The lights of the starbase were far too bright for her gritty, sleepless eyes as she followed the bright blue of Spock's tunic down the wide, bustling corridor. Unlike Dr. McCoy, who did his best to match his stride to hers, Spock strode purposefully ahead of her, spine ramrod-straight and hands clasped behind his back.

I don't understand how he can be so awake at God o'clock in the morning, she groused, and snapped her wrists forward on the handrims in an effort to catch up.

"Where's the fire?" she called, and stifled a yawn.

"As far as I know, there is no fire on the starbase," came the crisp reply, and long strides stretched longer.

"Well, there certainly seems to be one under your behind," she muttered.

He drew up at that and turned. "Apologies, Miss Walker," he said. "It is imperative, however, that we establish your identity and Terran citizenship before your examination by Dr. Boswell tomorrow morning. As such, I suggest we hurry. If you would like, I could push you to the social worker's office."

She considered the offer. She was exhausted from a sleepless night spent staring at the dimmed light above her bed and listening to the clandestine scrape of crepe-soled shoes as yeomen and night nurses had gone about their appointed rounds. A dull-eyed Nurse Ogawa had scraped her out of bed at five o'clock in the morning to hose her down and comb her hair and dress her in replicated clothes that felt far too stiff and binding after weeks of loose scrubs, and a raw-eyed Dr. McCoy had arrived just after a breakfast she'd scarcely touched to look her over and offer words of encouragement that had blurred around the edges.

It's going to be all right, Miss Walker, he'd assured her, soft summer rain against her face as he sat on his stool in his doctorly splay and fussed with the straps of her AFOs. It's just a routine interview. I've already sent on your DNA results, so this is just a bit of pro forma hurdle-jumping. Just relax and answer his questions, and everything will be fine. He'd undone the ankle strap of her AFO and fastened it again, and then he'd nodded and gone to the replicator for a cup of coffee black as it came.

Blinking up at Spock, she wished she'd asked him for a cup. All she wanted to do was curl up beneath a blanket in sickbay and sleep, lulled by the rhythmic chirp of the monitor bank above her biobed and the rustle and clatter of the doctor's industrious puttering.

"Thank you kindly for the offer, Commander, but Dr. McCoy'd have my head. It's bad enough I'm missing a day of therapy. Where is he, anyway?" She'd thought he would be the one to escort her to her appointment, but he'd had disembarked as soon as docking was complete, face set and stride brisk.

"The doctor is preparing your casefile," Spock answered, and spun on his heel to resume his march.

Bless his heart. He's trying so hard, she thought, and her eyes burned with unspoken gratitude.

"He's certainly thorough," she said.

"He is a remarkable physician," Spock agreed as he hurtled down the corridor. "He would be an even better one were he not so prone to his passions."

"Prone to his passions," she repeated, and her arms churned as she struggled to keep pace. "You say that like it's a bad thing, Commander. I find his 'passions' refreshing."

"Emotions are not logical," he countered. "They cloud one's judgment and lead to errors."

"And sometimes it's a blessing to be treated by someone who sees you as more than an opinionated science experiment gone wrong," she retorted.

That earned her a quirked eyebrow and a speculative sidelong glance, but Spock said nothing, and she followed doggedly in his wake as he sped around a curve. Her shoulders burned despite the balance and responsiveness of her chair, and she cursed the man for his effortless agility.

Like a billy goat, she thought peevishly, and her wrists snapped, snapped, snapped on her handrims as the wheels glided over the smooth, grey floor.

Everything is grey, she thought. Grey and white and translucent. Grey floors, grey walls, grey beds, and grey tables. It's like living inside a computer.

Can you live like this, big sister? Daniel needled. Can you spend the next year living in a sterile, steel womb where the only splashes of color come from the uniforms folks are wearing? Can you make a life worth living in a world without light, without the sound of rain on the windows or dripping off the front porch? Without the smell of fresh-cut grass and roses on the air? Without the taste of real honey? Without the nap of carpet or the coolness of hardwood beneath your bare feet? Can you live in a drab, dead world of the bare minimum?

