CONTINENTAL DRIFT
An Epic Overseas Carby Exploration

(Post-"Now What?")

CHAPTER SIX: 'X' Marks the Spot

Rating: PG-13 (or the new equivalent) with very strong cautioning for romantic situations and violence.

Summary: The re-education of Carter and Abby is under way—now it's time for a pop quiz. Their devotion gets tested—and life sends them an unexpected twist.

Disclaimer: Of course, I have no rights to the ER characters, but I claim copyright to the story and dialogue. Thanks.

Author's Note: Lost for weeks now, Carter's life lessons may finally be taking root, but Abby can't imagine what she'll be facing. Have trust.

Hearing from you makes every single word worthwhile. Thank you for taking the time.

CARTER SLID OFF the thin, uncomfortable mattress he lay on all day in the isolation ward of the hospital in Kisangani. The line of a dozen stitches across his chest stung, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his back that made him grimace. With one hand he balanced himself against the bed; with the other he rubbed at the spot that plagued him for so long. Just a few feet away lay Luka. Carter straightened up and slowly shuffled over to his bed.

"He's just sleeping," said Angelique from the doorway.

He reassured himself by checking Luka's pulse.

"Don't you ever sleep?" Carter asked her.

"Don't you?" she replied.

"Has he woken up at all?"

"Here and there." Angelique put a stethoscope to her ear and checked Luka's breathing. With her free hand, she gently shooed Carter back.

"He's doing much better now," Angelique assured him. "We've arranged to have him airlifted to Kinshasa in the morning."

"Sounds good. How's Mr. Nyobi?"

"Seven stitches to the forehead, but he's fine. We'll let him rest in the trauma room tonight."

"I take it things are quiet?"

"The usual assortment—several more for the AIDS clinic, bullet to the neck, and another rape victim earlier."

Angelique briskly rubbed the metal of her stethoscope against her scrubs and then placed it against Carter's naked chest, just a few inches away from his bandaged suture line.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he protested and nudged her scope from his skin. "If my cabin is still free, I'd like to go back to my room. You could use this bed for someone else. No offense, but the accommodations here are killing my back."

"It's exactly as you left it a week or so ago—your duffle bag is on the bed. One of the staff recovered it at the crash site," Angelique informed him. "We haven't had a lot of replacements since you left us. We didn't expect you back so soon, but we're happy to have you. If you're feeling better, we'll expect you on duty in the morning."

"Well, I'm not really working with the Alliance right now. I just came to see that Luka gets home."

"We could sure use the help. We got one new doctor over the last week and a couple of nurses. That's about it."

Carter silently removed the linens from the stretcher he slept on all day, while Angelique replenished supplies in the room. The motion of his arms stretched his chest wound, and it stung. He put his hand to it, and he could see Abby's face.

"You have some really big problems!" she yelled to him during what was supposed to be the conversation where they kissed and made up. Earlier that morning, she had demanded her key back as punishment for running off to Kisangani the first time. The clinking noise his key made as he dropped it into the china bowl on top of her chest of drawers grated on his heart like fingernails on a blackboard. Certainly she was worried about his safety—enough to come all the way to Paris to discourage him from continuing on. Of course, he was missing her now—more each day. He could feel it. But being on her mind was one thing—being in her heart was another.

"Angelique, maybe I'll help out for a few days . . . if you're sure you can get Kovac out of here safely."

"Glad to have you," Angelique responded without looking up from the I.V. stand she was fixing.

ABBY WALKED ALL the way down to her home of late—bungalow no. 5, almost at the end of the row. There, Albrecht waited on her small wooden steps with the perfect remedy for a difficult day—food for her stomach, which she had forgotten to feed since early that morning.

"What is it?" she asked as she sat on a step next to him.

He handed her a small ceramic bowl. "Mwamba," he said. "It's stew. This one's chicken, but once I had it with smoked monkey."

"Huh?" Abby gasped and stared into her bowl.

Albrecht laughed. "Just chicken, I promise."

She smiled skeptically.

"You have to try it," Albrecht insisted. "I get very cranky if someone turns down my hospitality."

"How am I supposed to eat this?"

