It was in the early evening hours that the chills hit, waking him from a restless sleep. Luka could feel the heat radiating from his skin, even as cold shook him to the bone. He knew what it meant. Chills. Fever. Sepsis. And, very soon, death. He opened his eyes. Carter was there.

"How ' you doing there, Luka?"

"I'm cold."

"Concern flickered across Carter's face. He brushed his hand over Luka's forehead, pretending to brush the damp hair back, but Luka knew he was checking his temperature. "I'll get you another blanket."

"Carter ..."

"I'll just be a minute. You'll be more comfortable when you're a little bit warmer."

It was hard to talk. The chills were shaking him deeply, and it seemed hard to breathe.

Surely he was imaging that. It couldn't be happening that fast. Angelique had said he had pneumonia. That must be it. "I don't ... want to be alone... that was the only hard part ... before ... I didn't want to ... have to die alone."

"You won't be alone. I'll be right back with that blanket, I promise." But then Carter hesitated a moment. Luka knew that this was much harder on Carter than it was on him ... but then death usually was, wasn't it? Harder on the ones left behind? "Luka, do you want the chaplain?"

"Why?" Luka was confused. All those days he hadn't really wanted Carter there. Hadn't wanted anyone there. But now, he thought, someone familiar ... that was what he wanted, to make it all a little easier. And to not be alone anymore.

"Last Rites?" A beat. "You aren't going to be alert much longer ... so it should be soon if you want that."

Luka started to shake his head, then stopped as the movement made him dizzy and vaguely nauseous. "No ... I'm ready. Just ... a blanket."

Carter hurried out, and Luka shut his eyes again. Where had God been when he had been afraid and in pain? He didn't need Him now ... now that he was going to die easily, and at peace. But then Luka hesitated. He wasn't afraid, not really. He was ready. But somehow ... the idea of it seemed to comfort him even more. Maybe the sacrament would help bring him to Danijela? Or maybe it would just make things easier. Or maybe it would make no difference, but he wouldn't know if he didn't try. And there was also one other thing he needed to do before he died.

When Carter came back into the room, Luka said, "I think I do ..."

"What?"

"Want ... the priest. Can't hurt ... right?"

"Right." Carter smiled at him. "I'll go get someone to track him down."

"And ... find Gillian ... I need to ... tell her something."

Gillian was there in a few moments. She'd been crying, Luka could tell.

"I'm sorry ... Gillian. I said some ... terrible things to you. Wasn't ... your fault ... anything you did."

"I know. You were in pain. Pain makes us do things ... say things ..." Gillian wiped at her eyes.

"Forgive me?" It really was getting hard to breathe.

Gillian could only nod as a fresh wave of tears came, and then there was a tap on the door, and the priest was there.

When, a little while later, Luka slipped into a warm and drowsy haze of fever and morphine, he knew that he was not going to wake again. But it was ok. His time with Father Francois had brought him far more comfort than he had expected. He had been forgiven by God, and by Gillian and Carter. There was no pain, and he wasn't alone.

He drifted in and out of the haze for what seemed like a very long time. He was hot, pushing off the blankets, and there was a cool, damp cloth on his forehead - he was thirsty; he heard his voice, faint and rasping, asking for water, and someone held a cup to his lips and encouraged him to drink. Voices spoke to him, low and comforting, though he couldn't seem to understand the words - except once he seemed to hear a voice ... was it Gillian? ... crying ... and saying "You can try! Just do it ... he'll be angry at first, but he'll thank you later ... I know he will!" and then another voice saying "It's too late for that. Surgery won't make any difference now." And he was drowning. Someone was holding him under icy water, and he was freezing cold - and he was drowning.

Then, for a very long time, there seemed to be nothing at all except the occasional, dim awareness that he would be with Danijela again, very soon. And he wasn't afraid. Through it all, he was never afraid.

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Carter startled awake, and was furious with himself. Why had he fallen asleep? His watch said 5:30; nearly dawn. He had been asleep for at least a couple of hours. He had promised Luka he would stay with him, be with him, until it was over. And if Luka had died while he slept ...

