Jack doesn't sleep much that night, not that he had expected to. He's back in their bedroom in the wooden chair he had pulled up to the bedside, watching over Rose. After a brief period of restlessness around 2am, she had calmed again after another breaking of fever. She had yet to wake since he had returned home, and so she didn't even yet know of his presence. When he is finally stirred from a rather uncomfortable slumber, he's hunched forward in the chair, his forehead resting on his right arm folded atop the mattress edge, his left hand gripping Rose's. It's true he had slept in much more uncomfortable positions in his lifetime, between the open air, and garrets, and trenches, and tenant buildings, but the past few months of soft beds and being able to fully stretch out, let alone having Rose to hold against the chilly Wisconsin air had spoiled him.

"Jack?"

Her voice is raspy from sleep and disuse, and likely a sore throat as well. He sits up, suddenly alert, catching her tired gaze. Pre-dawn light is just starting to show outside the window giving the room a soft glow, and although disheveled and exhausted his wife is still beautiful.

"Rose! You're awake!" he says, probably with more enthusiasm than is appropriate.

"You're here," she says, her confusion evident. "You didn't have to rush back."

He shakes his head, his hand coming up to rest on her forehead, gauging her temperature. "Of course I did. My girls were sick, I wasn't going to stay away. How do you feel?" He brushes some hair away from her cheek, his thumb stroking over some of the freckles still visible there even in her pallor. She closes her eyes, leaning into his touch.

"Weak," she answers truthfully. "Exhausted. But better than I did yesterday."

"Can I get you anything?" he asks, glancing to the bedside table where some water sits with the dregs of his coffee from earlier in the night. He hands her the glass before she responds as she tries to sit up a little.

"Water's good," she answers, taking a few sips. She hands it back to him to set down, not wanting to reach too far. "And yes, actually" she tells him. "I would really love a bath and some clean sheets. And maybe something to eat, after."

"Alright," he answers, understanding the desire. He's feeling rather grubby himself at this point, and so he can't imagine how she must feel, having sweated out who knows how many fevers over the past two days. "Do you think you can manage getting to the washroom?" he asks.

"With your help," she responds, moving to sit up further, and he helps her, supporting her back.

"Wait here while I get the water running, and I'll come help you up." He hands her the glass of water again, wanting her to rehydrate. "Try and finish this if you can."

He had never been more glad about his father's decision to build an ensuite bathroom onto this bedroom as he is right now. He doesn't want Rose to walk very far in her weakened state. Putting the plug in the drain first, he turns the tap on to hot water— a luxury he hadn't known how much he would miss until he had run away from this house those many years ago. He didn't know when he was young how lucky and well off he truly had been to have luxuries like heated plumbing in his home. He glances over the soaps and concoctions that Rose has on the shelf by the tub, not knowing all of their purposes, and chooses an epsom salt soak that smells like flowers, dumping what he hopes is enough into the water. He had seen Rose do so for him before, telling him that it soothes sore muscles, and so he hopes that it will help her now.

She stands slowly with his support , legs weak after so much time in bed, but makes it to the bathroom just fine, Jack following a pace behind. He helps her out of her sweat drenched night dress, tossing it into a hamper across the small room, and grabs her hand, steadying her as she steps into the tub and sinks down into the water with a sigh.

"Thank you, Jack," she tells him, closing her eyes and relaxing back.

"Of course." He's glad to see her features relax under the soothing heat of the water. He leaves the door open so he can hear her and makes his way back into the bedroom, changing out the bedding and grabbing a fresh night dress and undergarments for Rose before entering the washroom again.

"Where did you go?" she asks, her eyes opening again as she hears him return.

"Just fixing up the bed and getting you something to wear," he answers. He draws closer again, kneeling at the side of the tub. Unable to help himself, he draws forward, placing a kiss upon her forehead. Really, he's doesn't know why he's feeling unsure at being in the washroom with her at the moment. It's not like he hadn't seen her naked countless times at this point. Hell, they're expecting their second child— maybe that's it. He looks at her watching him, and wonders if she knows.