"You're supposed to mix some stew with some rice and form a ball that you eat with your fingers—"

Abby looked at her unwashed hand and made a face.

"—that's why I brought you this from the cafeteria," he said and produced a plastic spoon from his pocket. From his other pocket he pulled a small bottle of water.

"Thanks," Abby said, and tentatively tried a bit of the stew on the tip of her spoon. "Hey, it's not bad."

"I told you. Trust me, Abigail."

Albrecht grabbed a bottle of water that he placed on the step next to him. He unscrewed the cap and spilled a bit onto the ground before sipping some himself.

"It's customary to pour a small amount of liquid on the ground before drinking as a libation for thirsty ancestors," he explained.

"For a boy from Liechtenstein, you sure know a lot about the Congo."

"As long as I'm here, I like to get close to the people."

CARTER HEADED OUTSIDE and made his way toward bungalow no. 2, which was just a few steps from the hospital building. The pain in his back and chest began to loosen up as he walked, and with each step he grew a little stronger.

Angelique was right—his cabin was exactly as he left it. Even the used bed linens were still folded at the edge of the mattress. He reached into the wicker chest of drawers to retrieve new sheets but stopped when he caught the image of his bandaged chest in the foggy mirror that hung above. He stripped off the tape and gauze and saw the perfect row of neat stitches right over his heart. He stared at them for several minutes and touched the skin around them and reminded himself to ask Angelique whose handiwork he wore.

Carter removed his pants and underwear and showered as best he could in the tiny bathroom. He tried hard to keep the sutures dry. It wasn't very difficult since his shower was barely more than a trickle of water from an overhead pipe.

"HOW ARE CARTER and Kovac?" Albrecht asked Abby.

"I hear they're better, but I can't get in to see them until morning. Angelique's orders."

"She rules with an iron fist."

"Well, I have to admire her," Abby said sincerely. "I've only been here a few days, and I can barely handle it. I don't know how she does it—any of you."

"We care."

"It's more than that. I work with a lot of caring people," Abby explained. "It's more than caring. It's . . . courage. I've never had too much of that."

"I think you do. I think you are much stronger than you give yourself credit for," Albrecht observed.

He lit a short, unfiltered cigarette and inhaled. He removed it from his mouth and stared at the lit end as he blew away the smoke. "Why do you always sell yourself short?" he asked.

"Selling myself short is something I'm really good at."

He was enchanted by her humor and brushed a piece of hair from her eyes.

THE KNOCK ON Carter's door startled him from the sleep he was flirting with and caused him to wince as he jumped up to answer it.

"Angelique let you come back to your cabin after all?" Debbie asked from the other side of the door.

"Yeah."

"Can I come in?"

"Uhhhh . . ."

And before he knew it, she was in the door.

"Look," she said. "I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry about what you've been through—almost losing Dr. Kovac and then the crash."

She seemed sincere, and Carter appreciated the sentiment.

"Thanks."

"How do you feel?" Debbie asked.

"My back hurts a little, but I'll be fine." He sat down on the edge of the bed, hoping not to grimace too much.

"You could have cracked a rib or nicked your spine—"

"No, it's an old injury that flares up."

"Let me see."

"No, it's okay."

"Okay, nothing. You're in pain. Turn around."

"What?"

"I'm not kidding. Turn around and lie on your stomach," Debbie ordered.

Carter obeyed, and Debbie put one knee on either side of him and sat down on his rear end. Before he could object, her hands were skillfully kneading the spot that hurt the most. Quickly, the pressure of the last few days began to wane, and he was grateful.

"THE MOONLIGHT . . . IT'S so bright. I can hardly believe it's night," Abby observed from the steps of her bungalow.

"Moonlight suits you," Albrecht said gazing at the top of her head where it cast a halo around her.

He moved closer on the step and his fingers caressed her hand. It surprised her that she did not stop him from touching her. Her nerves made her change the subject.

"So, your patient—the boy in the camps—how's he doing?"

Albrecht's eyes grew dark, and he looked upset.

"Things are not well in the camps."

She regretted asking.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Her apology brought him out of his mood. "You're sweet to be concerned, but I'm fine." And he wriggled even closer, tossed some blond hair out his face, and kissed her temple. "You're very sweet."

