"Tell me more about your work," Saffron said to Jack as they sat down to their weekly spaghetti dinner. "You said you've been to all sorts of dangerous places. Covering what?"

Jack frowned as he added some parmesan cheese to his pasta.

"War. Famine. Plagues and pestilence. All the fun stuff," he joked. The pasta was still too hot to eat, so Jack speared some lettuce from his salad with a fork. Crunching it as he chewed, he watched Saffron as she somewhat daintily cut her lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and black olives into smaller, more manageable bites.

"Is that what you wanted to do? Write about those things? Or has it just happened that way?"

Saff added a bit of pepper to her salad, carefully sprinkling on some oil and vinegar. Jack wiped at his mouth with a napkin and plunged his fork into the pasta, twirling it around and then taking a healthy mouthful. It was delicious - perfectly cooked. Saffron was handy in the kitchen, he mused, and that wasn't a bad thing at all.

"Just happened like that," Jack said, taking a drink of red wine. "But I like it. Keeps me on my toes. Never gets boring."

"Aren't you afraid of getting hurt or…?" Saff stopped herself.

"... killed?" Jack finished for her.

"Well, yes."

Jack took another drink of wine.

"Nah. Why be scared? If I die on the job, they'll just find someone else to replace me. Won't have to give me a pension or anything. Besides, it's not like anyone would miss me or I have anything to really leave someone."

Suddenly, Saffron wasn't hungry. She didn't like Jack thinking nobody would care if something happened to him. They'd been getting closer over the past couple of weeks since she'd become his de facto roommate for the summer. Columbia wouldn't budge on the flubbed admission and dorm application, so Saff had finally let the matter drop.

"But you have family, right?"

She wished she hadn't asked the other question. The thought of Jack being injured or killed made her stomach ache. She wanted to tell him that she would care, but opted to keep that information to herself. For the moment, anyway.

Over the past three weeks, she'd been privately sorting out her growing feelings for Jack. Her outburst about them being strangers and not friends had the effect of keeping him from teasing her like he had before. She liked them being more easily able to really talk to each other, but she missed their old banter. Saffron had the sense that she'd broken some small part of Jack and wasn't quite sure how to mend it. So she occasionally started these Q&A sessions at dinner as a way of perhaps getting him to confide in her. It was working, this night being the high point, it appeared.

"Man, my editor would love you," Jack teased. "So inquisitive." Seeing that Saff looked crestfallen, he quickly said "Yeah, sure. My mom lives here in the city."

"What about your father?" Saff asked, finally taking a bite of salad. Eating it made her feel a bit better.

Jack shrugged.

"Who knows? He's not in the picture. Never has been."

Saffron wiped her mouth with her napkin, taking a sip of water.

"That's too bad. I'm sorry." Again, she wanted to retract the question. Apparently, she was on something of a roll and not in a good way.

Jack snorted derisively, taking in another mouthful of pasta.

"What does your mother do?" Saffron asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"She's a semi-retired international fashion model," Jack said. "Mom was the face of Gitanes in the early '70s, even though she's never smoked. The money was right, I guess. She got to travel everywhere. That's how I came along."

Saff frowned. She twirled a small bit of pasta on her fork.

"I don't understand."

Pouring himself a second glass of wine, Jack leaned back in his chair and knitted his brow as he spoke, carefully choosing his words.

"Well," he began, "Mom says she was on location when she met my dad. Turns out I'm the product of a literal one-night stand. My dad was singing in some tiny club, Mom was… intrigued… and I guess they got together. In a manner of speaking."

Saff coughed at this, quickly taking in more water.

"Anyway," Jack went on, "that was that and she never saw him again. She tried tracking him down when she found out she was pregnant, but she couldn't find any record of him."

"None at all?" Saffron asked. "Not even from the club where he was singing? But she knows his name, right?"

"Of course," Jack replied. "But even with that, he disappeared off the face of the earth. Also, Morocco isn't the best place to try getting information on someone - especially some guy who was a failed rock singer. Man, Mom said he was awful. Couldn't play guitar and couldn't sing a lick. He was a smooth talker, though. According to Mom, he knew exactly what to say to get a woman into bed. So here I am."

"Morocco?" Saff repeated, her voice suddenly hollow.

"Marrakesh," Jack told her, taking a drink of wine. "Mom said Dad was there with some weird British expat and Dad's friend who - and I'm quoting Mom here - had the kind of fashion sense that should have been condemned by the United Nations as a crime against humanity."

Cold sweat broke out all over Saffron's body. Her breathing became shallow. She started hyperventilating.

"Marra…" she gasped, feeling her throat close. "Marra… kesh… Oh, God… No…"

Jack put down his glass and got up from his chair. Clearly, Saffron was in trouble.

"Saff?" he said, truly worried. "Saff, you okay? SAFF!"

By the time Jack got around the table to where Saff lay passed out on the floor, she was already a strange, ashen color. He bolted for the phone, dialing 911.

"Yes, please send an ambulance now to…" he gave his address and the operator tried calming him down. "My girl… my friend just passed out and I can't get her to wake up! Hurry, okay? Please…"