"Damn," C.C. thought to herself. "I should've skipped breakfast and just come downstairs."

The only seats left in the room were in the front row, and C.C. preferred to slump down, unnoticed, in the back. With a sigh of resignation, she took a seat and waited for the speaker.

"It's what I get for coming late," C.C. muttered, mentally kicking herself.

"Did-did you say something?" a nervous, fidgety young woman sitting next to her asked. She was folding and unfolding a Kleenex constantly as she spoke, and as it shredded, little white pieces floated around, some landing on C.C.'s black sweatpants. Even though they were part of the "uniform" provided by the facility, C.C. still couldn't abide having some stranger's lint balls all over her.

"Just talking to myself, sorry," C.C. replied, brushing herself off. "That's why I'm here, you know," she added with a sidelong glance, "I talk to myself."

"Really?" the girl asked, twisting furiously at the tissue.

"Never mind," C.C. shook her head slightly, which was a mistake, because it just instigated another blinding headache. She wanted nothing more than to down a couple of pain pills and return to her room to zonk out. But no one was allowed to leave during the motivational speaking session. Wouldn't do to miss the mandatory "happy hour." After having spent the better part of two days sedated at Lenox Hill Hospital, Dr. Bort had C.C. transferred to this....Place. She couldn't bear to even think of the name of it, much less articulate it. It wasn't a place for Babcocks, that was for sure. Well, on one hand, it was a state-of-the-art facility, lavishly appointed and expensively staffed and furnished. "For high-class freaks only," C.C. had commented when she'd been checked in. But despite the lobster bisque for lunch and the chintz throw pillows in the visiting room, it was still a mental hospital. "Excuse me, mental health facility," she sarcastically corrected herself. And she wasn't technically "crazy", she suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Or so they said.

These weekly meetings were part of the treatment. C.C. had only been to two, but she had already learned to loathe them. Some perky-beyond-belief person onstage with a Pepsodent smile urging them to take charge! Control their own destiny! Set goals and visualize! We are all survivors! Yeah, right. Last week's "survivor" was some mid-level executive who'd found himself downsized out of a job at age 57. Boo-freakin'-hoo.

The patients suddenly became quiet and looked at the podium in expectation. A young, attractive blonde girl stood behind it. She looked to be 25 years old at the most, and C.C. wondered what terrible tragedy could've happened to someone so young. Wal-Mart ran out of Maybelline? Prom King bailed on her?

"My name is Holly," the girl began, somewhat haltingly. "They asked me to talk to you today...well, my doctor asked me, too. You see, I just recently checked out of a place similar to this. What is therapy for you all, is also my therapy." She paused and took a sip of water. "Almost two years ago, I was visiting my fiancé at his condominium. It was late on a weeknight; I had just gotten there because I'd worked late. I'm ...er, I was a special education teacher. I'd had parent conferences and meetings after school that day..." she stopped and then shook her head. "Sorry to ramble...as you might've guessed, I'm not a professional speaker."

C.C. watched the girl with interest. Something about her demeanor indicated that this was not going to be one of those pump-your-fist-in-the-air meetings, with everyone yelling "woohoo!"

"Anyway," Holly continued, "I'd gotten to Jason's condo fairly late. I didn't usually spend the night there, but we were leaving early the next day for a camping trip. His roommate, Eric, was still up, and Eric's sister was sleeping on the couch. Jason and I went to bed, and I fell asleep. The next thing I knew, the light was on and someone was yelling."

The audience sat up and listened attentively as Holly's voice began to falter.

"There was a...a man, waving a gun, telling us to get the hell out of bed. He pushed us down the hall, back into the living room, where Eric and Heather were sitting on the couch, being guarded by another man with a gun." She swallowed several times, then took another sip of water with a shaking hand.

"I won't go into all the details, but I will tell you that they made us all take our clothes off, and they took turns raping Heather and me. Eventually, they forced us all into a van, and drove us to some field somewhere. I was crying so hard, I couldn't really see. We got out of the van and kneeled down, like they told us. It was so cold outside, and we were still naked. I heard Jason say "Please, no!" and then a shot. Then more shots, and then all I saw was black."

