She sat on the steps of the church looking out onto the street. She was numb with fear and cold, not caring that the melting snow seeped through her olive trousers.

Up and down the street that ran in front of the church were bombed out stone buildings. There was a road sign that had been knocked over on its side giving the distance to Bastogne and Brussels. The village appeared to be abandoned except for St. Denis' elderly priest.

She remembered growing up with Max and spending countless Saturday afternoons watching old war movies and WWII documentaries with him. It was December 1944 in Belgium. She knew all too well what was happening. The Battle of the Bulge was being waged around her, and thousands of men were dying in the forest just beyond the village.

She had summoned up all her strength and her dormant surgical skills as Garret operated on the wounded soldier in the makeshift OR. The elderly parish priest shuffled in wearing his long black cassock, speaking in Latin. "Per istam sanctam unctionem, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid deliquisti..."

"Somebody get him out of here!" Garret growled.

"But he's performing Last Rites," said Nigel.

"The Last Rites are for the dying. We're not going to lose this one. Allez! Allez! Go on, get him out!"

The old man mumbled in French as Bug apologetically ushered him out past the bedsheets that had been strung up for curtains.

She and Garret had managed to sew up the damage caused by the shrapnel. The solider had survived the operation, but it would be a miracle if he lived through the night.

Afterwards, she had staggered out into the snow and turned her face to the grey sky. "Am I dead?" she whispered aloud, but no answer came.

Surely, this would all be over soon. She would wake up in Boston with memories of a particularly vivid dream.

No. The blood on her surgical gown was real. The stench, the biting cold, the distant sound of artillery. It was all real. This was no dream.

If it wasn't a dream, she shuddered to think what it was and just how long she would be trapped here. She collapsed then on the cold stone steps of the church, too tired and cold to cry.

Garret came out and sat beside her, wordlessly handing her a cup of coffee.

"Thanks..." she muttered numbly.

"Don't thank me until you've tasted it."

She wrapped her icy fingers around the mug and took a sip. "Well, it's hot. I'll give you that."

"It's the last of the coffee, anyway. Unless we can scrounge up some more." He lit a cigarette. "You're going to freeze out here."

"I don't mind the cold."

"Me, neither. If I can feel, then I'm still alive, right?" He smiled grimly. They sat silently for a moment. The snow had finally tapered off, leaving a peaceful white blanket on the grotesque ruins of the village. "That was good work in there, Cavanaugh. That blow obviously didn't affect your medical skills. How's the head?"

She sipped at the wretched coffee and chose her words very carefully. "I'm fine, but I'm having...a little trouble remembering things. I know who I am, of course, I know you and Nigel, but I'm not really sure where we are or how we got here."

"You sure you're all right? I can have you evaced out of here on the next transport out.."

"No! No!" If she was going to be stuck in this...nightmare, she wanted to at least be surrounded by familiar faces. "I'm fine, really. I'm sure it's just temporary. Maybe if you fill in some of the blanks, it'll jog my memory?"

He sighed and took a long drag of his cigarette. "Three days ago we were evacuating with the 96th and some British medical personnel when our convoy came under enemy fire. Several of us were cut off from our unit...you, me, Corpsman Townsend, Corpsman Vijay."

"Bug is here?" she blurted.

Garret frowned. "Yes...and a Red Cross Clubmobile girl."

"Lily..."

"That's right. The solider in there, the one who lost his legs, he was our driver. He's been hovering between life and death for the last three days. We ended up here. We had an air drop of supplies before we got separated, but the fog and snow have been too bad to get anyone in or out since then. The fighting has been pretty fierce. Who knows how long we'll be here?" he said ominously. "Does any of this ring a bell?"

"It's...starting to come back to me."

"Good. I need you in there, lieutenant. You're the best nurse I've ever worked with."

"Thanks, Gar-." She stopped herself. Apparently, there was still a polite formality between doctors and nurses in 1944. "Thanks, Dr. Macy."

"Now come inside before I have to treat my best nurse for frostbite."

He ground out his cigarette as he stood and helped her to her feet. She was suddenly aware of the unpleasant dampness on the seat of her pants as they walked back into the church.

Nigel and Bug were rolling bandages. Lily was there, too, blotting the dampened forehead of the injured driver as he moaned in pain. She looked up and flashed Jordan a warm smile, but her cheeks were hollow and her eyes dark.

"Jordan..." Her voice was weak. "I heard about what happened. Why don't you lie down? I can cover you for awhile." Lily was the same in 1944 as in 2005 -- always thinking of someone else's needs.

Jordan took the bowl from Lily's hands and was about to speak to suggest that Lily get some rest instead when the door swung open and let in a gust of frigid air. "I don't believe it!" a familiar voice whooped.

Jordan turned to the door, and her jaw dropped. It was Woody standing in the doorway in what appeared to be the same combat uniform he had been wearing at the fashion show. He looked at her, and a grin spread across his face.

"I don't believe it!" He repeated and stumbled into the room. "It's true!" He grabbed her by her shoulders and spun her as the bowl slipped from her hands and fell with a clatter to the floor. "You're here! You're really here!"