Mark and Amanda sat in the back of the jeep, staring silently ahead, their thoughts travelling a similar, well-worn path of despairing negativity. A few minutes had passed since Steve's departure and neither had uttered a word since, each lost in their own musings.

Jesse felt as though he was submerged in a deep ocean. Sounds permeated his unconsciousness but they were muffled and indistinct. He struggled to make out their meaning but the effort made his head hurt. He wanted so desperately to open his eyes, to see that he wasn't alone. To have someone hold his hand and tell him he was going to be all right.  He wanted something, anything but the empty void which he seemed to be descending into with no visible way of escaping. He fought against the dark abyss which had engulfed him, and battled upwards through the ocean of blackness. After what seemed like an eternity he finally broke the surface, struggling to reach the brink of consciousness.

It was a faint whimper which alerted them to Jesse return to consciousness. The dim light of the car shed just enough luminescence for Mark to make out the slight flickering of Jesse's eyelids, his lashes fluttering across his cheeks before his eyes opened the scarcest of measures.

"Jesse?" Mark dropped to his knees and titled his face towards Jesse's.

Another whimper.

"Jesse, it's Amanda, can you hear me?" she spoke quietly in a manner that reminded Mark of the hushed tones used by visitors to his terminally ill patients at the hospital. The implications of this added to the heavy weight of worry which had settled in his chest since the beginning of the evening, even before they had discovered Jesse in such a terrible condition.

"Jess? If you can hear, squeeze my hand…" Mark took Jesse's hand in his, shocked at how cold and lifeless it felt. His mind was dragged back to earlier in the evening when Jesse had lay on the floor, not breathing, no pulse…  

If we hadn't been there he would be dead by now…

A sickening thought entered Mark's head, one that had occurred to him earlier but had been pushed out of his mind through sheer necessity.

What if he was without oxygen for too long? What if…

"Jesse? Please, if you can hea.." he stopped mid sentence as the mildest of constraints squeezed at his fingers. A smile of pure relief broke out on his face as he surveyed his ailing friend.

"Mark…" the voice was barely audible, almost ethereal. Jesse tried to focus his eyes to the people in front of him, but the effort of blinking was tiring, and no matter how hard he tried they remained blurred at the edges.

He can talk – he knows who I am… these paltry facts reassured Mark like he wouldn't have believed possible.

"Jess, its ok honey, we're getting you out of here." Amanda stroked Jesse's hand gently and smiled at him sorrowfully.

Her words made little sense to Jesse, who was having trouble understanding where he was. He peered up at her, confused.

"What… hap.. happened?" he spoke with a rasp, as though out of breath. He knew something was wrong – terribly wrong – and yet he couldn't quite understand what had happened to him. He knew he was hurt – the pain which pervaded every fibre of his being told him that much, as did the heavy weight in his chest which prevented him taking the deep breath he felt his lungs were crying out for.  But exactly what had transpired remained just beyond his grasp, lurking in the recesses of his mind but refusing to come to the foremost of his consciousness.

"Don't worry about that now, you just… Jesse?" Mark watched as Jesse's eyelashes fluttered to a close.

"Jess?"

Although Jesse heard them he was incapable of responding.

The meagre amount of energy he had had been washed away in a tidal wave of exhaustion, and as the fight to keep his eyes open became too much to bear, the weight of his eyelids forced them closed. As the stupor overcame him, the images of his friends' concerned faces gave way to an ebony cloud of unconsciousness as he blacked out.

Mark retained his grip on Jesse's hand. He felt the need for a connection, and although the link was tenuous he felt the warmth from his hand seeping into Jesse's and it satiated his despondent need to do something constructive.

Mark squeezed his eyes closed.

We really need to leave, he thought to himself, before its too late…

He sighed deeply

"Where's Steve?"

**************

Steve sat, head down, unmoving. The cool, dry air of the hallway was a welcome contrast to the hot humidity of the living room and the unrelenting rain of outside. It soothed him somewhat, cooling him down both literally and figuratively. His head continued to drum in a rhythmic beat, although the nausea which accompanied it had abated somewhat and his breathing had slowed considerably.

The agitation of earlier had dissipated and had been replaced by an extreme sense of shame. Steve felt disgusted with himself for his melodramatic overreaction.

The others are coping and so should I…

Steve knew that every moment he spent fretting over his own problems was time taken away from Jesse. Time that he needed.

Lifting his head, he rested it back against the wall.

Get a grip Sloan, he thought to himself scathingly, and bracing himself for the effort he dropped his right hand to the floor to lever himself up.

But in mid-action he stopped.

Just along the hallway something stained the wooden flooring. Steve peered at it, unable at first to make out its form. He frowned, turning his head to one side to try and decipher the shape.

It was a footprint.

A wet, muddy footprint glistening in the half-light which radiated from the living room.

Steve stared at it and felt a heavy jolt in his stomach.

A boot print.

None of us are wearing boots…

The realisation clenched roughly in his chest.

There's someone in the house.