.

Dr Gallagher had sat down and quietly told her what she didn't want to hear but had to know. The rape kit had indicated penetration, which had got her started sobbing again, but the damage would heal quickly, he had told her in a calm voice – one he had probably used on other rape victims. He was a quiet, soft-spoken, compassionate man with warm hands and kind eyes, and he had asked her questions calmly, and later she had been appalled and embarrassed at her own stupidity. Would she be pregnant? Could she still have children? Had he given her any diseases? No. Yes. No.

The nurse finished feeding Seaborn the warm tomato soup and sat back, smiling kindly at her. There was no over-solicitous sympathy there, no condescension - just calm and patience and quiet understanding. Her name was Kris, and so far Seaborn knew she was thirty, married with two kids and had a mortgage that was eventually going to crush them all like a boulder would crush an ant. She had jet-black hair and wide, friendly brown eyes set against a pale complexion – she was half Cherokee, half Irish, and reminded Seaborn a lot of the prints featured on Leanin' Tree cards. She had a strong Alabama accent, which was comforting to hear.

"I can't…can't believe I asked…asked those questions," Seaborn finally whispered.

"What questions?"

"About…getting pregnant or…if I ever could…"

"Normal questions," Kris shook her head. "They're asked all the time."

"Really?"

"Yes." Kris put away the bowl and examined the bruise on Seaborn's face. "It's getting better."

"It doesn't hurt so much."

"Good."

"Why did this happen?" Seaborn asked, for about the hundredth time that week. "Why?"

"I don't know, honey."

Seaborn let her head fall back on the pillow, weary from the effort it took to just sit up and eat. "That question gets asked a lot?"

"Only by humans."

Murdock trailed after Face and B.A., and made an attempt at stepping away to head toward the hangars, where he could sit in Texas and not let anybody near him. He hated having anybody near him now – hated it when anybody touched him, in fact, and had lashed out at Face a few minutes before for just clapping him on the shoulder.

Hannibal, however, wasn't going to let the captain vanish for the rest of the day. He stepped around him, into his path, and stood there, hands on his hips, waiting. Murdock straightened, drawing himself up to his full height, as if he were a rearing horse, rebelling, fighting against his restraints. The stress was showing, and Hannibal knew the breaking point was near. Something was going to have to give.

"Have you seen her?"

Murdock ducked his head then. "No…sir."

"Why not?"

"Why would she want to see me?" he answered at last.

"Because she needs to, that's why. After that, I want you to go talk to Dr Bailey."

"Hell no…"

"Hell yes, Captain!" Hannibal shouted at him. Murdock flinched, and over Hannibal's shoulder he saw Face and B.A. turn around, their eyes wide with shock. "You will obey me! I have given you a direct order! Go!"

Murdock's entire body seemed to snap, as if he had been hit by a jolt of electricity. He gave Hannibal a sharp, correct salute and stalked off, fists clenched, shoulders hunched. Hannibal closed his eyes and turned to see B.A. and Face still standing there, looking stunned. Hannibal never yelled at Murdock, not even when he was at his most manic. Face rubbed his nose, but said nothing as Hannibal shoved his way between them and went into his tent. He and B.A. followed him in and sat down. He didn't take the cigar out of his pocket, as he would any other time. Instead, he folded his hands together and placed them on his desk, staring impassively at Face and B.A., who were so miserable they couldn't even meet his eyes.

"Sometimes…sometimes I actually hate it when plans come together."

She had been moved into one of the few private rooms in the hospital, per General Davison's orders (which meant a Major recovering from surgery to remove a piece of shrapnel for his leg was moved to considerably smaller quarters), and thus Seaborn now had a view of the Euphrates and more tents than she could count, plus the airfield off in the distance, close to that huge map of the United States. The room had light blue walls hung with those cute but vaguely unsettling photos of sleeping babies dressed up like flowers and bugs, which she suspected the Major was glad to get away from anyway.