What kind of life is it going to be for you? You weren't built for the world you came from, and you never quite fit no matter how much money Mama and Daddy wasted trying to pound their warped little peg into a respectable round hole. How are you going to fit in here when the world has done the sensible thing, the kinder thing, and weeded you out, erased you with a wave of their bioscanners and laser scalpels and neural regenerators? You're a dinosaur here, a relic from an uglier time. Education might've saved you, but everything you know is two hundred and fifty years out of date. You've got precious little to offer the world, less than nothing, really, and if you stay here, you'll just be taking up space and living on charity.

It's only for a year, she reasoned, and weaved past a tall, slender woman in security reds with a phaser holstered at one hip. After that, I'll be free to do what I want. If Dr. McCoy's not fibbing about housing being free, it shouldn't be too hard to find a place or see about getting something modified. Once I get a roof over my head and get nested in, I can think about going back to school and dusting off my old chops. Maybe I'll go back to UGA. Hell, since it's free these days, maybe I'll try for Emory or Mercer.

The thought of going home inspired a swooning anticipation that was equal parts dread and exhilaration. She'd wasted no time in researching the city she'd called home until her parents had preserved her like so many summer peaches, and what she'd found as she'd scrolled through thousands of images had filled her with wonder and confusion and a white-knuckled homesickness that had dizzied her. So much was the same, and so much was different. Centennial Olympic Park was still in its place at the heart of the city, but the bench where she and Grandmama had spent a hot, lazy afternoon watching the menfolk go by was long gone, replaced by a glossy, black, holographic memorial to the millions who had been vaporized by a direct nuclear strike during World War III. The buildings of her lifetime were gone, too, and in their stead were edifices of steel and glass. Most were utilitarian-parking garages and office buildings with stoic facades full of polarized windows-but a handful had been stunning in their unexpected beauty, delicate works of graceful steel and glass that curved and belled as though blown from a glass blower's pipe and left to harden in defiance of gravity. She'd stared at them in mute wonder for a long time, mesmerized.

We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto, she'd thought, not for the first time, and asked a passing orderly for a glass of water, the consumption of which he'd duly noted on her chart.

Memorials to a holocaust of which she had no knowledge and buildings wrought from water and quicksilver, and yet, here and there had been faint glimmers of recognition. There had been verdant greens interspersed among the concrete and steel, sunny parks spread under the clear, blue sky. Trees rose from the soil and spread their branches and venerable grandeur over the earth and the occasional person sprawled in their shade with a book and a Thermos of sweet tea. Flowers bordered the sidewalks and winding trails, and folks still held their love of wrought-iron and delicate scrollwork. The South in which she'd been nurtured was distant history, buried beneath ash and defiant renewal, but its echoes endured, and perhaps it would remember its old hospitality and take its prodigal daughter home again.

And what if it doesn't? What if it rejects you just like our parents did? her brother asked, spite and bile on his tongue. Or what if McCoy's right and he doesn't have the clout to save you from Dr. Boswell and her needles and her spartan cot in some barren room? What if you spend the rest of your miserable life an exhibit in her dreadful medical menagerie, parading your defects like a whore on display in a Louisiana cathouse and performing tricks like a good little monkey, singing for your reconstituted supper for people who can't or won't hear the melody behind it? What if you spend the rest of your life never hearing that slow, Southern drawl, bourbon and sweet tea on the tongue?

She closed her eyes against her brother's malignant voice and focused on Spock's narrow back. Her heart hammered inside her chest, and her palms prickled with sweat. She wanted Dr. McCoy and his churlish grumping and his subconscious gallantry. She wanted his soft eyes and softer hands that belied his dour facade. Mostly, she wanted his voice, that familiar lilt that spoke of red clay and sweet grass and fried-chicken Sunday suppers.

I want to go home, she thought, and panic welled in her stomach and bubbled behind her sternum like an impending hiccup. I want Dr. McCoy, and I want to go home.

The doctor is busy trying to help you, darlin', her grandmother said. And home is long gone, baby. Whatever's left of it is riding around in your bones. You're just gonna have to get on as best you can.

She faltered, palms skidding against the handgrips, and drew to a jerky halt in the middle of the corridor. Spock, oblivious, walked on for several yards before he registered the sudden absence of her on the periphery of his vision. He stopped and turned, but did not retrace his steps. "Miss Walker?" His tone was cool, almost stentorian, but his eyes were curious.