"Jack, you shouldn't," she says in response to the kiss. "What if you get sick as well?"

He shakes his head. "I won't," he answers. "I've already had it."

Her surprise shows. "You have?" she asks, and he finds it adorable that she sounds worried—he's here to tell her the story, so he had obviously survived it.

"I have, back in 1919, a little while after getting injured. Nearly everyone in the recovery hospital came down with it. Believe me, I know exactly how awful your day has been."

Rose looks a little sad, then. "I hate the thought of you suffering alone in a hospital. Especially when you were already injured. I felt like I was going mad with the fever."

Jack shrugs, and rolls his sleeves up above his elbows before he reaches above her, grabbing some shampoo for her hair. He wants to be helpful, and doesn't want her using up all of her energy. "Tip your head back," he instructs, reaching forward to wet her locks and massage the soap into her scalp for her, pleased at the relaxed expression on her face at his actions. He has never washed another person's hair before. "I was fine," he tells her as he continues his soothing movements. "We were all in the same boat, really. I fared a lot better than many. I've told you before, I'm a survivor."

"You are," she agrees. Her voice still holds a tinge of sadness though, and perhaps some worry. "You know you don't have to be so tough all the time though, right?" she asks.

He nods, motioning for her to lean back again so he can rinse her fiery curls before he answers her question. "It was hard to be tough the past few days," he tells her. "I hated not being here with you and Jo so much. Josephine sounded so scared on the telephone, and that terrified me. I wanted to rush home right that moment and hold you both close. I'm so relieved you're both feeling better."

"Come hold me now, Jack," she tells him, her eyes locked on his.

"Now?" he asks. He gestures to the bath. "You mean right now?"

She rolls her eyes. "Just get in here. I want to be in my husband's arms."

He can't deny the command, and quickly undresses, climbing in behind her as she scoots forward, and settles with her between his legs, pulling her in to lay back against his chest. He finds that the warm water is soothing away some of the tension he himself had been carrying in all his worry, and having Rose close again helps as well.

They sit in a comfortable silence for quite some time, Jack playing with her hands under the water, and she nearly dozes off again. Although exhausted himself, Jack's mind is once again too busy to sleep, and the question slips out without much thought.

"Do you know?" he asks, looking down at her as she opens her eyes again to meet his.

"Know what?" she asks perplexed.

He moves his hands around her middle, resting on her stomach, gazing down at what he now notices to be the very slightest of bumps there. If he hadn't known better he wouldn't have noticed anything different. "Do you know?" he ask again, wondering if the hint will help, a small smile sliding onto his lips at her still confused expression.

"Rose, Dr. Clark was here when I arrived home, and he told me that, well, you're pregnant." Her expression is stunned, and he can't help but grin, and wonders how rare it is for a husband to make this announcement to a wife, and not the other way around.

"I'm—"Rose is genuinely surprised, and looks down at her own abdomen, as if to see if Jack is right.

"Pregnant," Jack says again, unable to contain his grin. "We're going to have another baby." He tightens his embrace around her, hugging her closer.

"We're going to have another baby," she breathes, a grin of her own no lighting her face.

"Did you really have no idea?" Jack asks. He wasn't so sure how this all worked, but he wonders if Rose had noticed anything or had suspicions.

"I had been wondering for the past week or two," she tells him, "but it was really too early to know for sure on my own. I had been planning to call on the doctor while you were away this week, but then got ill," she tells him. "Honestly I had kind of chalked it up to the illness— I have had afternoon sickness rather than morning sickness, so I had begun to think it was just the flu causing it." She turns so she's facing him slightly, looking into his eyes, the excitement that she's now feeling despite her weakness and exhaustion mirrored right back. "Jack, we made another baby!" she tells him.