She heard the thump-thump-thump-thump of a Huey coming in overhead and she watched it as it passed by her window, wondering if she would ever fly one of those beauties again. She was being discharged, but to what? There was no home back in Tennessee – it was under water, and while the money the state had given her for the property had been pretty substantial, what was she going to do with it? Well, there was college, she supposed. In the past, she had thought a little about law enforcement as a post-Army career, but now she wasn't so sure. So here she was, about to be 'Sgt. Seaborn Buchanan, Army, Ret.', and she had that money plus a pension coming to her that was twice as good as the pay she had received while serving. Apparently, General Davison had some clout, because she was also getting some kind of commendation and a citation and for all she knew, a new car.

Like that would help.

Kris had helped her unpack her things into the bureau drawers. She had spent some time chatting with her each day, getting her to talk about Tennessee and choppers and anything that she found interesting and distracting. She had been pretty surprised to learn that Seaborn knew how to press flowers, so when her belongings were brought to her from her tent back at the base, she had extracted the little kit and showed Kris some of the stuff she had made. Her latest creation had been a framed pressing of Judas tree (Cercis siliquastrum) blossoms, and the nurse raved about how pretty it was. They sat on the bed, looking at Seaborn's little collection of her best work, Kris fascinated by the whole surprisingly simple process - all you needed was newspapers, a thick dictionary and about twenty pounds worth of books to pile on. Seaborn had applied each flower, with their common and Latin names written in delicate calligraphy, on paper-thin slices of Maplewood and had framed them against matching mattes. Besides flower-pressing, she was good at drafting and graphic design, except that lately, she hadn't had a lot of time for any of it. Now, she had tons of time, and Kris promised to get her discarded flowers to work on. She was going to give the Judas tree blossom pressing to the nurse before she left for Germany.

The nurse tapped another small, framed pressing of a group of daisies – golden marguerites (anthemis tinctoria), in particular, and smiled widely. "This is pretty. Daisies are so cheerful. They brighten up a room."

Seaborn nodded, and felt tears stinging her eyes, remembering where they had come from. She had saved them and had carried that frame with her from post to post, hanging it up before she even unpacked. "I…yes. I've always loved them. Used to make daisy chains…when I was a kid." She took the picture and looked down at it, and saw a teardrop fall on it. She wiped it away and smiled sadly. "I kinda doubt I'll ever get daisies again."

Kris's brow furrowed, and suddenly she looked up, startled. "Oh…you have a visitor." She stood up, and Seaborn's breath caught in her throat as she pulled her legs into the bed, yanking the blanket up to her chest, as if she had been caught naked. The nurse knew that was how the girl felt – stripped and raw and cold.

Murdock was standing in the doorway, awkwardly holding a bouquet of little white daisies with yellow centers. Kris glanced at Seaborn and seemed to think it over before smiling at him. "Yes?"

"I'm…uh…Captain Murdock. I'm just…uh…visiting…bringing some…some flowers…"

Seaborn was looking away, out the window, the sunlight pouring in and making her look almost translucent, and Kris sighed and looked at Murdock. She finally took the bouquet from him and gave him an encouraging smile. "I'll go find a proper vase…I'll be right back." She left, closing the door silently behind her.

"Hi," he finally managed. She still didn't turn her head. Just stared out the window, silent, as though she hadn't heard him. He cleared his throat. "Seaborn?"

Finally, she turned her head and he saw the bruise, and her arm in the sling and her taped-up fingers, and put his head down, unable to say anything. It all just turned to sawdust in his mouth, and he couldn't seem to move his feet. It's your fault, he heard the voice in his head say. You caused this. It's your fault!

"I'm going to Germany," she said, so softly he almost didn't hear her. "And then on to Walter Reed, and then…nowhere."

Kris returned with the flowers in a glass vase, and set them on the table by her bed. "Captain?" she asked him, starting to touch his arm, but seemed to recognize that this man was a definite 'no touching' type and stepped back. "They're very pretty, aren't they, Seaborn?"

