Christian stopped the car again. He climbed out, checked on Satine, then proceeded to pump gas into the tank. Only twenty miles left, but he was running on empty, both figuratively and literally.

He couldn't believe he was twenty miles from doing what he swore he'd never do - going back to his parents.

He had left home when he was eighteen, wanting to see the world, upholding the ancient Bohemian ideals of freedom, beauty, truth, and love. Which was why the first stop on his tour of independence was the ultimate hub of Bohemian realism - or surrealism, if that's the way you looked at it: Paris. He spent a year living in a small village called Montmartre, a "village of sin" as his father called it. His little apartment housed his dreams, and he found beautiful things, places, and women to write about. Still, he wasn't as happy as he'd imagined he'd be.

One night, as he was taking a walk for inspiration to write, an old woman walked up to him. She was very, very old, but she didn't seem as old as she was. She was dressed from head to foot in cancan garb, and looked as if she had danced at some point in her life. She smiled at him and said, "You have that look about you."

Christian, confused, looked at her and asked, "What look would that be?"

"The look of a true dreamer. Not one of those silly schoolboys who come here every year looking for fame, sex, and absinthe."

Christian was a bit taken aback by this woman's words. She, however, continued. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Ah, eighteen. Such a young, beautiful age. You must be careful, young one, these streets will strip you clean of all the beauty that you hold. Do you paint?"

"I write."

"A writer. Yes, the poets are the most beautiful of all. My pretty one," she said, taking a small step closer, "Go home. Or, maybe not home, but leave here. This is not the place for you, little one. Please, save your spirit."

Then, she turned and left. Christian could have sworn she just disappeared.

Now Christian thought of how his parents would react when he came home with a dying dancer/hooker named Satine and Adrienne. He doubted they would be very accepting.

He ran his credit card through the gas pump, paid for it, then climbed back in to finish the drive to . . . . he didn't know.

Albany General Hospital greeted them with a gleaming whit stucco building, and several paramedics helped carry her into the ER. Once she was inside and being taken care of, the nurse attendant at the desk asked, "What's her name, love?"

"Adrienne," he answered, "Adrienne P- . . . Londen."

He wasn't going to give her real name or stage name, because she could be traced by Zibler. He left the desk after giving his name, and wandered over to a pay phone.

Shit, he thought, here I go. His hand touched the phone. No, he thought, this had to be done in person. But how? He couldn't leave Satine, and chances were his parents wouldn't come there. How could he get them to see . . . that he loved her? He stared through the ER doors, where they had taken his beloved. He didn't even really know what to call her anymore. But that didn't matter. She was the same person, no matter what her name was. He would always love her, and if she died today, he would know that, and he would be all right. But she wasn't going to die. Christian was going to make sure of that.

Could he call his parents? Should he call his parents? Would they ever understand? Questions flew through his mind, each more desperate and more radical than another. Could he call anyone else? Maybe there was. Maybe he wouldn't have to call his parents. But, would anyone else understand anything? Would anyone else help? He thought for a moment, then said to himself, "I have to call . . ."

His hand clutched the phone, while the other inserted quarters. He dialed a number.

"Hello?" came a voice on the other end of the line.

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Who did he call? *collective gasp* Did he have anyone else to call? Ah, these questions will be answered in chapter NINE! Hahaha, maybe I'll post quickly. Thanks oodles to all my reviewers. I love you guys. Sorry about the shortness of this chapter. I wanted to get a kind of transition thing going.

~Evie