He can't help how goofy his smile must look now. "We did," he tells her. "And I can't wait until you're feeling better so we can do it again."

The next week is a rough one for everybody. Rose is still very weak and stays bed ridden for several days, mostly at an abundance of caution to appease Jack's worries. William has the worst of it. His symptoms have stayed severe for days now, to the point where they had determined that he's safer staying put than being moved back home. Miranda, despite her son's condition has no choice but to continue opening the diner for at least part of the day— their livelihood depends on it, and for several patrons from around the town she knows that it is the only good meal they have, and so while Miranda goes to work every day before rushing back to be with her son, Jack has been holding down the fort, keeping an eye on everyone. At least he would be keeping an eye on everyone if he could just find where his daughter has disappeared to.

The young girl had been so very helpful over the past week— fetching things when asked, helping to cook and clean and keep up with laundry, never once complaining. Jack can tell however that she's worried— less so now about her mother, and more about her friend, and she has become withdrawn from both Jack and her mother— something he hated to watch. Rose needed Josephine— especially right now, and her daughter's sudden gloom had saddened her. For Jack's part, he's simply concerned about what could be making his daughter so unhappy. Anyone wold guess that it's the illness and the departure from her normal routines but knowing his daughter, and just how much like her mother the young girl is, he has a feeling that it's more than that.

In his search he hears William launch into yet another coughing fit as if Jack's thoughts have stirred him, and he steps into the small downstairs bedroom to check on the boy, who to Jack's surprise, is actually awake, looking up when he enters.

"Its rough, I know," Jack tells the boy. "If you can, try and breath deep through your nose, slowly, when the coughing happens. It may help ease it, and it will probably help with your burning throat as well," Jack tells him, remembering himself what it felt like to be wracked with coughing as he had been a few years ago. He checks the bedside table, refilling Will's water glass and goes to the linen closet in the hall to fetch William a clean handkerchief. "Feeling any better?" he asks, and receives a shrug and another burst of coughing before having a true response.

"More awake," the boy says.

"That's good!" Jack responds."Your mother should be back soon." He glances at the clock. It's nearing 4:30. He would have to begin thinking about supper before long. He looks back at Will, who looks utterly bored and miserable. He feels for the boy— he truly does.

"Has Jo been in here?" he asks, and Will shakes his head.

"Haven't seen her all day," he responds, and Jack can only nod. He had hoped that maybe will would know. Jo had spent a fair deal of time in the room with him, reading books about Oz and Green Gables. Will had pretended at first not to be interested, but everyone could tell that he actually enjoyed the stories and especially that it was Jo who was reading them.

His worry almost great enough to admit defeat and to go and ask Rose where he should look, he catches sight Josephine's red-blonde hair out the window of the kitchen nearly two acres across the back yard, nearly exactly where, to his dismay, the old barn and his father's workshop had once stood. He had yet to bring himself to go out there that far.

"Why in the world…" he mumbles to himself. In all the time he had been here he hadn't once known Jo to wander that far away on her own— not that she wouldn't be allowed to. It just seemed odd, and to see where she was standing it's almost like seeing his sister's ghost—

He shakes his head at himself. He's a grown man for gods sake. He's got a wife and a child, and another on the way— he shouldn't let a bit of a yard— a bit of the past— scare him away form finding out what was troubling Josephine. Getting up his nerve, he steps out into the mid-June warmth, making the slow limping walk towards Jo.

She notices him approaching, but doesn't say anything to him. As he draws near, he realizes that she seems to be looking for something, and he wonders what. She's pacing a little, looking into overgrown brush and under logs— or rather, Jack realizes with a lurch in his stomach, unburnt beams, like the one which had killed Julia, overgrown by moss and grasses. A lot of the stone foundation of the old buildings still stand as well, the perimeters clearly marked. He stops just short of the outside of what would have been the barn, speaking up.

"Jo, it's nearly supper time. I've been looking for you for ages. Are you alright?" he asks her.