The room was quiet. Was it the silence that had wakened him? Luka was quiet on the bed, very still. Earlier in the night he had been, briefly, restless; struggling, fighting a losing battle for air. Then he had grown quiet again, and had been resting easily when Carter too had drifted off to sleep. His hand, Carter still clasped it firmly even while he had slept, seemed cooler. And his face was slack, calm. He had gone ... peacefully ... Carter thought. Then there was a faint rattling sound as Luka drew another shallow breath. His lungs were full of fluid; between the pneumonia and the sepsis, he was drowning. At home, of course, he would have been intubated, put on a vent, supported vigorously. But here, they couldn't intubate. Even oxygen was too scarce to give to a dying patient, they saved it for those who had a chance. Luka was still getting antibiotics, and they'd given him Lasix to try and relieve some of the pulmonary edema, ease the oppressive sense of suffocation, but it was the morphine that mattered most. He wasn't in pain. He hadn't died yet, not quite yet, but he would very soon. It had been over 48 hours, he couldn't last much longer. His pressure was too low, his fever was too high. He wasn't getting enough oxygen.

"I'm still here, Luka. Everything's ok." He reached up to smooth the hair back from Luka's forehead, and he flinched. He'd expected the skin to be hot. Luka's fever had been extremely high all day, resisting all attempts to bring it down, to make him a little more comfortable. But now his forehead was pale, damp, and little hotter than Carter's own hand. Carter felt Luka's cheek, his neck. The skin there too was very damp, sweat had pooled in the hollow of his throat, but cool. And now that Carter took the time to actually listen, he noticed that Luka's breathing sounded better. His lungs still rattled, but he was taking slow, deep breaths now, rather than the rapid shallow ones symptomatic of septic shock and respiratory failure. Almost afraid to listen, Carter put his stethoscope into his ears, and listened to Luka's chest. He was wheezing; there was fluid and blood in the bronchi, he still had pneumonia of course. But the lungs were no longer so wet, the edema was almost gone. And his heart beat was strong and steady.

Slowly, his hands shaking, Carter folded the stethoscope and draped it around his shoulders. He looked at Luka for a long moment, then took the washcloth and gently wiped the sweat from his face. Luka stirred slightly. His eyelids fluttered but didn't open, and, after a moment, he was still again, breathing quietly. He was asleep.

"That's right," Carter said softly. "You just sleep now. You've earned it."

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"Luka? Luka can you hear me?" Who was calling him? He felt he should know the voice ... but he didn't seem to know anything. His body felt strange. No pain, just an odd heaviness, like gravity was weighing on him with three or four times its normal force. He couldn't move. Was he dead? He was supposed to die. He remembered that. He couldn't seem to focus his thoughts on very much ... remember very much ... everything seemed misty ... strange ... but he remembered that.

"Come on, Luka. It's time to open your eyes." The voice came again. He was breathing. He could feel himself breathing ... it took enormous effort to fill his lungs ... there was still the uncomfortable sensation that he was drowning, breathing water ... but if he was breathing, he wasn't dead. So he should be able to open his eyes. Luka tried. The lids seemed to be made of lead, but after several tries, he got them open. His hospital room, in Kisangani. The light was dim. Night. And Carter, saying "Open your eyes, Luka. It's time to wake up. You've slept long enough." and then, as he succeeded in doing so, "That's right. That's good."

Luka's mouth was pasty; parched. And his tongue was as heavy as his eyes had been. But he managed to rasp out "What? and the word made him choke and cough. He hoped that Carter would know what he was asking, since any further speech was impossible.

"Your fever broke early this morning. I don't know how you did it, but you fought again, and you won." Carter was smiling, a smile that seemed to light not only his face, but the entire room.

His leg. Luka felt a distant ache now ... but maybe he was imaging it. He tried to drag his hand across the bed, to check. Where had Angelique said she would cut? Would he be able to tell if the leg was still there? Carter gently put his own hand over Luka's stopping the movement.

"You still have your leg, Luka. I promise."

Overwhelming drowsiness. Luka could scarcely hold his eyes open. The effort of moving his hand had exhausted him completely. But he murmured, "I want ... to go home..."

As his eyes fell shut he saw Carter smile again, and as he slid back into sleep, he heard him say "Soon, Luka. Just as soon as you're a little bit stronger."