She took a deep breath and reestablished her rhythm. "Sorry, Commander," she said with brittle determination. "I'm just scared, is all. And I want to go home."

She expected him to quirk another thick eyebrow dark as bootblack at that, but he didn't. Instead, he regarded her in contemplative silence for a long moment. "Fear is understandable but unnecessary," he said at last, and she sputtered to hear compassion rendered in the clipped language of absolute logic. "As the doctor should have explained to you, this is merely an interview to satisfy Federation regulations. As your identity has already been established through DNA, this is a formality." He resumed his trek, though more slowly than before.

"But what if I blow it?"

He did arch an eyebrow at that. "I do not see how that would be possible."

She shrugged. "Mr. Spock, I promise you I have managed some feats in my time. What if I make a fool of myself? I don't exactly know the rules of this Federation."

"The exhibition of irrational or poor behavior will not bar you from Federation citizenship," Spock assured her as they neared the turbolift. "If that were the case, the Federation would soon find itself in want of citizens."

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. "You sound like you don't have a very high opinion of your contemporaries."

"On the contrary, I find the crew of the Enterprise to be exemplary in the performance of their duties and a credit to their uniforms," he said as they joined the line for the next available lift.

"But?" she prodded.

"They are often irrational. The captain, for instance, has frequently indulged in reckless and ill-advised behavior."

"Dr. McCoy did mention something about jumping off a cliff. Still, he's the captain when he should still be chasing girls, so he must be doing something right," she pointed out as the line moved forward. "You're still here, any road."

The line surged again. "A fact attributable as much to luck as to the captain's decisions," he said.

"That's reassuring." She followed him into the turbolift and smashed herself against the rear wall, so close she could kiss the metal if she but puckered her lips.

Spock, unruffled by the crush of bodies, blinked down at her. "Perhaps if you were to turn parallel to the wall instead," he suggested.

"Wouldn't I take up more space that way?"

"The amount of space you would occupy would be equal regardless of the position you assumed," he informed her. "A parallel position would offer you greater comfort."

"I'll keep that in mind," she answered. "I think it's a bit late to do anything about it now." Someone rested a padd on top of her head for an instant before abruptly removing it.

"I'm sorry," said a mortified female voice above her head. "I didn't see you there."

"It's all right. You're not the first to make that mistake." And you probably won't be the last, either. she added ruefully.

The turbolift disgorged its contents onto the deck. "Starfleet regulations do not forbid the formation of interpersonal relationships, including those of a romantic nature," Spock said as he stepped out of the turbolift.

She blinked at the non sequitur. "That's good to know, I suppose, though I wasn't planning on going man-hunting."

You sure as hell'd take a poke at Dr. McCoy if you thought you had a shot at it, her brother leered, and in her mind's eye, she saw the doctor striding down the corridor in that silver wetsuit, the material clinging to all his God-given places.

It was even worse on the way back, she recalled as Spock set off down the corridor. I liked to have died watching him walk back to sickbay in that wet suit, water dripping from the ends of his hair. She smothered a wistful sigh and shifted against a sudden attack of the vapors. She ducked her head to conceal the blush she felt rising in her cheeks.

Spock took no notice of her sudden discomfiture. He simply strode on. He finally stopped at a door designated as E-241 by a small plaque mounted on the wall beside it. "Dr. No'dagha is inside," he said without preamble. "He will conduct your interview."

"Another doctor?"

"He holds a PhD in Social Work," he explained. "Hence, the title of Doctor."

She relaxed. "Thank heavens."

"Once your interview is completed, you will be free to explore the starbase. Are you familiar with the mapping system?"

"I can't say that I am. "Until now, I haven't been anywhere but sickbay and the hydrotherapy room on the ship."

"You can determine your location and the location of your desired destination with your padd or by accessing any of the computer panels you see on the walls." He gestured down the corridor with an elegant stretch of one long finger, a flight attendant pointing out the emergency exits during the safety lecture, and she fought the impolitic and childish impulse to snigger.

"Thank you, Mr. Spock."

A single, curt nod. "Human custom dictates that I wish you luck, but I do not believe it will be necessary." He gestured for her to pass through the waiting doors, and then he turned on his heel and left her where she sat.