CARTER COULD HAVE gone on for hours with Debbie massaging his painful back. Nevertheless, several minutes into the pleasure he said, "Thanks, but you must be tired. It's late."

"I am a little tired," she said and climbed off him and lay on the bed next to him.

"It must be difficult to be so far away from home," he said. Her pretty blond hair fell loosely across the pillow.

"I'm sort of a wanderer," she replied.

"Hard to make friends that way?"

"Nope," she replied. "Just hard to keep them."

"Lonely life."

"Maybe you could stick around for awhile," she said and slid her body closer to his. Carter could feel the heat coming from her skin.

Clink! The harsh sound of his key as it dropped into the bowl in Abby's room signaled permission.

He looked at Debbie and said, "Maybe I can."

And she slid over more and kissed him . . .

Clink!

. . . and Carter kissed her back. Warm from his touch, Debbie she reached down with crossed arms and lifted her T-shirt over her head and reached behind and freed her breasts from her pink cotton bra.

Clink!

And Carter touched them and began to comfort himself in the warmth of her unequivocal attention and found himself caught up in anticipation, his second-favorite part of the act.


BY LATE AFTERNOON, Carter would be on a plane to Belize to meet his diving buddies. Abby took a split shift to see him off, knowing full well his flight did not leave for hours, which would give them plenty of time to memorize every inch of each others' bodies. He didn't know that she was uncomfortable with his leaving, and the only way she could express it was to remind him of what he was leaving behind.

She was so matter-of-fact as they walked out of the ER together, so composed. The anticipation of what she had planned was too exciting for him, and his face was flushed as he said his good-byes. The ER staff wished them a good vacation, and Abby had to clarify that she was just making sure Carter got off all right and that she would return later that day. They walked out casually, smiling all the way, but inside his heart was pounding. They got in his Jeep, and as soon as the doors slammed, he put his right arm around her shoulders and with his left he unzipped her winter jacket and slipped his hand up underneath her black turtleneck. She gasped at the feeling of his icy fingers.

"Hold on," she laughed. "You're cold."

He ignored her complaints and slid his hand up along her stomach.

"I'm warming up," he explained.

"Can't we get to my apartment first?" she managed to say as he devoured her mouth.

"This split shift was a very good idea," he said as he came up for air and then dove onto her lips again.

She pulled away. "I thought you'd think so," she said and then reached for his lips with a soft open mouth.

Her kiss left him breathless with excitement.

"Oh, I do . . ."

His mouth was on hers again, and his hand found the lace of her bra.

" . . . I definitely do."

She reached down and pulled his arm out from under her shirt. "Would you do something for me?" she said with her lips still attached to his.

"Oh, I plan to," he assured her and moved his hand to her thigh instead. He kissed his way from her mouth to her neck and lost himself in the perfume of her hair. His soft kisses forced her lids closed—but she had other ideas.

"Wait," Abby giggled and opened her eyes. She pushed him back toward the driver's seat. "Can you stop at the drive-through window and get me a burger and a shake?"

He was dumbfounded.

"A burger?"

"Uh huh," she nodded, "and a shake."

"That's what you want?"

"I'm hungry," she said with wide, innocent eyes.

"You're thinking about food?"

"I didn't have any breakfast."

Carter repositioned himself in the driver's seat and sighed loudly, shaking his head from side to side. He put the car in gear and sped off. He pretended to be insulted, but in truth, she amused him. She kept him off balance. She dazzled him—and he could hardly suppress a smile. But he played along and forced a frown.

"What?" she could be heard saying as the Jeep sped away. "Whaaaaaaat?"

Her casual attitude teased him. The delays excited him. The anticipation drove him crazy.

She liked it that way.

HE WANTED HER. Abby. It was Abby that Carter wanted with him, and the touch of another woman only made him see it. Clarity came rushing over him. Every foggy moment of the last few months was pulled into focus like the lens of a camera. All of Bendu Nyobi's words made sense to him. He breathed heavily and felt panic.

What did I do?

