It was late when she returned. Again, that gentle cough, and then she entered the tent. In the feeble light of the lone lantern, she saw that David was seated on the cot, Drächen sprawled next to him, sleeping peacefully. Kim thought at first that he was dozing, but saw as she drew closer that he was looking at his child, his eyes glued to the little girl's face. Funny that now she could see they were deep blue in color. She drew closer and touched the baby's forehead with the back of her hand. Cool and dry.

"How is it going, getting to know each other again?" she asked. Her voice was more gravelly later in the day, he noted.

His eyes flickered up to her face, back down to the child's. "Okay. She's changed so much; in a lot of ways she's a completely different person. Nine months is a pretty big portion of her life…" Regret haunted his voice, his face.

Kim nodded, didn't know what to say. Decided to address practicalities. "Did you have anything to eat?" she asked.

"Power Bar."

"I brought you an MRE. But why don't I lance that infection for you before you have it?" She didn't want him hurling his meal while she performed minor surgery. She had seen burlier guys vomit over less.

He stood up. "Where do you want me?"

"Right there is fine. I'll sit." She was pulling instruments and supplies out of her pack. She had to rummage around at the very bottom for something essential that turned out to be a flashlight with a strap that would go around her head. "Need headlights to work in here," she said. She sat back and indicated the supplies she had neatly arrayed, thinking he would want to check them. He glanced them over briefly—he had brought the injectables himself, after all—and pulled his shirt off, turning to present the wound to her, holding his arm up and out of the way. The bruising on his torso was epic. It astounded her that he was walking around. Still, she couldn't help noticing that underneath it all was an amazing physical specimen. His conditioning was superb, as if he had just graduated from Basic Training this morning.

Focus, Kim. She put on gloves and eye protection and started cleaning the site with iodine wipes. "I don't think I've ever seen bruising like this before. Did someone push you out a window?"

"I jumped."

Of course you did, she thought. "Here comes the Lidocaine."

David felt the jab of the needle going into his side and then nothing as she incised the swollen skin, careful to keep a Chux pad ready in case it decided to spray. She irrigated the site with saline solution to clean out the infection. Some sutures, an application of topical antibiotic ointment and a bandage, and she was done.

"I can't promise that it'll feel good when the lidocaine wears off, or look good, ever. But it has a chance to heal now." She was bagging up soiled chux pads and disposing of her gloves and sharps.

"Thanks," he said.

"You bet. That shoulder bothering you?" The scar was knotty and red. The Berlin team had read the report from the Moscow police; she knew he had been shot by Gretkhov's assassin-for-hire. And still, he kept going until he made his apology to the Neski's daughter. How he kept from bleeding to death, or freezing to death, or flatlining from shock… It was a mystery of his physiology, his psychology. His will. The myth rose up strong around him again.

He realized he had been standing there, rolling his shoulder vexedly. "Yes." He pulled on his shirt.

"Self-treated?"

"Yes."

When he didn't elaborate, she dropped it. "Here's your MRE." She tossed it to him. "I have no idea what it is, but I think I ate the same flavor in Kosovo in '98."

He sat down next to Drächen, peeled back the cover and started eating, not tasting. He knew it was better not to. He thought for a second, trying to coax names and dates out of his rusty memory. Finally, he gave up. Was rewarded with a rush of mission names. "Determined Falcon?" he asked. Conversational; two Marines shooting the breeze. A dim memory of how to do this stepping out of the shadows of his mind.

She looked up, surprised. "Dynamic Response first, then Determined Falcon, Noble Anvil, Shining Hope, Joint Guardian… Atlas Hinge was my last mission."

"26th MEU… MCB Camp Lejeune?" he asked.

Kim nodded.

"You did Basic at Parris Island." It wasn't a question; all female recruits have Basic at Parris. "I was at RTD Miramar."

"Lucky; San Diego weather is much more beautiful… The better to enjoy all those pushups in eight inches of surf, right?" Kim was smiling ruefully at the memory. "So you must be from west of the Mississippi?"

She hadn't read everything Landy had. "Missouri." So they tell me.

"Oh, really?" She smiled reflexively—Hi, Neighbor! "Iowa."

There was no corresponding smile. "You did FMT?"

"Yeah. I could have been a sharpshooter… I had the eye and the hands for it. My scores surpassed some of the guys that did do Scout. But I just could never develop the appetite. I didn't hunger for the pink mist." She glanced at his face, aware that she might be offending him, but why bullshit? "I chose Field Medic Training instead. My DI called it a waste. That my abilities went to a woman." Kim's bow-shaped mouth tightened at the memory.

"Called it a waste," he muttered, the MRE forgotten in his lap. His DI's voice echoed in his head. "Who are YOU to turn down an invitation to elite training? Have I wasted thirteen weeks of my life on you for you to turn me DOWN?"

She looked at him, seeing that he wasn't fully there. It wasn't in the file she saw, but she knew what training he took.

He was looking away. "You joined up to go to college?"

"Well, I'm the oldest of six kids, and my folks are farmers. So, yes. But, also, my Dad is a Marine—he served in Vietnam—and that inspired me."

There was a long silence as he looked at his scarred hands, at Drächen. Eventually, he looked back at Kim.

"You did FMT, too?" she asked. What kind of Special Forces program did that put him in?

"Yeah. Though, these days, recruits learn enough in Basic to do what I did for her today." He noticed his MRE again, took a bite. "Why'd you separate?"

"I'd had enough combat in Kosovo to last me a lifetime. Even the aid missions are combat assignments… I wanted to get an advanced degree; I studied psych as an undergrad. Intelligence was an interest of mine, and the Agency made a good offer. You?"

"I don't know."

That told her a lot. Still some memory loss. Or, maybe he never knew.

"Why did you quit the Agency?" he asked, giving up on the MRE, setting it aside.

She met his gaze directly. He registered that her features and coloring were frankly Irish: two broad cheekbones, pug nose, a sprinkle of light freckles across all three. Brunette hair glowing golden-red even in the dim light of the lantern. "Treadstone, Abbott… I couldn't be a part of that once I knew… Once I knew."

He didn't have a response to that.

Kim was talked out. She wearily set her Thermarest pad out on the ground.

"Do you want the cot?"

Gallantry? From Jason Bourne?

Kim shook her head. "Drächen needs it more than me. You too." She settled back with a sigh. "What's your plan for the two of you?"

He didn't answer. He was smoothing the hair back from Drachen's face..

"MSF says that Red Cross will be moving in this week to help with relief efforts. Maybe you and Drächen should move down to the orphanage compound tomorrow. The orphanage is gated; no one comes in without Father John's permission." She checked her sidearm and reached to shut off the lantern. "Good night."