She watched until his blue tunic was out of sight, and then she turned and surveyed the door with trepidation, fingers opening and closing restlessly on the handrims of her chair. The door gave no indication of what waited behind it.

I don't want to go in there, she thought, and her thigh twitched and bunched with the temptation to turn tail and flee to the familiarity of the Enterprise's sickbay, with its crepe-soled feet and antiseptic smell and implements of well-intended torture.

If you don't go in there, then Dr. Boswell wins, her grandmother noted. You could spend another cozy night on the Enterprise, but come tomorrow morning, Dr. McCoy wouldn't be able to do anything but watch as you were hauled off to where fragile things go to die in a hail of needles and experimental drugs. Besides, Dr. McCoy is doing his damnedest to help you, and it would be a shame to let all that effort be for nothing.

She thought of her childhood and the endless parade of therapists and social workers who had disrupted her playtime with interminable sessions of holding oversized pencils and blocks and looking at flashcards of dogs and cats and smiling policemen until the images burned themselves into her retinas and insinuated themselves into her lollipop dreams. There had been so many of them, most kind and competent, a few cold and indifferent to the child mired in the wrack of her body and desperate to do anything but sing for her supper like a starving minstrel on the mud-clotted edges of the market square, and each of them had torn from her a fragment of time that could never be recovered, crushed a dream that might have been beneath the weight of paper and ink and manila folders choked with observations and records seldom read and eventually gone to oblivion in a cloud of radioactive dust.

If I had known the way things were going to turn out, I would've spent a hell of a lot less time in therapy rooms and a whole lot more digging in the dirt in the backyard, she thought dourly. All the peg-cramming and leg-lifting I did didn't amount to a hill of beans in the end. It didn't keep me out of that tin can, and it damn sure didn't help me land Prince Charming.

It got you here, didn't it? Sitting in that spiffy chair and doing it straighter than you've ever been, Grandmama said stoutly. And even if the first part of your life didn't turn out the way you thought it would and was interrupted by idiot parents who couldn't see the gift God gave them, well, now you've got a second to get it right. Part of that means finding your gumption and seeing what's behind this door. It's not fair, but it's the way it is. It might be bad, just the most godawful mess of stupidity and ignorant foolishness you ever did see, or it might be something wonderful. Thing is, darlin', you won't get anywhere just sitting here.

She brushed the sleeve of her blouse and tucked a strand of her behind her ear. Here goes nothing, she thought, and rolled through the door.

The room, as it turned out, was furnished in Futuristic Therapist, with staid, grey walls decorated with holographic diplomas and certificates of appreciation and stark, utilitarian furniture. A couch butted the far wall, its upholstery like elephant hide, and to the left stood a desk, bare save for a padd placed on the blotter in the center and a coffee mug full of styluses. A holograph sat on the far edge. In front of the desk were two chairs of clamshell white, armless and deep-seated and wholly uninviting.

The man behind the desk rose and approached, hand extended. "Miss Walker?"

"Yes, sir, I am," she admitted, and willed her expression not to betray her surprise.

Dr. No'dagha wasn't human. His head was utterly hairless and twice the size of a man's, and the eyes, too, were enormous, a vivid, cerulean blue inside his dark brown face. The hand he offered her sported three long fingers and a thumb.

Closer to E.T. than the little, grey men,she mused idiotically as she accepted his hand. Leather against her palm, but his grip was gentle.

"Please, sit," he said graciously, and hurried to remove one of the chairs in front of his desk. He pulled the chair away and gestured for her to occupy the space that remained.

She dutifully slotted herself into the space and set her brakes, and then she rested her hands on her lap and resisted the impulse to twist the fabric of her skirt between her fingers.

Cool as a cucumber, my little rose, her grandmother urged, and she sat as straight as she could and curled her fingers around her knees.

Dr. No'dagha returned to his seat behind the desk, smoothing his grey tunic as he sat. "How are you today?" he asked, and reached for his padd.

"I'm fine. Bit nervous, I suppose. And yourself?"