Carter pictured himself yelling at Abby in the Suture Room after Gamma's funeral. "Can you leave me alone?" he said to her. There was so much pain in her round eyes when she slinked out.

What have I done?

He avoided her for a week. He convinced himself that his anger over his grandmother's death was because of her and that his disillusionment with the world was because of his job. So he secretly made plans to leave and join Luka in the Congo.

What was I thinking?

He ran into her in the ambulance bay, and though he was happy to see her face, he danced around her and kept a safe distance, dodging her gaze as hard as she struggled to meet his. She knew he planned to go, and he confirmed it with guilt. Instead of explaining, he made it seem as if he were glad to be going any place where she wasn't.

She hurt him. He hurt her. She punished him. He punished her. What kind of dance was this?

Carter pulled himself away from Debbie, threw his legs over the side of the bed, dropped his face into his hands.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He turned to look at her. "I'm sorry. I have a girlfriend in the States, and I . . . we're having some problems, but . . . How about I just see you in the morning, okay?"

"You're a million miles from your girlfriend, Carter." Debbie jumped out of the bed. She grabbed her T-shirt, threw it over her head, and stuffed her arms angrily through the holes. "Maybe you should have thought about her before you came to the Congo." She swung open his door hard and left.

He sat at the edge of the bed breathing heavily as if he had run a marathon. He'd been running, all right—running away from everything he couldn't control and everything that controlled him. Like his mother and his father, he ran from pain and fear. He learned so well.

Carter cursed his missing cell phone. He would wait until morning and call Abby from the hospital to say he was sorry and tell her he was coming home in a few days. And if she were angry and shouted at him, he'd understand. As long as he could hear her voice it would be worth it. In the meantime, sleep overpowered him. He closed his eyes and spoke to her, aiming his words 7000 miles to the east. Abby, I'm thinking about you.

TWENTY YARDS AWAY in the other direction Albrecht's lips brushed against Abby's cheek.

"Thanks for dinner," she said.

His hand slipped around her waist, as they sat together on the steps.

"If we were in Vaduz, I would take you to Torkel for dinner—marvelous fish. And if we were in Paris—"

"Paris?"

"My family spent a month every spring in Paris," he explained. "If we were in Paris we could have—"

"—pizza."

"Well, I'm we sure we could get pizza in Paris, but wouldn't you prefer—"

"—No, I mean I could go for pizza right now."

He laughed at her. "You're charming."

Abby wasn't kidding. The chicken mwamba did nothing to cure her hunger.

Albrecht laughed and moved even closer to her. He slid his hand from her waist up and down her side. Abby could think of nothing else other than no man but Carter had touched her body for the past two years.

"SMALLPOX" AND "QUARANTINE" are frightening words to a doctor and a nurse. But for a man and a woman just discovering love, they were an excuse for long-awaited intimacy. On the first day of the panic, just after treating children suspected of the disease, Carter kissed Abby to reassure her the worst was over. Well . . . that was the excuse he chose. "Tell me we're going to be okay," she had pleaded. In truth, he couldn't resist kissing those lips for a moment longer. He would have kissed her then had she asked for a weather report. "Tell me it's not going to rain," and he still would have been all over her.

They locked down the hospital for two full weeks, sequestering everyone suspected of exposure—Carter, Abby, Jing-Mei Chen, Greg Pratt, and one patient. On the first night, Carter and Abby claimed Trauma 2 and tenuously put two beds side by side—his lower to the floor, hers slightly elevated to assure themselves they were not sleeping together. Her body in the room with him kept him awake, and he occupied himself by playing word games with "monkey pox," the actual disease responsible for their sleeping arrangements, they were ultimately told. He'd have to thank those monkeys one day.

There was no room in Abby's head for sleep as she replayed their kiss over and over, but soon her itchy back made her a little fearful of exposure. He checked her skin for a rash. Her low-slung scrub pants and her hiked-up shirt made the curve of her waist and hips obvious to him. After spotting the tattoo on her—uhhh "back," as she insisted it was—he planted two or three kisses on her neck and then reached over to kiss her mouth. She rolled over onto her back and slipped her arms around his shoulders to let him know she wouldn't mind some more. He reached down to his bed, raised the height even with hers, and locked the wheels. He made himself comfortable next to her, and they kissed some more, until he pulled away from her lips and held her face in his hand. He stared in her eyes—partly to share his feelings with her, partly to assure himself that it was really Abby he was kissing after all this time.