"I'm so sorry," he finally managed. "I'm so…I'm just so sorry. If there was anything I could do…or say…to make this all go away, I would. I would have stopped time if I could have…I…"

"But there's nothing you can do or say, is there?" she asked him, finally settling her gray gaze on him. "Nothing will make this go away. Nothing."

Kris stepped back, away from them, but stayed in the room, sensing that whatever existed between these two was as fragile as a newly hatched bird, and would be destroyed with just one word. Please don't, Seaborn, she thought. Please don't…don't do this.

"I know. I know…" He ran a hand through his hair. "I underst-…"

"How could you understand? How?" she shouted at him, crying out with pain as she grabbed the vase of flowers and threw it at him. He dodged away in time, and the glass shattered against the door. Ruined, broken daisies were scattered on the floor, mixed with water and glass. Kris went to Seaborn and began trying to calm her, but the girl wasn't finished. "I'll never be the same! Never! Oh God…oh, God, he…the wrong ma-…please, please…no…it hurts so much…please make him stop…no…"

"You should leave now, Captain," Kris said, pulling a syringe out of her pocket. "Go." She stabbed the needle in and pushed the plunger, but Seaborn kept struggling, and began making a loud, keening sound as she kicked and sobbed.

"Seaborn, I'm sorry. I'm sorry…" He backed toward the door, stepping over the water and glass and the flowers, looking down at them and running his hand through his hair. "I don't have any idea what…I could never imagine…Jesus…please, Seaborn, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He stopped, rubbing the heel of his palm against his forehead, shielding his eyes. "I'm so sorry. I won't visit again, I promise. I don't blame you at all for not wantin' to see me. If I had a choice, I'd avoid me too. I'm so sorry. I'll go. Nakupenda. Ninapenda wewe." He drew in his beath. "I promise."

"Captain, go," Kris said firmly, looking back at him as she continued to struggle with Seaborn, who was finally weakening, her cries fading as her thrashing and sobbing abated and the sedative took effect. He pulled the door open and fled. Kris touched Seaborn's unbruised cheek. "It's all right. It's gonna be all right."

"Never be…never be all…right…never…never 'gain…nev…oh…James…don't lea…I'm so sor…"

Dr Bailey was a slight man with a receding hairline and a direct manner, and he told Captain Murdock to sit down as he took a seat behind his own desk. He read through the pilot's case history in silence, his expression not changing at all even when he got to certain very interesting parts, and finally put the folder down. He watched the man for several moments, noting the bleakness in his eyes and the way he was twisting his red cap in his hands.

"What did you want to talk about, Captain?" he finally asked.

Finally, a response: a shrug. But Captain Murdock didn't say anything. Just stared at the floor.

"You have a rather extensive history of mental disturbance, if not outright illness, as well as a remarkable – stellar, actually - service record. Highly decorated, innumerable commendations and citations for courage beyond the call of duty, medals too numerous to count, wounded…four times. Capture during the Gulf War, and again about four years ago…is there anything about this that you'd like to discuss?"

"No. I've talked those subjects out. Chased 'em 'round the barnyard with an axe. It ain't layin' no more eggs for Farmer Freud…or Jung either."

"So…what shall we discuss?"

"She…" Captain Murdock licked his lips and twisted the cap even harder. "She was…was…"

"She?" Bailey leaned forward, waiting patiently. The report was in his files, regarding the incident with al-Murad. He studied the lanky, rather ragged-looking pilot and decided he never wanted to make him really angry. He didn't look dangerous, really, but there was something very powerful about the pilot. Not aggressive, but single-minded and ruthless when necessary. A person could be deceived into thinking he was harmless and just 'crazy', but only if they didn't look closer.

"She was raped," he said at last.

"I take it 'she' is someone very important to you, Captain?" Bailey asked him mildly.

Murdock looked away. "Extremely."