"Fine, thank you," he answered. His voice was a smooth baritone, leather and oiled mahogany, and it carried an inexplicable hint of New Orleans patois. "And there's no reason to be nervous. This is just an interview to confirm what the DNA tests Dr. McCoy supplied told us, and to begin to get you acclimated to your new circumstances." He tapped the screen of his padd and sat it on the desk in front of him. "It must've been quite a shock to you."

"Yes, sir. I thought they were pulling my leg until they opened the observation window and showed me all the stars."

"'Pulling my leg,'" Dr. No'dagha repeated, mystified, and his hairless eyebrow ridge furrowed in confusion.

"Oh. It's an old expression, I guess. Means I thought it was a joke."

His expression cleared. "Ah. A reasonable reaction were I in your position," he said. "Though it would've been a formidable joke, indeed."

"I suppose it would," she agreed.

He offered her a small smile and sat forward in his chair. "Full name?" Brisk now, and she thought of university registrars and harried county clerks.

To business, then. "Rosalie Evangeline Walker."

Fingers glided over the padd, rain against the window. "Date of birth?"

"March 22, 1990."

Nimble fingers tripped over the improbable date, but only for an instant. "Place of birth?"

"Emory University Hospital, Atlanta, Georgia."

"Mother's name?"

"Sherrilyn Walker."

"Father's name?"

"George Walker."

"Any siblings?"

"One. A brother named Daniel. Younger, he was."

Not anymore, he ain't, piped up a vicious, wounded voice inside her head. Treacherous little shit's two hundred years in the ground, and God willing, he's so much dust in his coffin.

"You attended college, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did you study?"

"History. My degree's pretty much good for nothing now, though."

He looked up from his padd. "History might've gone on in your absence, Miss Walker, but the skills, ambition, and intelligence you used to attain it are still very much in demand. Have you thought about resuming your studies?"

"Certainly. But like I told Dr. McCoy, I'd have to find someplace I could get into first. Now that modern medicine has got most people like me all fixed up, there doesn't seem to be anywhere for me to go."

"So Dr. McCoy has discussed your options with you?" Casual, but she sensed a sudden shrewdness.

Careful now, Rosalie, Grandmama cautioned. It might be nothing, but it might be a whole lot of something, too. A careless word could come back to bite you in the behind.

"He mentioned I had a knack for learning after he gave me a battery of tests. Said he figured there'd be plenty of schools willing to take me if that's what I wanted once I finished with my rehab program."

"He's not wrong there." Dr. No'dagha thumbed through several screens on his padd. "He sent over your test results, and I must say, I'm deeply impressed. Conventional wisdom holds that individuals with your...difficulties are mentally impaired."

"Does it now?" she said, piqued. Well, I know just where they can stow that wisdom.

"Did you have a specific school in mind?"

She scoffed. "No. I figured I needed to get all this sorted first.' She gestured vaguely at her chair. "Dr. McCoy says there's distance learning I could do if I wanted."

"You seem to talk to Dr. McCoy a great deal," No'dagha observed. He pushed his padd aside and steepled his fingers, elbows propped on the desk.

She shrugged. "He was the first person I saw when I woke up. He's the one who planned my rehab and supervised my first few sessions. Plus, sickbay is the only accessible area of the ship right now, so I spend most of my time there."

He considered that. "The rest of the ship isn't accessible?"

"I can roll through it just fine, I suppose, and the doors are plenty wide, but the only toilet with handrails is in sickbay. Dr. McCoy talked about setting up quarters for me once I got a little stronger."

"Has he discussed your treatment options?"

She nodded. "It was one of the first things he did once he got some food in me."

"And what did he say?" The patois was soft as ever, but those blue eyes were sharp inside his face.

"He said there were surgeries he could do, and things he could try, but that he couldn't cure me. He could make it easier and treat the pain and make me comfortable and functional as possible."

"And has he?"

"Yes." Emphatic and without hesitation.

He raised an eyebrow at that.

"What?"

"You seem quite certain."

"If you'd seen me before he started, you wouldn't need to ask why," she retorted.

"Has he discussed Dr. Boswell with you?"

That's not the question you're really asking, is it? she thought shrewdly, and her fingers tightened on her knees. What you're really asking is if he's tried to poison me against her. Well, I hate to break it to you, but she's done a mighty fine job of that all by her lonesome.