Abby looked back at him and saw something she'd never seen in the eyes of a man she kissed. It made her lift her lips up to his again. And in a move only a teenage boy would envy, Carter slipped his open hand down from her cheek until it rested on her neck . . . and then her shoulder . . . and then her breast. His eyes met hers in that special moment from which there is no going back—they were no longer just friends, their relationship had just changed. And he kissed her again—only longer. And he touched her some more—only in places where a friend's hand would be forbidden.

But soon they realized that to be responsible, they needed to pull themselves apart—though it almost hurt. They looked at each other disappointed but knowing it was the right thing to do. He retreated to the narrow bed next to hers, and they fell asleep—well, they closed their eyes at least. And for six more nights after that, their evenings began and ended the same way.

"So what's up with you and Pratt?" Abby asked late on the morning of their eighth day of quarantine when she and fellow prisoner Chen were wasting time in the lounge. Chen sat at the table and painted her toenails a deep shade of red, while Abby sat across from her. Her knees were propped up against the table, and her nose was in a novel she had been storing in her locker along with promises that she'd read it "one day."

"Nothing's up," Chen answered.

"He's flirting with you . . ."

"That's his style. But what about you and Carter, huh?"

Abby turned the page and ignored the question, which Chen chose to decipher her own way.

"Oh my God, are you guys—? Have you—?"

Abby looked up. "No!" She shouted, but her eyes were smiling.

"Oh, really?"

"Well, we almost did."

"But . . .?"

Abby went back to reading.

"Abby! Come on!" Chen said, frustrated by Abby's vagueness.

"We didn't come prepared," she said still with her nose in her book. "He doesn't have . . . anything. Neither do I."

"Anything?"

Abby continued staring at the page.

"Abby, are you trying to say that you need condoms? That's the only thing stopping you guys?"

Chen stood and walked on her heels over to her locker, careful not to ruin her pedicure in progress. She reached up to the top metal shelf and unfolded a long chain of foil-wrapped condoms attached end to end.

Abby looked at them wide-eyed.

"We're here another week, Abby. Someone ought to get something out of it."

Abby tried not to be judgmental at that moment. Why would Chen need a stockpile of condoms in the ER? Abby wondered. It was more than she wanted to know about Chen.

"Come on," Chen coaxed.

Abby closed her book and got up from the table. "Okay, just one."

Chen ripped one from the strip and laughed as an embarrassed Abby grabbed it from her hand without looking and mumbled something about getting a soda. Abby swung open the lounge door and left. But just as it began to close, she pushed through it again.

"Okay, maybe two," she mumbled quickly, grabbed another, and flounced out the door to the sound of Chen cackling.

That night, as several nights before, Carter and Abby pushed two narrow beds together and lay on their sides, their heads propped up on bent elbows, and they talked. They complained about their mothers, told stories about their youth, and whined about the ER. Inevitably, the closeness overtook them as it had on every other night since they'd been locked in the ER. Abby began to animate her stories with a touch of his arm, and Carter's eyes drifted to other parts of her body. Finally, he leaned over to kiss her, and she not only let him but encouraged him by touching his hair and resting her hand on his chest.

On this night, Abby opened her eyes as they kissed and watched him as she ran her finger down his chest over his stomach and down toward his pants.

He grabbed her hand firmly and pulled it away. "I don't think you want to do that." He was smiling but serious.

"Why?" she teased.

"Because you're making it difficult for me—"

And with that she kissed him and pressed one of Chen's condoms into his hand without looking at him. He pulled away and looked at his hand and then at her. At first she was unable to meet his eyes, but he nudged her face toward him with his fingertips. She looked at him with pouty lips, which soon crept into a smile. He reached down and pulled his own shirt over his head. He put his arms around her and pulled her close and did what he had dreamed of doing for two years.

