"He isn't moving."

"He's unconscious."

"I think you may have killed him."

"Dammit, May! For the last time, I didn't kill him! He slipped and fell. Probably hit his head on the road. My truck didn't even touch him!"

"So why isn't he moving!"

The sounds of a loud and screeching argument weren't Tim's ideal sounds for when he floated back to consciousness. The rain pounding against him and the wind which blew a frigid breeze against his motionless form, chilling him to the core, made it even worse. His body was in pain from his throbbing head down to aching ankle. He tried to open his eyes, but rain drops kept sinking in, burning his eyes like eye drops. So he let out a low moan to announce his return to the land of the living.

"Told you he wasn't dead."

"Better get him in the truck. I can move my seat up a ways and you can put him in the back."

"I can't move him myself!"

Tim felt two arms encircle him and pull him to a sitting position. His body ached in protest and he voiced his body's protests with another moan. He just wanted to lie back down and let the pain wash over.

"C'mon, mister," the voice said. "I can't leave you here and I can't get you up by myself."

Somehow, Tim managed to plant his feet below him as the arms lifted him up to a standing position. His eyes were still closed and he felt like he was about to vomit. Still, he allowed himself to be led an unidentifiable distance. Another pair of hands—these distinctly feminine in comparison to the other pair—gently took his arm.

"We'll take care of you, sweetheart," a soft voice said. "You just try and warm up. Willy, crank up the heater!"

He was laid down inside the truck. It was uncomfortable, but he didn't complain. He was out of the rain and that was a plus.

"He's too tall to fit."

"That's okay," said the soft voice. "We'll get him back to the house and he can lay down there."

The other voice grumbled. "Crazy guy…running around in the rain. Gonna get himself killed!"

The truck came to life and continued its journey down the rainy road. Tim managed to pry his eyes open and assess his surroundings. He was lying in the back of a pick-up truck. His head was situated on one of the fold-down seats and his legs spanned across to the other one. It was a tight squeeze and his knees were painfully bent. He situated his feet so that the soles of his shoes were pressed flat against the opposite end and his knees were creating a right angle.

The woman caught sight of his movement and looked back over her seat, behind which Tim's head lay. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her brown hair was curly and frizzy, hanging around her face like limp noodles. She wore no make-up and her eyebrows looked as though they could use a good tweezing. When she smiled, Tim noticed her teeth had a sickly yellowish color. Still, he felt comfortable knowing she was there, though he didn't know why. "You okay, darling?"

Tim wasn't sure. "I…I think so."

"What on earth were you doing running around in the rain like that?"

"I…" his mind drew a blank. It was clouded, like a fog that refused to lift. "I don't know…"

"You must have one hell of a death wish, kid." That comment came from the driver. He looked older than the woman, with blonde hair which stuck out at the back of his baseball cap. He wore a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing a large tattoo of a scantily dressed woman on the man's forearm. The man didn't turn around as he said it, but Tim caught his scornful glare in the rear view mirror.

The woman, who seemed far more congenial than her male counterpart, smiled at Tim. "I'm May and this is my husband Willy. And you are?"

He rubbed his head as though his massaging fingers might pull bits of information forward. It seemed to work. "Tim," he said. "Tim McGee."

"Well don't you worry, Tim. We'll get you back to our house and settled in. You can stay for the night if you'd like, though you'll have to take the couch."

He didn't respond. His mind was elsewhere…a thought that refused to completely form. Tim scrunched his eyes closed, but still got nothing.

"You hungry, darling?"

"No," he told her. "I had dinner tonight."

"Well, we got a nice big pot of beef stew at the house if you change your mind."

"What happened to me?" he asked. He didn't quite recall how he'd gotten into this situation to begin with.

"You ran out into the street like a crazy person," Willy said. "If I hadn't stopped in time, you'd be road kill."

"Why…why did I do it?"

Willy snorted. "Hell if I know! You were probably pepped up on some kinda drug."

His wife gave him a smack on the shoulder. "Hush! You don't know what was happening." Despite her words, she gave Tim a worried glance. "Were you doing drugs, darling?"

"No…I don't think so."

Willy gave another snort.

May turned back around in her seat, though not before giving Tim a reassuring pat on his knee. "You just rest," she told him. "I'll get you a nice cup of coffee and you'll be good as new."

Something was biting at the back of his mind, but he couldn't pull it out of the fog. Finally, he stopped trying and sighed resignedly. Whatever it was couldn't be that important.

Try as she might, Ziva couldn't sleep. It was too cold to sleep; she needed it warm and toasty. It must have been because she grew up in Israel. There, she was always warm, even on the coldest night. The blanket was doing little to help her. It was still wet from her earlier trek into the rain. But it would have to do unless she wanted to lie stark naked in the back of the car.

Despite the severity of her situation, Ziva grinned at the notion. What would Tim think to come back and find her like that, her best sex kitten pout decorating her face. It would certainly leave him tongue-tied, back to his old, stuttering ways. Then again, if he came back—when, she mentally corrected, when he came back—it would most likely be with help and that probably wasn't the best way to be found. Besides, that was how they'd gotten into this situation to begin with.

She glanced down at her bare abdomen. Was there anything still there, she wondered. She placed a hand over it. Obviously, it was too early to feel any kicking, but Ziva hoped that just maybe she'd be able to make-out a heartbeat or a movement or something.

There was nothing.

"No use obsessing over it," she said aloud. Had anyone heard her comment, they would have heard the shaky uncertainty which betrayed her true feelings of the subject. She intended to obsess over it until she had a definite answer concerning the fate of her child. Their child, she corrected glumly in her mind.

A sound from outside took her attention. She sat up and looked out the window. It was nearly impossible to see anything. There was nothing. But there was the sound again. Could Tim have returned with help? Or had someone miraculously spotted her car? Was this person a friend or a foe? If it were the latter, could she possibly hope to defend herself in this situation?

When she heard it a third time, Ziva clicked the door open slightly. "Hello!" she called out, hoping her voice was strong enough to carry through the sound of the rain. "Is anyone there?"

No one responded.

"Please," she croaked desperately, "please, if you can hear me, I need help! I'm trapped down here!"

There was the sound again…a kind of creaking sound…like wood breaking apart…

She stuck her head out of the door and into the rain. Tim had told her not to leave the car, but her body was still inside, so she hadn't technically left the car. She searched through the sheet of pouring water for the source of the sound. When she heard it again, she realized it was coming from high above her. Looking up, she saw with horror a rather large tree limb threatening to fall. She mentally begged it to stay put.

As if it were mocking her, the wood further cracked and the tree could take no more. The limb snapped off from the strength of its own weight and gravity pulled it quickly down upon the car.

Ziva only had enough time to dive to the floor of the backseat before the limb made impact with the top of the car with a sickening crunch.