The instant Dr. Sam Beckett materialized in the careening car, he knew something was dreadfully wrong. The face of the man in the driver's seat held the blank expression of death, lifeless eyes fixed on an unseen object outside the windshield. Sam followed the direction of the look in time to see a car coming straight for him, head-on. He frantically tried to turn the steering wheel from his position in the passenger's seat but the body slumped against it precluded the maneuver necessary to avoid the oncoming vehicle. He only had enough time to tuck his head under his arms and wait for the impact. The last thing he thought was, the powers that kept him leaping around in time had made a terrible mistake-he was going to die in this crash.

"Ziggy says she had him, that he definitely landed but then she lost him. I checked the Waiting Room. It's empty."

Al Calavicci's expression ran the gamut from shock to horror then finally settled on denial, all within a matter of seconds. He regarded the man standing uncomfortably before him and noticed the beads of sweat dotting his high forehead and his eyes, which usually had a wild, frenzied look to them, drooped under distress laden lids. "Then Ziggy is wrong and he hasn't landed yet," he explained, then took a slow drag from the cigar in his left hand. Rolling the smoke between his fingers, he tried to act disinterested. After all, the egotistical, overly sensitive, hybrid parallel computer that Sam Beckett had designed to run Project Quantum Leap had been grossly wrong before. He silently hoped that she was just experiencing another one of her temporary glitches.

Gushie nervously shifted his weight from one leg to the other, wishing he could be anywhere else but there. The item he held in his right hand seemed to burn in his grasp. "I think you'd better look at this." He cautiously extended a video cassette in Al's direction while visions of murdered messengers entered his mind.

Al stared down at the rectangular box then back at Gushie, his face a mirror of the conflict occurring inside. If he accepted the tape and whatever secrets it held, he knew he would lose the denial he had accepted only a few moments ago. He slowly took the tape from Gushie's shaking hand and left the Control Room without a word.

Although the tape lasted only five minutes, Al sat alone in his quarters for over an hour, watching and rewatching it. The image was now burned into his memory: the flickering in, then out, of Sam Beckett's physical aura, then nothing, only an empty blue room.

He pinched the bridge of his nose between index and forefinger and squeezed his eyes shut only to see the drama again. "Ziggy," he began. "What could cause the events in the waiting room today?"

"An abrupt change in Dr. Beckett's neurological synapses," the computer answered with her typical arrogant air.

Al had often wondered how a man as modest and unobtrusive as Sam Beckett could design such an irritating and vainglorious machine. There wasn't any of Sam's warmth and compassion in the, only the disinterested patterns of a being suffering from an extreme superiority complex. Over the years, Al had thought he'd become immune to it; however, at that moment, it left him incensed.

He took a deep breath before asking the next question. "And what could cause these changes?"

"Death, Admiral Calavicci."

"I know that, Ziggy. What else besides death?"

"Severe trauma to the neurons and mesons could effect the same results."

Al rubbed his hand down his face. He didn't want to ask the next question. He would have given anything not to. He stared down at his palm and noticed the moisture on it. "What are the odds that Dr. Beckett is still alive?"

"Twenty-three point eight percent, Admiral."

Dismal odds.

Beep, click, hiss. Beep, click, hiss. The incessant sound of humming. Beep, click, hiss. The faint rustling of cloth. Beep, click, hiss. Distant voices, warm hands. Beep, click, hiss. Finally silence. Sunlight streaming through closed eyelids. A vision of a tall, lean young man standing next to him then starting to move away. Something drawing him further and further away. Then nothing. He was alone.

"Tom." The word burned his throat. Even though he didn't know the man, he somehow knew the name was right.
 

"Tom. Is that your name?" he heard a distant feminine voice ask.

It wasn't right. He searched for his name in the dark caverns of his mind but there was nothing, just a gaping, black hole where memories should be.

"Are you awake, Tom?" the voice asked.

He opened his eyes to see a pair of deep blue eyes peering back at him only inches above his nose. It took a moment to focus before he could survey the face surrounding the eyes: short, curly blonde hair, pudgy cheeks and full pink lips spread into a wide grin. He didn't know her.

"Welcome back, Tom," she greeted him.

He felt a weariness to the marrow of his bones and then the pain, a throbbing all the way down his right side from his temple to his toes. He winced.

"I'll call the doctor. She'll know what to do." The young woman moved away.

"Don't leave," he pleaded. An overwhelming need to not be alone swept over him. When he tried to grab her his right arm refused to respond. He look down to see it encased in a plaster of Paris splint.

"I'll be right back," she said, then disappeared from his field of vision.

He turned his head to follow her but a shooting stab of pain behind his eyes stopped him from completing the move. A cold wave of nausea rose, then ebbed, and he drifted back to sleep.

When he awoke again, he sensed someone was there, in the room with him. He heard the clap of a metal clipboard and followed the sound to the foot of the bed where a different woman stood reading his chart. She was dark, olive-skinned with long, almost Asian-like hair, and her dark eyes were pressed down by a furrow in her brow while she read. The white lab coat that covered her street clothes seemed strangely out of place against her darkness.

He shifted his position, hoping that would alleviate the pain, but his body screamed out in protest. He had only made it worse. The sudden intake of air hissed through his teeth. When he reopened eyes he hadn't realized he had shut, she was looking at him.