"Shh." she silences him. "Do you hear that?" she asks.

He goes quiet for a moment, listening, perplexed.

"Hear what?" he asks when there is no sound.

"There's an animal," she answers. "It's crying. A cat, or maybe a dog. I'm not sure." She stills, going quiet again to listen, and this time he hears it too— a very faint high pitched whimper.

"It's coming from back that way," he tells her, nodding to the left, as Jo continues towards where the sound had come from, still looking through the tall grass and weeds. Taking a deep breath, Jack enters the clearing behind her, effectively standing in the barn for the first time since he was fifteen, right before the accident, and he tries not to think of the fight he had had that day with his sister and his parents.

"But I take her with me everywhere," he had complained. "Why can't I just go to the lake without my sister tagging along for once in my life?" He had asked his father petulantly, fully aware that she was within earshot. Julia had been tagging along with him for weeks, and her constant presence had made it rather hard for him to talk to any of the girls from their class like he wanted to, and he hated having to stick up for her, as she was always being picked on for having her nose in a book and being too much of a tomboy.

"Because, Jack, she is a girl. You may be able to go about unaccompanied, but she cannot. It's your job as her brother to look out for her."

"Yeah, well," he had responded heatedly in his annoyance, "I wish I had a brother instead— or better yet that I was an only child. Then I could do what I want."

"Jack Dawson!" his mother had called out, incensed. "You take that back right this instant!"

He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. He hadn't taken it back, and had bitterly wished he had. All these years later he still felt an acute sense of shame thinking of that day— hating that that had been his last interaction with any of them. He had spent every day since trying to be the best person he possibly could, atoning, and he hoped that wherever they were now that he had done his family proud.

Bringing himself back to the present he follows behind his daughter, searching the brush as well. The whimpering is getting louder, but as they near its source, Jack stops in his tracks once again. He can see the source now— a little brown and white puppy, curled up alone on the ground, its foot stuck in something. But it's what the dog is sitting on that stills him. It's their graves, overgrown now with weeds and brush, clearly unvisited for a very long time.

"Papa?" Jo looks back at him, noting his expression. "What's wrong?"

He swallows, willing himself forward, going towards the puppy which Josephine now spies as well.

He kneels down, gently picking up the little dog. It's leg is caught in thorny brambles. Untangling the creature, he realizes that it can't be more than a few weeks old, and by the looks of it is alone.

"Hey, pup." He talks to it softly. "Where's your family? Huh?" Checking over its leg, he's glad to see that its not bleeding anywhere, and now free from constraints the dog stops its crying, instead licking at Jack's hands. Jo kneels in the grass next to Jack, and he places the wriggling pup in her lap, her face lighting up for the first time all week. Again he thinks of his sister. She had loved animals— all animals, so much. The had had a lot back in the day— chickens and horses, and there had always been cats and dogs in and out of the house. He wonders if Jo had ever had a pet— if Rose had had any pets growing up for that matter.

With Josephine distracted with the puppy he turns his attention back to the graves in front of him. Reaching back down to the brambles, he picks the bit the dog's foot had been caught in. It was a very weather faded old ribbon on a bunch of thorny sticks that he realizes must have once been a bouquet, now overtaken by weeds, pushed to the side to clear the actual graves. Looking around the small burial plot, he realizes that there must have been lots of bouquets and flowers over the years, all carefully cleared to one side in an effort to make the plots and head stones presentable. Sitting on top of the rather clean and well cared for plots are small bundles of dried flowers that look to be only a few months old— these he guesses have been left by Rose, probably shortly before he had arrived back in town. He looks at the names carved on the headstones:

James Albert Dawson, 1866-1907, beloved husband and father

Eloise Marie Dawson, 1870-1907, beloved wife and mother

Julia Adele Dawson, 1892-1907, Daughter, sister, bright star

Indeed there are stars carved onto each of the graves and he can't help but think of his father's insistence that shooting stars are souls going to heaven. He wonders how many shooting stars he has seen in his lifetime— too many to count. He wonders if any of them had been his family.