For Carter, physical intimacy with a woman was not an unusual thing—and therefore not special. After all, it was only a mystery for 10 short years of his life—in the eleventh, he was introduced to sex by a 25-year-old family employee—a maid. For Carter, losing his virginity ranked up there with making the starting rotation of his Little League team. He'd much rather have spent that Saturday afternoon climbing the Big Tree with his brother Bobby, who died just two months before, and whose loss made him brotherless and essentially motherless. Later, when his college fraternity brothers competed over who was the first to "do it," Carter always won, as he did that snowy morning when he and his co-workers were sentenced to a seminar as punishment for some ER antics. But when Luka shared that his first time was on his wedding night with his young wife whom he loved, Carter felt nothing but envy.

As he matured, Carter learned to enjoy the pleasure of the act, and though he'd indulged in sex with many smart and attractive women, he'd never made love to any one of them—until this night.

He kissed Abby softly for a long while. With each kiss, the world grew smaller and smaller until all that was left was her body and his, their lips, and a few softly uttered words. He touched her over her clothes until it wasn't enough. And when he slipped his hand under her shirt, he watched carefully for any signs she had changed her mind.

She did, in fact, push him away—but just long enough for her to sit up and remove all the barriers between her bare skin and his. He swiftly dropped the rest of his clothes to the floor, but her scrubs wouldn't budge easily from her legs, and she rode a bicycle in the air to kick them off. They laughed. They kissed. He felt powerful. She felt beautiful.

"You were a little loud," she remarked to him the next day. She wasn't loud though. In fact, she was silent but for a few moans and a whimper or two. "Do you like that?" he asked, touching her and kissing her in ways he hoped would please her. And in a breathy whisper she'd answer "yes" and move her lips to his mouth to seal her approval.

At first, Abby couldn't explain why being with Carter felt so different for her. She didn't understand it was because she had fallen in love and this was the way it was supposed to be—not frightening, not lonely, not angry, and definitely not to ensure his interest in her. Those were mistakes girls make—mistakes she would never make if she had to do it over again. She wished she could erase that time when she was just 16—and every time after until this one.

When Abby had it all figured out, she realized magazines and movies had it all wrong. It wasn't the sensation of his body that made her feel so warm—it was the feeling that she belonged somewhere and to someone and that her body had a place for him. Just for him. Because she knew from that moment on her heart would not let her body share this with anyone other than a person who loved her and respected her. A friend.

Carter.

ABBY FELT ALBRECHT'S hand cup her cheek and bring her face toward his. He leaned over and moved his lips toward hers. Just before they met, Abby reached up and traced the deep, jagged scar that crossed his temple from his hairline to the corner of his left eye.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

He pulled away from her, resigned that she was dodging his advances. "Not anymore."

"What happened—if you don't mind the question?"

"Nothing interesting really—Kisangani is a dangerous place. My face got in the way."

"Some kind of fighting?"

"You can say that," he responded and kissed away the crease between her eyebrows where her concern showed. And when she let him, he leaned over once more to place his mouth on hers. But this time, Abby stood up to escape his reach, and he got the message.

"Is this about Carter—if you don't mind the question?" he half-teased from his seated spot on the steps.

Abby looked over toward the hospital where Carter lay. She nodded and gave a tiny smile. "Yeah, it is."

Albrecht pursed his lips and looked away.

"Good night, Damon," Abby said and headed up the remaining step past Albrecht toward her door.

Albrecht stood and stepped down to the mud. He reached into his chest pocket, took out a cigarette, and lit it.

"Abigail," he said as he took the first drag.

She turned around as he emptied his lungs of the smoke.

"I hope Carter knows what a lucky man he is."

Abby didn't answer. She opened her door, stepped behind it, and leaned back on it until it closed. She wasn't lucky for any man, she concluded—certainly not for Carter.

Abby removed her clothes and released the trickle of water from the overhead pipe and stood over the drain hole in the floor. And as she showered she heard sounds and laughed at herself for imagining it was his voice. Nevertheless, she quickly rinsed off the soap and stepped out of the bathroom and into the empty silence of the small bedroom.