The Kleenex girl next to C.C. whimpered and started trembling. C.C. impulsively put an arm around her shoulder while her eyes were still riveted to Holly.

"I heard them drive away, and I got up. I called to Jason, but he didn't move. Everyone was just laying there, so still...." She closed her eyes for a few moments, then continued. "I ran. I didn't know where I was going, but I ran. I finally saw lights, and I found a house. They let me in, wrapped me in a blanket. They called 911, but I remember I kept telling them the details of what happened. I kept describing the two men. I was afraid I'd die before I could tell them, and I wanted them to be caught."

C.C. felt a familiar feeling of panic rising in her throat. She closed her eyes, and saw the same thing she always saw: she was standing at a doorway, looking at the daylight, and then everything started to swirl.

"As you can see, I didn't die. Not physically," Holly continued. "They did catch the men; they had gone back and cleaned out Jason's condo and got caught when they tried to sell his big-screen TV. The trial was a nightmare for me, having to constantly relive the whole thing, and the lawyers asking questions, like Heather and I had asked to be attacked. Anyway, they eventually got the death penalty, and I got the big prize of having to live with this, every day of my life."

She spoke for a little while longer, and then opened the floor to questions. Holly sat down on the edge of the stage, and encouraged everyone to move closer so they could all talk. C.C. hated to admit it, but this meeting actually had some merit. This was a girl that, in her opinion, had gone through worse than she had. And she was still here, and talking about it. C.C. wanted to know how. What was her secret? Before she could ask a question, the Tissue Girl raised her hand.

"My name's Melissa, but my friends call me 'Missy,'", she began in a wavering voice. "I'm 22. I never thought I'd meet someone like me...."

All eyes turned to Missy. She looked down at what remained of her shredded Kleenex. "I was ra-.. attacked a month ago. Getting into my car." Her shoulders went up and down as she breathed heavily. "I didn't know anyone else who had...who'd gone through that. And you look – so normal."

Holly gave a small laugh. "Sometimes I don't feel so normal inside."

"But you're outside, you're going to places... I thought I'd never get into a car again. I just wanted to tell you that...you make me feel like one day I can."

There was a smattering of encouragement, and C.C. raised her hand. Since the room had taken on the air of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, she stood and said:

"I am C.C., and I was shot in the head during a hijacking." There was a murmur of recognition throughout the room; after all, Flight 181 had been in the news for several weeks at one time. "I was wondering...you said you were shot in the head, too?"

Holly nodded. "How did it affect you? Did you have memory problems? Do you lose your balance?" Those were the questions she asked out loud, even though in the back of her mind she was wondering about...Niles. This girl had seen her fiancé get killed. Hopefully, they'd known what they meant to each other before that. But C.C. wondered - if she had died on that tarmac, would she have been a headline one day, and forgotten the next? Would there be anyone left behind to mourn? Holly, at least, had been engaged; she'd had a man who knew she loved him, and he took that with him to his grave.

"I was actually lucky," Holly explained, "I had a large metal barrette in my hair, and that deflected the bullet somewhat. All I ended up with was a large scar." She turned her head and lifted up her hair. "See? I reminded of it every morning when I dry my hair."

The meeting continued for another hour, with others asking questions, while C.C. sat back in her chair and reflected. It could've been worse, she reasoned. She would be afraid to board an overseas flight the rest of her life, but at least she hadn't been raped while going to her car. She didn't know if she could ever recover from something like that. That seemed like so much more of an assault, a much more damaging attack.

After the meeting, Holly approached C.C. "I just wanted to say to you," she spoke quietly, "work with them."

"Excuse me?"

"I can see me in your eyes. When I first got out of the hospital, I just wanted to go back to work and forget everything. But I couldn't. And the trial just made it worse. But I didn't want to talk to a shrink. I'd grown up making fun of head doctors and crazy people. But, trust me, you need help. And once you're willing to accept it, you will get better." She gave C.C. a quick embrace, wished her luck, and was gone.

