He had managed to pull himself into a seated position when she reached him. Sweat beads had popped out onto his forehead, and his color was an ashen grey.

"I'm sick, aren't I?" he asked in a thin, panicky voice. "I've got it."

She shook her head as she checked the racing pulse from his wrist. "No. It's just a bad reaction to the medication. If it were Amazon River fever, you wouldn't be symptomatic yet," she said with a clinician's detachment and crossed briskly to the stack of blankets that had been left for them. She turned then, her face clouded. Of course…how could she have forgotten? "Unless…"

"Unless what? Unless what?" He looked up, and his anxious eyes flitted across her face.

She drew her breath in and paused a moment before speaking. "You don't have a spleen. You could be more susceptible to infection."

"So, I am sick..."

"Not necessarily. The adverse reaction to the drugs and the early symptoms of Amazon River fever can be very similar," she tried to say reassuringly. "We won't know for awhile."

"When?" he asked in a rush. "How will we know?"

She wouldn't sugarcoat it. He was a cop. He had faced death before. "If it's the medication, the symptoms will pass in a few hours. If it's the fever, you'll develop respiratory symptoms – coughing, difficulty breathing."

"Oh, God…" he whispered in fear and shut his eyes tight.

"But I'm sure it's just the medicine. You're going to be fine," she tried to say in an even, reassuring voice.

"But what if it's not the medicine? What if I'm dying?"

"You're not dying."

"But what if I am?"

"Well, you're right here in autopsy. It'll be a short trip."

One corner of his mouth turned up into a weak smile. "If you're joking about it, it must not be too serious then, right?" She smiled but said nothing. He shuddered and pulled the blanket around him. "Jesus, I'm freezing."

She crossed back to the stack of supplies and hurriedly unfolded one of the flimsy army cots – really just a metal frame with a piece of canvas strung across it. "Here. You'll need to lie down and get some rest."

He didn't resist as she took him by the shoulders and helped him to his feet and onto the cot. She covered him as he stretched out, and he let his hand rest against hers as she drew the blanket across his chest.

"Thanks, Jordan…" he muttered.

"It's okay. Just rest," she said flatly, and pulled her hand away. Then she added in softer tones, "You're going to be fine, Woody." Probably, it occurred to her in an awful, unspoken thought.

They had removed his spleen after the shooting the previous spring. It was as she had told him then: if you've got to lose an organ, the spleen is the way to go. Doctors were still unsure of its real purpose. It can help fight infection, but most people can live perfectly normal lives without it. Most people, however, aren't exposed to rare Amazonian diseases.

There was a chance he had contracted a potentially fatal infection, but more than likely, he was just experiencing a fairly common reaction to some very strong medication. Either way, the hours ahead would be difficult for him.

She unfolded the other cot on the oppposite side of the room and eased herself onto the edge of it to watch him there. He had begun to shake, and she could see his limbs moving violently underneath the wool blanket.

He looked over at her with red, watery eyes. "I'm sorry. For what happened before. For what I said about being your…" He let the words trail off.

She winced and held up her hand. "It's okay," she said, though it wasn't, of course. It occurred to her in a brief moment of cynicism that he was simply a man facing death who was trying to clear his conscience.

"I don't blame you for decking me, Jordan."

"We'll talk about this later."

"If there is a later. I just want to tell you now that I'm sorry. For everything."

She said nothing. She had lost the ability to read whether or not he was being sincere. "Don't talk. Just rest."

She dropped another blanket on him and watched as he rolled onto his side and shut his eyes. The edges of her handprint still burned red against his pallid, damp skin, and she felt an ache of shame and regret for it. How had she let things spiral out of control earlier? She was not supposed to let this get to her.

As the image of Lu wiping the sugar from his mouth with a girlish squeal had been burned into her brain that morning, it was as if her feelings for him had immediately evaporated. Her affection and attraction for him had given way to emotions of anger and disappointment, and they had only been exacerbated by his feeble apology, his worthless excuses, his moment of rage in the autopsy room.

Now, seeing him like this: weak, vulnerable, afraid, she knew that feelings of love and hate could compete for the same spot in her heart. No matter how badly he had hurt her, she knew getting over him completely and totally would be no easy feat. It would not have hurt so much otherwise.

But she would get over him. There was no doubt. Nothing could repair that part of her that had been broken that morning. It had been more than a disappointment to see him there with Lu, it was a betrayal: to find out the person you loved was not really that person at all.

She lost track of the hours. His condition worsened, but she expected that. He writhed feverishly on his cot, he drifted in and out of a restless sleep. But there were no respiratory symptoms. Her eyes darted up to the clock every few minutes, and she knew that as time passed, there was less likelihood that he was sick.

He continued to toss restlessly. He seemed unaware of his surroundings. She could hear him muttering, disjointed words. Once, his hand shot up from the bed. "No! Don't do it!" he said, and she wondered what demons were chasing him through his fever dreams.

She had almost drifted off to sleep herself when his voice suddenly cut into the stillness.

"Jordan?"

She blinked and sat up on the cot. "What is it?"

He was lying on one side, looking across the room at her. His eyes seemed clearer than they had a few hours before. "If you knew you were dying, who would you want to spend your last twenty-four hours with?" His voice was still weak.

"You should save your strength. Don't talk."

"Answer the question."

"You're not dying, Woody."

"Come on…humor me."

Once before, she had thought he was dying, and it had let forth a torrent of emotions. It was then that she knew she loved him, and she had told him so, with disastrous effect. This was all too familiar, wondering now in fear whether he would live or die. Some of those same emotions still roiled beneath the surface, but she would keep the floodgates forever locked against those feelings.

She pressed her lips into a thin, hard line. "My dad. Garret. My family here at the morgue."

If he was disappointed by her answer, he didn't show it. "I know who I would pick…"

He looked at her with a faint smile, and it sent a chill through her.

His eyelids fluttered shut, and he slipped back into a state of semi-consciousness.

There was nothing to do but wait.