She patted herself dry with a small, rather scratchy towel and took the T-shirt she borrowed from him that night in Paris off the makeshift clothesline. Abby pulled it slowly over her head to enjoy the brief moment when she was completely enveloped by his shirt. Then she popped her head out, stretched one arm through the sleeve and then the other, and used both hands to pull her hair out of the neck and let it fall about her shoulders. She turned out the light beneath the butterfly lampshade and crawled onto the bed. With her head on the pillow, she clutched two fistfuls of his too-big shirt and pulled them tightly around her. It was a long, eventful day, and Abby fell asleep relieved that Carter was safe but also confused, hurt and—as much as she hated to admit it—still in love. Why aren't you asking for me? Why . . .

AT DAWN THE sound of crickets was replaced a long, clear, sharp whistle—a whistle that ended in an explosion that shook Carter awake. It was followed by the tata-tat-tat of an automatic rifle. When he heard the next whistle, he rolled off his bed and onto the floor and covered his head with his hands just as the subsequent explosion made his whole bungalow quake. The drawers flew from the wicker chest, and the smell of gunpowder permeated the early morning air.

Soon, the area around the hospital was filled with rockets and grenades, bullets and fire, smoke and screams, cries and chaos. Carter rose to his feet, clutching the stinging cut on his chest. He opened his door, and at the first quiet moment, he ran the few yards toward the relative cover of the hospital. Inside, the whimpering of frightened patients could be heard over the pinging of bullets as they ricocheted off the cinderblock walls.

"Get these patients under the beds!" The hoarse yell came from Luka, as he sprang into action, the sounds of war triggering dormant instincts. One by one, he and Angelique and other workers in the hospital struggled to disentangle the wounded and injured from I.V.s and move them underneath their simple aluminum frame beds.

In her bungalow, Abby smelled the smoke even before her eyes opened. It burned her nose. When she lifted her head from the pillow, it was hard to see and the sound of gunfire tore at her eardrums. She jumped out of the bed and opened her door an inch or two and heard more clearly the distinct sound of gunfire. She saw two men in the distance in beige T-shirts and fatigues shooting toward the jungle. She closed the door and stepped back from it, and ordered her mind to slow down and think.

The smoke was burning her throat, and she dropped to the floor at the sound of more rifle shots. She stayed huddled there, frightened and unable to slow down her breathing. Her eyes began to burn and water. Just behind her bungalow, a loud whistle ended in a big explosion that jerked her head into the wicker chest.

"Ouch!"

Abby knew she needed to make her way inside the cinderblock walls of the hospital where she'd also be near Carter and Luka and . . . Colette! Abby remembered the baby was alone in the storage room. She was most likely frightened by the loud noise, and her immature lungs would have trouble with the smoke-laden air. Abby pulled her jeans on underneath Carter's white T-shirt and slipped into her shoes. She opened the door slightly and watched for what seemed like an eternity. When the soldiers seemed more preoccupied with whatever—or whoever—was in the jungle, she ran to the hospital and up the wooden steps and bolted for the storage room. Just as she got there, soldiers outside began to spray bullets through the windows of the building.

In the smoky main ward, Carter lifted an old woman and placed her under her bed just as he heard a dull thud and a groan one bed away. A stray bullet penetrated an artery just beneath a young boy's clavicle. The blood spurted like a fountain from his upper chest.

"Oh God," Carter ran to the boy, 10 or 11 years old at the most, and lifted him from the bed and onto the floor.

Carter had no supplies—just the sterile gloves he was wearing. He grabbed a bed sheet, rolled a corner into a ball, and pressed hard on the wound to keep the blood inside the boy's body.

There was nothing he could do without any equipment—he needed a stethoscope to hear if the boy's heart was filling. Maybe he could get inside the wound and clamp it. But there was nothing within reach. Across the way was the storage room. From his spot under the bed, Carter strained his eyes to look for anything that might help. In the room, through the smoke, he saw the figure of a woman.

No . . . that's crazy . . . it couldn't be. From his spot on the floor, Carter's panicked mind thought the woman resembled Abby—but concluded it was just a ghostly apparition. He squeezed his eyes closed and opened them again to clear his vision and cursed his mind for playing tricks. With every blast, the smoke swirled some more, making it hard to focus. But when it cleared a bit, Carter noticed something:

This apparition was wearing his T-shirt.