Niles looked wistfully at the cake adorned with C.C.'s face. He'd made a joke to the family about it being rum-filled, just like its inspiration, but everyone knew he missed her. What they didn't know was how much. How badly. How every day his heart ached when 9:00AM passed without a familiar "hello, hello!" As he cut the cake and served, he thought back to that day at the coffee shop. How they'd started to open up to one another. He had a tentative sense, a slight hope, that maybe Miss Babcock had some feelings for him. "Oh, but if it was only true, and I could be sure," he thought to himself as he retreated to the kitchen.

"I wonder how Miss Babcock is doing," Grace mentioned as she toyed with her cake. It was the first time in a while that someone had mentioned C.C. Max had been worried that the children may have been traumatized by seeing C.C.'s breakdown, and he had taken pains to avoid the subject. Particularly young Gracie, so recently out of therapy herself. Pretending it never happened was the best solution, he'd decided.

"I only hope she's getting the help she needs," Sylvia said, as she scraped some frosting from her plate. She remembered that day, coming home with Fran after shopping for wedding dresses, only to see an ambulance out front.

"She was OK before, Ma, I'm sure she'll be fine again soon," Fran replied.

Sylvia set her fork down and looked uncharacteristically serious. She looked around the table and decided they all needed to hear this.

"You don't understand, Fran," she began, "Miss Babcock has been through a very traumatic experience. Who knows? She may never be the same. But at least she's somewhere where they can try to help. Too bad they didn't have such places 60 years ago."

"What are you talkin' about, Ma?"

Sylvia preoccupied herself with stirring her coffee as she continued. "Your great-uncle Boris, God rest his soul, was interned in Dachau near the end of World War II."

"I don't remember any Uncle Boris," Fran interrupted.

"He died before you were born," Sylvia continued. "I only knew him when I was a little girl. We were never allowed to talk about it, but from what I overheard, apparently he and his wife were taken there in 1943. The next year, the war was almost over, and prisoners were being moved. Dachau was overcrowded, and there was a typhus epidemic. Boris survived, but his wife died."

The children were looking at Sylvia with solemn eyes. Even Max was so caught up in the story he forgot to protest that it wasn't appropriate for the kids to hear.

"When I was little, I'd see Uncle Boris at some family gatherings sometimes, but I was always warned ahead of time not to mention the war to him. Don't ask about the past. I guess everyone else was told the same thing. So Boris was never quite right after that. He wasn't allowed to talk about his experience, and he eventually was taken to a sanitarium to live out his last few years."

Sylvia took a sip of her coffee and turned back to her cake. "I just know that not talking about something like that can eat a person up inside. I hope it doesn't happen to Miss Babcock."

"Exposure therapy? What's that?" C.C. asked Dr. Bort, who came to see her every other day.

"It's a very successful treatment used for PTSD patients," the doctor explained. "You've come a long way in the past week, and we think you're ready for exposure therapy."

C.C. sighed. She'd unburdened a lot of her feelings recently with the various doctors there, thanks to Holly's presentation. She'd also received a beautiful floral arrangement the day before from Niles, much to her surprise. The aide who brought it to her room informed her that some man with an English accent had been phoning daily for updates on her progress. C.C. knew instinctively that the accent that had phoned was not Maxwell. Those tidbits had buoyed her spirits and she started to feel restless, ready to get out of The Place.

"In exposure therapy, we re-enact the traumatic event in a controlled environment," Dr. Bort was saying. "It helps you to work through the fear, the anger, the guilt."

C.C. remained quiet, for Dr. Bort had struck a nerve. C.C. had finally admitted this past week to another doctor that she felt guilty. That Victoria, who'd been sitting next to her on the plane, had died and she hadn't. What if C.C. had been in a different seat? Would she have gotten the "good" bullet? Why did she live, and what did it mean? She felt as if now unreasonable demands would be placed upon her – "you survived a hijacking, you were spared for a higher purpose" type of thing. Oh well, whatever it took to get her out of this Place.

"When do we start?" she asked Dr. Bort.