It was the little things that Jordan remembered the most.

It was these small, seemingly unimportant moments, that were really the most important, Jordan thought, as she sat alone in the back seat of a Boston PD squad car, looking through the car window at the building in front of her. A building that was awash in light at a time of night – or rather early morning – when it should have been dark.

But it was these seemingly little things that had brought her to this place. The need for ibuprofen while working late at the morgue -- working on a fairly simple case, but an overload of hours, exhaustion, and caffeine produced a headache. A headache that Woody tried to relieve by running out to the store on the corner for the medicine. It was an easy task, easily done, and one that would have garnered him her thanks.

But sometimes the most insignificant tasks can take on a tremendous amount of significance, as it had happened this night.

When Woody failed to return in what was a significant amount of time, Jordan had grown worried. Then concerned. This concern had prompted her to contact the policeman on the beat and inquire if anyone had seen Woody. And that was the deed that brought her to where she was now – the back seat of the police car – for the beat cop had discovered that Woody, along with two others, was being held at gun point in the convenience store where he had gone to buy the ibuprofen. The seemingly insignificant task of purchasing pain reliever had placed Woody in significant danger. Jordan had immediately gone to the store, but was unceremoniously put in the back of a squad car to keep her out of the way and out of trouble.

And so now, here she sat, alone, pondering the little things. She rubbed a hand tiredly across her forehead, wondering and worrying about Woody, totally unaware that inside the store, he was doing the same thing about her. ===================

As Woody sat on the cold, hard floor, with his hands tied behind him and his gun removed from its holster, he thought about her – and the significant place she had in his life. A place no other person could hold. He knew, somehow, when he did not return, she would move heaven and earth to find him. And when she did, she would, unthinkingly, put herself in danger. A significant fact that did not escape his attention.

Keeping himself calm through this ordeal, as well as trying to reassure his fellow hostages, was no small matter either. The robbers-turned-hostage- takers were nervous and strung-out. There was no real way to determine how this situation would end. The only thing that Woody could do was pray that somehow, someway, someone other than Jordan would find him. And the answer to that prayer came when he saw the police pull up to the store. However, he knew who had prompted them to come. And he hoped against hope she had not followed them here. But he could sense her presence through the fear that pervaded the convenience store. She was there. "Just please let her see the significance of staying out of harm's way," he prayed.
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"How you doing, Jordan?" Garrett asked as he got in the backseat of the squad car with her.

"Not so good. They're not telling me anything," she said, nodding at the police.

Garrett knew the wisdom behind this action. Telling Jordan anything about the situation could be the same as turning the proverbial bull loose in the china shop. She may want to try to storm the store herself. "Want me to see what I can find out?" he asked.

Wordlessly, she nodded, never taking her eyes off the building in front of her.

A few minutes later Garrett returned. "There are two armed men and three hostages, including Woody. The men aren't making a lot of sense right now, other than stating a lot of threats if they don't get money and a car."

"So why won't they give it to them?"

"You know why, Jordan." Boston PD did not negotiate with hostage takers, even those that held police against their will.

Garrett reached over and took her hand. "Woody will be fine. They've got the best men, the best snipers, and the best negotiators on this case."

Jordan nodded. And shivered. February was a cold month in Boston. In her haste, she had run out without a jacket. She hadn't been able to get warm since she had been put in the back of the squad car. Garrett removed his coat and wrapped it around her. "It's so cold out here," she thought. "I wonder if Woody is at least comfortable." Warmth. A seemingly insignificant need that was critical for survival.

Her mind drifted back to a few weeks ago when warmth was again important to her. She had not been feeling well for days. After Lily had taken her temperature and discovered it was 102, she was sent home Until you get better," Garrett had said. "We don't need the flu in the office." So she had gone back to her apartment to ride the illness out. Curled up on the couch, watching the home shopping channel, she had passed the hours away, feeling awful and alone. Until that evening.

Armed with flu medication, ginger ale, and chicken noodle soup, Woody had appeared at her door – the unwitting fairy godmother of health. These seemingly insignificant items made her feel better. The flu medicine relieved her symptoms and the ginger ale and soup brought back happier memories of her childhood – foods her parents had fed her when she had been ill as a girl. Seemingly insignificant in themselves, these items brought well-being to her body and soul. But she couldn't get warm. No matter how many blankets, or how thick the sweatshirt, she couldn't get warm.

So with little regard to his own health, Woody had held her all night, pressing his body heat into her by holding her close. She finally quit shivering and fell into a deep sleep. Sleep. A little thing often taken for granted, but so important in recovery. She wondered if Woody was able to rest any in the store. Was he tied up in a chair, on the floor, or standing? He had worked all day. He needed to rest. Jordan shut her eyes. "Just please, dear God, let him be okay."

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Inside the store, Woody tried to continue to assess the situation. Two armed men. No, two armed men that were strung-out on something, he corrected himself. Two other people besides me. A woman and a young teenaged boy. Most likely the woman's son, he thought, noticing the similarities between the two. The worry on the woman's face was visible and the anxiety was palpable. It was easy to see that she would give anything she possessed – her money, her jewelry, her car keys, her life – if these men would just let her son go.

"Parental love," Woody thought. "So unconditional. So monumental. So significant." He thought back to his own parents and the love and support they had proffered him throughout his life, even in his move from Wisconsin to Boston, despite the fact they thought he was making a mistake. Woody had always assumed that one day, he would be a parent. Fatherhood was something in many ways he had looked forward to. But years on the force had taken an edge off the desire. True, he had seen people at their best, but he had also seen more people at their worst. His desire to raise a child in such a world was becoming a bit jaded, at best. At least it was until the Morse case a year ago.

He had answered a domestic call – something homicide detectives don't like to do, but they were short-staffed that evening. He found a woman, badly beaten and shot twice. All too soon, the call changed from a domestic to in fact, a homicide. He had called the morgue and Jordan came to the awful site. While assessing the fatal damage, she had heard a cry from inside the house. Leaving Woody and the woman, she had returned with an infant no more than six months old.

Afraid that Jordan would identify too strongly with the situation, Woody had tried to persuade her to let him call Nigel. "Call Nigel," she had concurred, "Let him deal with the woman. I'll take care of the baby."

That had thrown him for a loop. The last thing that Woody expected to come from Jordan was any type of maternal instincts. He had been wrong. In short order she had changed the baby's clothes, diapered its other end, and had sought out bottles in the refrigerator. Holding the child on the way back to his office, she had fed the infant and quieted its crying. Slightly stunned at the transformation that had occurred, Woody had watched as Jordan cuddled the baby on the couch in his office. In the myriad of details that had to accompany the murder and apprehension of the victim's husband, social services hadn't been called until hours later. Woody had found Jordan and the baby curled up on the couch, asleep, his suit coat spread over the both of them. Looking at the two, the stray thought had crossed his mind, "What if they were mine?" As quickly as it came, it left, for the social service worker arrived. But still, from time to time since then, he had pictured Jordan with a baby – his child, their child. A typical homicide situation – if there was such a thing – turned into a significant point in his life. He sighed, wondering now if any of that could fit in his future.