He stayed focused on the figure in the room. When the rattle of an automatic rifle tore through the ward, he hunched his shoulders up to his ears to protect them, but he kept his eyes on the woman's face. A chill ripped through him when he realized those pretty eyes, cold with panic, were her eyes. The hair damp with sweat was her hair. The body stiff with terror was her body. Carter's heart was pounding, and he realized it wasn't a dream. It was Abby in the middle of smoke and fire and bullets—an easy, open target.

"Abby! Get down!" he screamed over the bullets. "Get down!"

It was futile. The deafening noise made it impossible for her to hear him.

"ABBY!" His screams hurt his throat. His heart beat faster. Getting to her would mean leaving the young boy with an open wound that would bleed out before he could ever reach Abby and come back. He looked down at the boy, who could see the desperation in Carter's eyes. Terror crossed the boy's face and his eyes bulged wide with fear.

Carter, his chest heaving, tested the wound by lifting his hand, but the torn artery still spurted. He pressed down hard again, and the boy's face begged him not to release the pressure again.

"Je ne veux pas mourir."

"You're not going to die!" Carter assured the boy, who spoke the one French phrase Carter learned well from working those weeks in a hospital where all patients feared dying—and most were right.

A bullet nicked a metal ceiling fan, spinning it and sending more smoke right on top of Carter. He inhaled a mouthful and coughed as he screamed to her once more.

"Ab-by!"

Oh God. He was terrified. Help me . . . somebody.

He closed his eyes and tried desperately to connect with her—Abby get down, please!—when out of the smoky air a large hand came down on top of his, and a voice he recognized as Bendu Nyobi's boomed through the gunfire and shouted to him, "Go!"

He jerked his hand from beneath Bendu's and showed him how to hold the boy's wound.

"Like this, press hard," Carter shouted over the gunfire.

"Just go!" Bendu yelled.

Carter peeled off his gloves and ran toward the storage room, but ricocheting bullets sent him diving to the floor. He got up, stayed low, and kept running. He crawled the last few inches on his elbows, but the smoke was so dense he didn't see Abby until he was at her feet. He reached up and jerked her to the floor and covered her body and head with his own.

Abby trembled beneath him. He rested his head on her hair to steady her. He made a tent with his arms over them both, and his torso and legs made a snug cocoon. They braced themselves for several minutes, though it seemed like hours.

Then it fell quiet just as suddenly as it began.

The soldiers who battled over, around, and through the hospital eventually moved deeper into the jungle. When the smoke began to clear, Carter finally let himself breathe. Very slowly the silence was replaced by the whimpers of the frightened patients.

"Everybody okay?" Carter could hear Angelique ask out in the main ward.

"Over here!" He heard Bendu call out. Angelique's voice assured Carter the injured boy would be cared for.

Carter took a moment to calm himself. He was unhurt, but underneath him, Abby lay shivering. He took his time peeling himself away from her—it felt natural to want to hold onto her.

"It's okay," he said to her and he unwound his legs from her and lifted his head. "It's okay, it's okay. It's me." He stroked her arms and rubbed her back gently as she lay there, hunched over toward the floor, her face hidden from view, shaking. He pressed his lips to her head and then sat upright and tried gently to coax her up. "Shhhhh. It's okay now. I got you. I got you."

Between his soothing words, he bombarded her with questions: "What are you doing here? How did you get here? Are you crazy coming here?"

But Abby remained huddled on the floor and did not answer. Carter tossed aside his questions and simply comforted her. He leaned over her and kissed her hair and caressed her back some more: "Shhhhhh, it's all right. The fighting's over. We're going to be okay. Shhhhhh."

But Abby could not be comforted. Her body shuddered, and her silence teetered on sobs. Carter got to his feet and reached down to help her up. Abby rose only as far as her knees. She turned and held out her arms to him. In them, Carter saw a tiny, quiet baby with a small criss-cross bruise on her chest that darkened as he stared.

"X" marked the spot where the battle of men touched the heart of innocence.

Damaged.


Next—

Chapter Seven: Reach

The ingredients of love are not what you think.