Bailey watched the clock above his door, the LED lights blinking each second, and waited. During his perusal of Captain Murdock's file, he had noted that the pilot was described as 'highly intelligent, clever, observant and perceptive. Never turn your back on him - do so at your own risk' – and that had been written by his first CO, when he had just come out of training, almost twenty years ago.

Bailey took the seconds to study the pilot: even as he sat still, he seemed to be in perpetual motion, a man unable to really be completely at rest. There were bags under his eyes, indicating lack of sleep. His eyes were bloodshot, though Bailey doubted that was from excessive alcohol intake. He was thinner than he ought to be – probably around one-sixty at best, but clearly very, very strong, albeit not resulting from physical exercise but pure energy and willpower. He hadn't shaved in a while, so his jaw was covered with stubble, and a mustache was forming. His hair was unkempt and wild. It didn't take a psychologist to see that Captain Murdock was a deeply disturbed, depressed and extremely stressed man. He needed help, and Bailey wondered just exactly what he could do for him.

"And what is your first wish for her, Captain?"

"For her to be happy. Which naturally means…means I'm away from her."

"You honestly believe she would be happier and healthier away from you?"

"Most people are."

Bailey wrote 'self-esteem issues', and noted Murdock's eyebrow lifting. Observant, he wrote under that, underlining the word twice. Reads upside down, too.

"Perhaps we should discuss that concept first. Will that be all right?"

Murdock flinched, realizing he'd been caught. He sat back in the chair, but didn't cross his arms. That appeared to please Bailey, who smiled a little and nodded.

"Okay."

Face had had yet another argument with Charissa, and was at the officers' club, sitting by himself and drinking a beer. He was on the verge of just giving up on that one, frankly, and was scanning the area, taking in the scenery. He saw a few good-looking women here and there, including a cute little lieutenant, but…eh…not now. He wasn't in the mood, really. He was about to get up and go on back to his tent and try to find something to read that would put him to sleep when he saw Murdock walk in, pausing inside the door to adjust his vision to the hazy darkness inside the tent.

Things had been strained between him and the pilot, too. Even more so. For one thing, Murdock didn't seem to really like Charissa, though he was unfailingly polite to her. She seemed unable to get a good footing with him in return, sensing his distaste for her through his good manners, and so they didn't seem to really hit it off well. One thing Face wanted was for his best friend to get along with the women he dated. Particularly Charissa, for reasons Face wasn't really comfortable with trying to figure out.

Peck frowned, realizing that he and Murdock hadn't carried on a real conversation about anything aside from 'Got your weapon loaded?' in the past week. He observed the pilot going over to the bar and ordering a drink – Water? Seriously? – and sitting down at a table by himself. Slowly, cautiously, Face got up and trailed over to him, and nudged him with the cold beer bottle. Murdock looked up at him, and he was relieved to see that he didn't look quite so tired. The bounce wasn't back, but he didn't look like death warmed over and served on crackers, so that was a plus.

"Can I sit?"

"Well…what's your sign, soldier?"

"Dollar sign." Face grinned and sat down. "You don't look as bad as usual."

"Thank you. I don't feel quite as bad as usual."

"Really? I mean…you're…better?"

Murdock shrugged.

"You need to teach me how to do that, y'know."

"What?"

"That whole…step-on-his-wrist-and-make-his-hand-open thing. A reflex, right? Very useful, I have to say."

"I memorized a lot of Gray's Anatomy. The book, not the series. Though the series is okay. McDreamy…" Murdock pretended to get the vapors, and Face burst into laughter. "Pressure at the right point, and the hand opens."

"That was damn good shooting," Face acknowledged. "Exemplary, my dear friend."

"I was angry." Murdock opened the bottle of water and took a sip.

The elephant stomped by, trumpeting but uncommented upon, and Face looked away, attributing his blurry vision to allergies. "Anyway…hey, they're havin' a concert here on base in a coupla nights. You'll come, right? An actual band this time. Whattaya think?"

"Yeah. I'll be there. It's time I quit sittin' in Texas - there's nothin' I can do to change facts."