"He told me her name, and that she was preeminent in her field," she said.

"Once again, he is correct. Dr. Boswell is a rising star in her field. You'll be in fine hands."

So it's a foregone conclusion then, she thought with rising alarm, and she tightened her grip on her knees until her close-cropped nails dug into the skin.

"Maybe so," she replied, and fought to keep her voice steady. "And I appreciate her taking the time to see me, but I won't know if she's the doctor for me until we meet."

"You haven't decided to become her patient, then?" he asked, surprised.

"I find it's a bad idea to make a decision before you have all the facts in front of you," she answered, all wide-eyed innocence. Beneath her fingers, her knees prickled and stung.

"That's true," he admitted. "Though be mindful that it is an incredible opportunity. Dr. Boswell doesn't accept many patients."

That's probably because they're all down in the basement, strapped to tables and chained in cages like zoo animals, she thought darkly, but her mouth knew better and said only, "And I'm grateful. Tomorrow will tell. Not many folks get a second chance at life, and I'd be a fool not to make the most of mine."

"True wisdom, Miss Walker," he said, and picked up his padd again.

On and on the interview went, and by the time she emerged nearly an hour later, she was battered and spent and on edge, a rabbit barely escaped from the circling shadow of a hawk. When the doors slid closed in her wake, she rolled a few paces to the left and sagged against the wall, the hull hard against her shoulder.

I feel like the only same person in a madhouse. Her muscles ached from the morning's constant tension, and nausea rolled in her empty stomach. She was starving, jittery from lack of food, but her belly was a greasy, miserable cramp of unease and excess adrenaline, and it would likely refuse anything she offered it. She could sleep at least if she could find her temporary quarters. The computer and its map, she supposed.

She rolled to the nearest computer station. "Computer, locate temporary quarters for Rosalie Walker."

"Temporary quarters for Rosalie Walker are pending. They are located on Deck 23, Room 061," it informed her with robotic cheer.

"Pending. Fantastic."

Back to the ship it was, then. It took her half an hour to reach its dock, twenty of which were spent waiting for an available turbolift that wasn't crammed to capacity. By the time she reached it, she was exhausted, out of sorts, and near tears. She rolled on board and made a beeline for the drab familiarity of sickbay. It was deserted when she rolled in, quiet as a tomb with no rolling carts or shuffling feet, and she found herself wishing for even a white-scrubbed yeoman for company.

Her padd was on the tray where she'd so foolishly left it, and she wasted no time in logging in and checking her messages. Precious few, given that she had no friends or family. In fact, all of them were from Dr. No'dagha. Informational packets, mostly, about the starbase and coping with integration into Federation society. Links to resources on education and counseling services. And at the bottom of the list one entitled simply Welcome to the United Federation of Planets, Miss Walker. ID#042-997-92-77-4578

She opened it and scanned the contents. Effective immediately, she was granted the status of Federation citizen and granted all the rights thereof. Please retain a copy of this for your records and transfer it to all personal com devices. She whooped in relief and promptly sent copies to the captain and Dr. McCoy. She'd scarcely lowered the padd to her lap when it chimed with an incoming message.

Where are you? Dr. McCoy, direct as ever.

The ship. My temporary quarters are pending. I didn't know where else to go.

Stay there. I'm on my way.

He appeared less than five minutes later, padd in one hand and bioscanner at the ready in the other. "You all right?" he asked, and waved the bioscanner over her head, a priest offering benediction.

"Tired," she admitted. "And I've got a headache."

"That might be because your blood-sugar levels are in the tank," he fumed. "Have you eaten?"

"I choked down half a piece of dry toast at breakfast. I was too nervous to eat much else."

"You're going to make yourself sick, dammit," he chided. He dropped his bioscanner onto a nearby tray and stalked to the replicator. "You're dehydrated, too."

"I was afraid my nerves would make me wet myself," she confessed.

The rigid line of his spine relaxed a fraction. "Well, you've crossed that hurdle. You need to drink and eat. What's your pleasure?" He stood in front of the replicator, finger poised over the keypad.

"Doctor's discretion," she mumbled, and buried her head in her hands.

