Susan couldn't remember ever having been so happy. Everything in her life seemed to her to be - simply perfect. Robert, in an apparent fit of temporary insanity, had graciously arranged their shifts so that most of Luka's shifts did match up with hers. So, while she did sometimes work while he did not, (she was, after all, working twice as many hours as he was, 48 hours to his 24,) he was almost never at work without her. So most of their time was spent together. At work they were of course usually busy, so didn't necessarily see much of each other. Susan was often busy with traumas while Luka stayed occupied with minor medical cases and supervising medical students, but when they would pass each other in the hall, their eyes would meet, and Susan's heart would warm at the new light that shone in Luka's eyes, and she would sometimes find herself grinning like a lovesick teenager. And she knew that he was happy too, which made her that much happier still.

Of course, Susan could not deny that much of her own happiness (and, no doubt, Luka's as well), was born of desperation - the constant awareness that they had to, somehow, pack a lifetime's worth of happiness into a few short months. Still, it was easy to forget that too, at least some of the time. Luka was doing quite well, physically. Though his lab reports were persistently grim; the third new drug combination was proving no more effective than the others in bringing his CD4 count up or his viral load down, he felt surprisingly well. No significant infections for several months, not since the pneumonia in March; and none at all since early May; his appetite was good, he had stopped losing weight, he was managing his reduced work schedule without difficulty.

On one especially good day Susan had remarked, only half-joking that maybe there really was something to this God business after all. Luka was, after all, still going to church almost every week. His response had been just a quiet "Maybe," and he'd changed the subject. Luka rarely spoke of his illness at all any more. He preferred to talk to her about other things, happier things.

He would talk to her for hours about his life; his childhood, his kids, medical school, his early years in America. Danijela. Even the war. Sometimes Susan got the sense that he was trying to give her ... himself ... all the memories, the good memories that would otherwise die with him. Some part of him for her to keep forever when he was gone. But he never told her so in so many words, and she never asked. She just listened, occasionally asking a question or two, as they cuddled together comfortably in bed, or on the couch, or on the beach - the Dunes having become their favorite destination on pleasant days when neither one was working. And then, when he was exhausted from talking, he would fall asleep in her arms, or with his head in her lap, and she would sit and watch him sleep, and be perfectly happy.

The one thing they never talked about, besides, of course, Africa - he never talked about that anymore - was the future. There could be no plans for the future. They never made any plans beyond tomorrow, and even tomorrow was uncertain, for no-one could know what might happen tomorrow.

They were living in the moment. Whatever they were doing; making love, or sharing a meal, or a joke, or a wordless glance and smile as they passed in the ER hallway, it was always with the knowledge that this might be the last time, so they had better enjoy it. And then, when the next time came, it was that much sweeter because there had been, in fact, a next time.

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Susan rolled over, half awake, and reached across the bed, and was instantly fully awake as she realized that the other side of the bed was empty. The clock said 3:15. She sat up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. He was probably in the bathroom. No, the door was open, the bathroom was empty. Susan told herself firmly that she was being ridiculous. He'd probably gone to get a snack, or something to drink from the kitchen. But still, she'd check all the same. She slid out of bed and went to the bedroom doorway and opened the door. And froze there for a moment.

Luka was on the couch. Kneeling on his good leg, the bad leg extended out behind him. His head was bowed on his clasped hands, elbows resting on the back of the couch for support and balance. Even in the dark room she could see that his face was wet with tears slipping from under tightly closed eyelids, and his lips moved in whispered prayer. She caught only a few words ... enough to realize that he was praying in Croatian.

Susan knew that he still went to mass most Sundays. She had offered to go with him, but he'd firmly refused. This was the one thing he had to do by himself. Whatever new understanding he had worked out with God, it was private, between God and himself, and Susan could not intrude there.

She stood in the doorway for an instant longer, her heart aching at the pain on Luka's face, the pain he had not been allowing her to see for so many weeks - the pain he had clearly been choosing to share only with God now. How many times before had he left their bed, left her side, to go pray alone in the darkness? What agony was he still struggling with, alone? No, not alone, she reminded herself. He had found something that was working, helping him cope with his pain. He was truly happy most of the time, Susan was certain of that.

Susan was glad that his eyes were shut, that he hadn't seen her standing there. This was private. After another moment, she turned and went quietly back to bed. When Luka came back to bed himself about 15 minutes later, she pretended to be asleep, and could only hope that he wouldn't notice the tears that were wetting her pillow. He didn't seem to notice. He put his arm around her, rested his face against the back of her neck, and was quickly asleep; relaxed and breathing quietly. But Susan didn't fall asleep again for a long time. She knew that he would never mention this to her, and she could never mention it either.