Seaborn was tired of crying. Tired of being tired. Tired of hospital food and self-pity and the sharp twinges of pain in her fingers. She was tired of talking to Dr Bailey, even if she had to admit that he was helping her, because each session left her drained and feeling raw. She was tired of her nightmares and of being alone. She was tired of not seeing Murdock.

The sight of him, six days ago, had brought up all the horrific images of that night. She knew, instinctively, and from Dr Bailey's comment on the matter, that Captain Murdock's visit had not been remotely intended to frighten her or to make matters worse. He had come to apologize, and she had known, even through her haze of hysteria, that it hadn't been his fault at all. She was even starting to come to a kind of agreement with what had happened.

Well…not an agreement. Maybe she had made some kind of peace with it, at least to the point of being able to talk about it…even a little? There were those four levels of grieving, after all – anger, denial, bargaining and finally, acceptance, and Dr Bailey had said countless time that the process didn't have to come in any particular order, and she could take as long as she needed to pass through them all. He had also given her a list of counselors to contact stateside. "And you had better get yourself into a group, young lady," he told her. "If I hear you aren't seeking the help you will need, I will subject you to Freud's Interpretation of Dreams…in the original German!"

It still kind of confused her about why she was grieving. It never seemed to gel in her mind very well – she was angry, she was afraid and had to sleep with the lights on; she had nightmares and had to take medication to just be able to stop her mind from replaying the scene over and over again. But she wasn't entirely sure what she was actually grieving about – she knew that lately, she was kind of forgetful. She was afraid to ask him about it, because she thought maybe she would sound naïve or not too bright, or hadn't been paying attention during a session.

It was her last session with him, before she was to leave for Germany. She would stay there, in a quiet and peaceful convalescent home in the country, near Mannheim – not far, Kris had told her, from an Army psych hospital where she had once worked – until she was deemed healthy enough to go home. She would fly from there to Walter Reed Army Medical Center, where she would be allowed to rest some more if she liked, and also receive her citations, her discharge, and information about the GI bill, her education and employment opportunities and options, and her first pension check.

She actually sort of liked Dr Bailey. Generally, she thought shrinks were just quacks who were obsessed with sex and cigars and whatnot, but the guy actually was a good listener. He had let her rant and rave and cry and carry on, without saying anything stupid like 'And how does that make you feel?' He had just listened, only asked the occasional insightful question, and even though there was no way he could ever understand, he had given her some exercises to try when she felt panic attacks coming on, and relaxation techniques so that she could sleep at night and maybe not have as many nightmares. But most of all, he was getting her to talk.

Seaborn's favorite relaxation technique had been to hum the song Murdock had taught her – 'Put Your Little Foot'. It made her calm down every time she hummed it, and Kris had caught her humming it one morning and actually smiling, so she had taught the song to the nurse in turn. This morning, Kris had told her that whenever she got worried about her mortgage or her husband having to leave base and get his butt shot at, she would sing that song and she always felt better. "I also sing it when I'm washing dishes or cleaning or whatever…drives Hank crazy, but now he's humming it too…he said that now, his entire unit is humming it!"

Dr Bailey arrived precisely at two o'clock, wearing his casual gear and clucking impatiently as she sat up straight, another doctor examining her fingers. "Healing very nicely, miss. Looking very good," Dr McGrath said. "You'll be playin' that banjo real soon," he teased lightly, referencing her accent and love of Bluegrass.

"I think I might try to learn. Or maybe the mandolin."

Dr Bailey sat down and waited until McGrath was finished and had left. She had been allowed to put on her own pajamas, and was decked out in Buchanan tartan shirt and bottoms, and felt a lot more comfortable. Kris had gotten her some bunny slippers as a gag gift, and the bunnies' sappy little eyes were looking up at her as she sat on the edge of the bed. Bailey didn't mind these informal sessions, and he put down his clipboard and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So you're heading off to Germany now," he said. "The place you're going has an excellent reputation, and I've contacted a Dr Walter Jenson to be your counselor. He's very good, and he listens, so give him a chance, all right?"