The next time she looked up, it was to the sound of a tray clattering to the tray table beside her. "Eat," Dr. McCoy ordered. "And I mean all of it." He rounded her chair and grabbed the push handles, and then he maneuvered her in front of the tray table.

He had decided on a glass of water, a bowl of chicken and rice soup, a biscuit with butter and blackberry jam, a baked chicken breast, steamed carrots in a honey glaze, and mashed potatoes. She eyed the spread in dismay. "I can't eat all this," she groaned.

"You can, and you will," he retorted. "And I'm going to sit here until you do." He marched to his desk and sat in his chair with an air of ruffled indignation. He glowered as though daring her to say a word about it.

She giggled drunkenly at him. "Lord have mercy," she murmured fondly, and shook her head as she picked up her spoon and dipped it into the bowl of soup.

She felt the gentle weight of his scrutiny against her scalp and listened to the industrious clitter of a stylus over a screen. "If the headache hasn't subsided by the time you're done eating, I'll give you something for it," he said quietly.

"It's easing off already," she told him, and took a bite of mashed potatoes. Lightly buttered with a hint of garlic. The doctor was a man of impeccable culinary taste. She sighed in appreciation.

"Figured it would," he said, and she didn't miss the hint of pride in his tone, subtle as the garlic on her tongue.

She ate in silence. The tension ebbed from her body by slow degrees, a breath released. She ached with its loss. Because she'd been awoken earlier than normal, she couldn't be given her dose of Loxtan for fear of overdose, and her muscles were well aware of its absence. She winced at a hard knot in her shoulder and reached up to rub it with stiff fingers.

"You hurting?" Sharp.

"Some. I never got my Loxtan today." She took a bite of biscuit and coaxed her shoulder into an ungainly roll.

"Hell. This fiasco has made a mess of everyone's schedule."

"Sorry about that, Doctor."

He snorted. "Don't be so eager to take on the sins of the world, Miss Walker. Most folks got enough of their own to worry about." He rose and crossed to the bank of drawers where various medications were kept under lock and key. "If anyone's to blame for this mess, it's Dr. Boswell." He keyed in his authorization code and yanked open a drawer.

"All the same, I'm sorry for all the trouble this has put everybody to."

"That's another thing you need to quit doing," he said as he rummaged through the drawer and withdrew an ampoule. "You're not a damn problem to be dealt with. You're a human being who needs help. And you aren't the center of the universe, either. This didn't happen because of you; it happened because of bureaucracy, plain and simple. It's just as much a pain in the ass now as it was in your day."

"Oh, honey, I doubt that," she said, and used her knife to spread the jam on her biscuit. "Your patients ever have to wait nine weeks for essential medical equipment because some pinhead at the insurance company isn't sure the ability to breathe is medically necessary?"

"I can't say I have, no," he admitted. He inserted the ampoule into a hypo and clicked it shut. "My point is that that's one monstrosity we haven't managed to abolish." He approached her with hypo at the ready.

"This biscuit is a disgrace," she told him, and took another bite.

"Like one of those canned abominations they call 'homestyle'," he agreed. "But it's the best we've got. You can't teach home cooking to a machine." He pressed the hypo to the side of her neck. "This is another muscle relaxant called Detrazan. It's far less potent than the Loxtan and probably won't do much more than take the edge off your pain, but it also has a much shorter dosage window. It'll likely wear off while you're sleeping tonight, which means I can get you back on the Loxtan in the morning. Do I have your permission to administer it?"

She stared at him, blackberry jam sweet on her tongue. "Of course you do. Why would you even need to ask?"

"You were in obvious distress when I gave you the Loxtan the first time. You're not now, and since this isn't a life-threatening situation, you have the right to refuse."

Bless you, Dr. McCoy, she thought. I know damn well you don't need my permission for this. You're just doing it because you can, and because you'll be damned if you'll be like Boswell.

"Well, I'm not an idiot, so you go on and do what you need to do." She closed her eyes against the sting of grateful tears.

The hypo delivered its dose with a slow hiss. "Like I said, it should take the edge off. If you still feel like hell in an hour, I can give you a drop or two more."

"I've lived with out it for thirty years. I can live without it for another day."