"Papa?" Josephine speaks again, startling him from his thoughts. She has the puppy settled in her arms now, calmed. He gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

"You shouldn't play back here," he tells her. Some of the debris in these plots could be dangerous."

It's the wrong thing to say, and he knows it. Her frown is back in an instant.

"What was she like?" Jo asks, ignoring him. "Julia?"

He sighs. Being honest with himself he's surprised she hasn't asked before now. He looks back to the grave, placing his hand on the stone, tracing the letters. "A lot like you," he replies. "She was kind, and funny, and smart. She was a writer— she loved telling stories. She loved animals," he nods towards the dog in her arms. "She was my little sister by two minutes, but she was the better twin and she never let me forget it." He has a lump in his throat again. "And she was a pain in my ass sometimes, but I loved her. I really loved her, and I miss her every day, and I wish I could tell her. I wish she could see my life now. She would love you."

"She would?" his daughter asks, and he nods emphatically.

"What's it like to have a sibling?" Jo asks, and this question catches him off guard, and he pauses, considering.

"Well, it's nice. It means that you always have someone around— someone who understands you, and who understands your parents— someone to share things with; holidays and vacations and chores and meals. It means you're never lonely." He watches as she absorbs this information, suddenly having a feeling that he has caught on to what may be causing her mood over the past week.

"Josephine," he pauses, weighing his words. "Why do you ask, sweetheart?"

He watches as shining tears begin to gather in her eyes. "I heard you and mama talking— that you're going to have a baby."

"We are," he hadn't told her yet. They had wanted to find the right time and way to tell her, to get used to the idea first. They also hadn't wanted to give her the news while things were still so precarious with William. That hadn't seemed right. He wishes that Rose was out here with them now. He feels guilty having this conversation with Jo without her. "Pretty soon you're going to have a little baby brother or sister. Jo, princess, why are you upset? Come here."

He holds out his arm, and Jo scoots closer, into his side. "Talk to me. What's bothering you?"

"You and mama didn't want to tell me," she answers. "I'm—I'm afraid that when the baby comes I won't matter anymore. You'll both be too busy and you'll forget all about me."

"Josephine, neither me or your mother could ever forget about you," he tells her. "I promise you that. We love you so much."

She looks at him, skeptical.

"Have I broken a promise to you yet?" He asks her, and she shakes her head no.

"No matter what, Jo, you're my first child. That's special. And you don't know yet just how amazing you are. You are always going to be my little princess. And we're gonna need your help— your mother and I. Now, and once the baby is born. You're going to be the best big sister ever. I already know."

"What if the baby doesn't like me?" she asks. "I don't know how to be a sister."

He stands, helping her up as well, the puppy getting restless in her arms.

She sets the barking creature down on the ground, and it jumps around her heels, tail wagging.

"I think it likes you," he tells her, "And your little sibling will too. It's impossible not to. All you gotta do to be a good sibling is be there for them— help them, encourage them, and be kind. You're going to be great."

His mind flits back to the last conversation with his sister. He hadn't been kind, and he hopes that wherever she was now, she could forgive him. He likes to believe that she has— that she would be happy for him and the family and life that he has— that he was making her proud.

As they make their way back to the house, he resolves to visit the graves more often— to clean them up properly and to take care of the debris in the barn and workshop plots, and possibly to reconstruct the workshop and build a studio— something to honor his mother and father.

For now though, he has a house full to take care of, and a little girl who is carrying a very small puppy; something he would have to explain to his wife.

Jo looks at him as they near the threshold. "Can I keep it?" she asks him. He wants to agree right away, especially given the pout that Jo throws on to rival the puppy dog in her arms.

He smiles. "I don't have a problem with it," he tells her, "but you are definitely going to have to ask your mother."