"Okay," she nodded.

"All right." He picked up his clipboard again and sat up straight. "So what do you want to talk about today?"

"I want to ask a question, actually…about…um…I guess this is a stupid question…"

"There is no such thing as a stupid question. It's only stupid when you don't ask. Go ahead."

"Well…you keep saying I'm grieving. But what…exactly…am I…uh…grieving about?"

He didn't sigh or look irritated. He only nodded. "Tell me, Seaborn, did you have a boyfriend before this happened?"

"I…uh…" She looked down. "Yes. I suppose so."

"Were you sexually active, with him or with anyone before?"

Seaborn blushed,. "No. I…never had…"

"I didn't think so. And has he come to visit you?"

"Yes. Once. But…but I…" She felt shame wash over her again, and she thought it odd that he didn't look surprised by her answer. She kept running that awful scene through her head, a hundred times a day – the hurt and shock on his face, his fumbling apology, and that foreign phrase…and the flowers he had brought her, to try and make her feel better, with no expectations of anything from her at all. "I wouldn't talk to him."

"Why is that?"

"I don't…know. Okay, okay…I was…ashamed, and angry, and…"

"Ashamed of what? What did you do to be ashamed of?"

She couldn't look at him. Bailey stood up and moved to stand in front of her.

"Look at me, Seaborn."

She had told him her name. He was probably the fourth person she knew, aside from Murdock, her father and Kris, to know what her name was. She finally forced herself to look at him, tears blurring her vision.

"You are grieving the loss of what could have been…or even what should have been, and in many ways, it's a lot like a death. You're grieving the loss of something you wanted to give to just one person, and instead it was taken from you, without your consent. That loss was a violent, cruel and vicious violation of your psyche – your soul." She wiped away her tears, feeling raw again, and he caught her hands, not applying pressure to the delicate, healing bones of her fingers, but still holding them both firmly. "Listen to me, Seaborn."

She nodded, her vision blurring through tears.

"In spite of this damage to your psyche, you do have a right to reclaim something. The man that did this to you – this non-man, this animal – can never touch you again. He has no hold over you unless you allow him to. What he did to you wasn't really about sex, Seaborn. It was about power, and you can defeat him. You can grind him into the dirt, shoot his thumbs off yourself, and when you do, you defeat by making him nothing – by making him powerless. When you do that, and learn how to love yourself again, he's reduced to so much dust. That's where the grief counseling comes in, along with the rape counseling. They can help you with it. You have to decide to take it back for yourself, though, and once you do, it's yours again, entirely."

Dr Bailey released her hands and picked up his clipboard, steady as ever. She wondered how many rape victims he had counseled over the years, and if they knew how lucky they had been.

"You'll remember that, right?"

"Yes," she said shakily. "I promise, I will."

"Good." He saluted her sharply, nodded, and left. She kicked off her bunny slippers and pulled her feet into the bed, pulling the covers up and lying back. She closed her eyes. Something you wanted to give to just one person. It had been something she had been thinking about, and until her attack, she had actually been consciously considering it. She had wanted to do it, because it would have been something she had really wanted to give, and of her own free will. And even now, with everything in her mind so blown apart and so messed up, she knew that if none of this had happened, she would have finally experienced something beautiful and wonderful.

Suddenly, Seaborn sat up and began pressing the button for the nurse. A moment later, Kris came running in. "What? What is it? Are you okay?"

"Yes, but…do you have any idea what…uh…'nakupenda ninapenda wewe' means?"

Relieved that there was nothing wrong with her patient – and friend – Kris sat down, exhaling, and covered her eyes with her hand. "I haven't a clue, Seaborn."

"It must mean something. It must. Remember…he…he said that phrase. It has to mean something."

Kris nodded. "I have a feeling it meant a lot, Seaborn."