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't have to," he groused, and tossed the hypo onto his desk. He ran his hand through his hair and leaned a hip against the edge of his desk. He crossed his arms and watched her eat. "For someone who wasn't sure they could eat all that, you're sure putting a hurting on it."

"Guess it's easier to eat when you don't feel like you're begging for your life."

His eyes darkened.

"That No'dagha fellow was nice enough, but he was doing quite the sell job for the greatness of Doctor Boswell. Made it sound like I'd received an invitation from the President."

"Did you commit to anything?"

"Like hell." She took several swallows of water. "I told him I wasn't making any decisions until I met the woman for myself."

He gave a curt nod of approval. "Your appointment is at 0800, by the way."

"Of course it is." She polished off the biscuit and washed it down with more water. "I guess that's another day lost?"

"Mmm. Unless you're feeling up to it." He was quiet for a moment. "We'll get back on track as soon as we get out of here. Unless you decide to stay. You can, you know, if that's what you decide.

"Dr. McCoy, have you lost your mind?" she asked, flabbergasted. "What in the world makes you think I'd want to stay here?"

He shrugged. "She might be an awful human being," he said, "but some of the worst human beings make the biggest breakthroughs. Maybe she can do for you what I can't."

She dropped her spoon into her potatoes with a thick plop. "You have got to be joking. Why would I want to cast my lot with some terrifying ideologue who thinks I'm a monkey with pretensions in need of correction? She's a eugenicist, for God's sake." She took a bite of carrots. "No. I've had my fill of rough handling. Maybe you can't make me walk; maybe I was never meant to. All I know is that you're the first doctor who's given me a choice. You haven't lied to me, haven't hurt me when you didn't have to, and you're the first person since my memaw to make me feel like a human being."

The doctor ducked his head and turned to study the shuttered observation window.

"I'd be a fool to throw that away for a chance at something the good Lord never meant for me to have, and for all her faults, Mama never raised a fool." Another carrot, another bite of potato. "Besides, you're the only piece of home I've got left."

The doctor shuffled and cleared his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed. He straightened and went back to the replicator.

"I hope that's for you, because I couldn't eat another thing," she said, and heaved a satisfied sigh.

He made no reply, but when he returned a moment later, he bore an enormous slice of peach pie topped with whipped cream and a scoop of pecan ice cream. He was also, she noted, carrying a second spoon.

"Not even for some peach pie?" He pushed her empty tray aside and set the dessert in the center.

"Doctor, you're going to kill me," she moaned.

"Well, at least you won't have to go to that damned appointment in the morning," he answered slyly, and pulled up a stool to settle opposite her.

She guffawed. "I like the way you think." She eyed the pie. "I could think of worse ways to go," she mused, and picked up her fork.

"And I've seen 'em," he said.

She plunged her fork into the crust at the tip of the slice and took a bite. "Whoever calibrated this replicator needs a whipping," she declared. "I don't think they've tasted a Georgia peach in their lives."

The doctor laughed. Not a brief guffaw, but true laughter, low and steady in his chest and soft as it spilled from his lips. Sensual as a sip of Kentucky whiskey and bright as summer sunshine, and the fist in the center of her chest unclenched. It was lovely. It reached his eyes and softened his face, and she couldn't help but stare as he rested his forehead on the back of one hand. His shoulders shook, and the spoon jiggled in his grasp, shallow bowl pointed downward like the fork of a dowsing rod.

His laughter was infectious, and soon she was laughing, too, soft, staccato chuffs that rattled her whole frame. She dropped the spoon and wheezed, tears streaming down her face.

"Oh," the doctor said when the laughter at last began to subside. He wiped his watery eyes with the heel of his palm.

She hiccoughed softly and sat back in her chair.

You need to do that more often, she thought as she watched the doctor straighten on his stool. It makes you beautiful.

And he was beautiful, boyish and young and tall as a young maple tree. The laughter erased years of care from around his mouth and eyes, and just before the mantle of doctor settled over him again, she saw the fresh-faced country boy he must've been, mucking stalls and calving heifers and sucking a blade of grass between his teeth.

"What?" he asked, and he was the wary, waspish doctor again.

She hid her smile behind a spoonful of mediocre pie. "Nothing, Doctor," she said, and her mouth filled with the taste of peaches.