"How are you feeling?" she asked gently.

"Hurts," was all he could answer.

She smiled warmly. "Good. It shows you're alive." She took a hypodermic needle from the tray next to her and moved to the IV tube attached to his left hand. "This will help," she said as she injected the drug into the tube. He watched her thumb force the plunger down.

"The orderly says your name is Tom." she said, her eyes glued to her watch while taking his pulse.

A wave of relief washed over him as the drug quickly entered his bloodstream. "No."

"Do you know what your name is?"

"No."

"Then for lack of your real name we'll call you Tom. Is that okay?"

For some reason, strangers calling him by a name he knew was not his own had an unexplained familiarity to it. He nodded his head slightly in acceptance.

"You were in a car accident. Do you remember it?"

Her words, spoken with a thick Texas accent, seemed to float toward him now. The painkiller, he reminded himself. "No."

"The driver was killed and you had no identification on you. Did you know Alan Lester?"

"Who?"

"The driver's name was Alan Lester, a stockbroker from Century City. Did you know him?"

Her forefinger passing in front of his eyes captured his attention. It was becoming more and more difficult to concentrate on the questions. "No."

"Come on, Tom, stop being such a negative guy." She smiled broadly and, taking the stethoscope from her shoulder, put on the earpieces. "Let's see how your heart is reacting to that medication." She placed the broad flat end on his chest and listened intently for fifteen seconds then, removing the earpieces, she gave him another encouraging smile. "Lucky for us, you were in pretty good shape before the accident. Sure made our job a little easier." Her face briefly clouded over. "We almost lost you a couple of times that first day." She checked his eyes. "You got quite a nasty bump on the head."

"How long?"

"Five days. But it's all going to be easy street from here on." She brushed the hair back from his forehead and inspected something there, then stood up straight and folded her arms under her breasts, signaling the end of the examination. "A few broken bones, cuts and bruises. You'll be good as new in six weeks or so. You might have a few headaches in the future but those ought to stop after awhile."

"Five days? No one looking?"

"I'm sorry, Tom. We've been in constant contact with the police department and they have no missing person reports on anyone who fits your description. You wouldn't happen to remember your birth date, would you?"

"August 8, 1953." The words popped out of his mouth without a conscious thought preceding them.

The doctor laughed. "Nice try, amigo. However, I've been a doctor long enough to know there is no way you're twenty-six years old unless you've been rode hard and put away wet every day of those twenty-six years."

He smiled wearily, then the numbers 26 and 53 started sailing through his mind. 26, 53. 53 plus 26 equaled 79. 1979! Panic welled up inside. He might not remember the car accident and he might not know his name, but the one thing he was certain of was there was no way it could be 1979. "What's the date?" he asked, knowing the exact date was of paramount importance.

"August 29, 1979," she answered. "Does that help?"

"No," he answered softly. His face fell into an expression of total dejection. He shut his eyes and realized the physical pain was gone. He wondered if the doctor had a magical drug that would make the total aloneness he felt disappear.

The moment Al entered the Control Room, his presence was known by all even though he hadn't made a sound. A gloom descended over the room. It wasn't just his appearance, unshaven, disheveled and the surprisingly subdued wardrobe. It was his demeanor and especially his once bright eyes, now clouded by sadness and lack of sleep, that screamed out depression. But still, he wouldn't give up. Two months had past and every morning it was the same routine.

"Status." He gave the one word directive like the commander he was.

"No change, Admiral," Gushie replied, feeling an uncontrollable urge to stand at attention. He had stopped calling his colleague "Al" after the eighth day.

"Ziggy, the odds of Dr. Beckett's survival?"

"Nine point seven percent."

Down almost another two-tenths of a percent in less than five hours. So far, it had taken a full twenty-four hours to drop that much. Still, he wasn't going to quit until she said "zero."

"What is taking you so long with the John Does?" he asked, frustration and worry almost causing his voice to crack.

"It's obvious that you have no idea how many John Does are admitted and discharged from hospitals every year."

"I don't care how many, Ziggy. I'm only interested in one."

"It takes time to follow each one after their release."

"They can't all be the same age as Dr. Beckett."

"Age? No one specified age," she stated prosaically.

Al took an angry puff from his cigar. "You knew we were looking for Dr. Beckett, didn't you?" he asked lividly.

"Yes," the computer responded.

"Then why the hell would you trail someone who doesn't fit his profile? You stupid pile of useless microchips."

"No one specified age," the computer repeated.

"You're supposed to be this super-hybrid parallel machine. We didn't think we had to." Al scanned the room, searching for something close by that he could hit without worrying about the consequences should he break it. A vending machine came to mind but those were down in the commissary. "I can't believe you've been tracking every John Doe from the year 1953 on." He clenched his jaw in an attempt to regain control, then very carefully and very slowly snarled, "Ziggy, we're trying to find out what happened to Dr. Beckett. Please check your records for data on only the John Does from 1953 on who match his description."

"There were four," the computer announced almost instantly. "Two in New York City, one in San Francisco and one in Los Angeles."

"Of these four, Ziggy, did any of them suffer head injuries serious enough to affect the neurons and mesons in their brain?" He yearned to be pounding a keyboard connected to a non-egotistical, insensitive numbers-cruncher.

"The ones in 1962 New York and 1979 Los Angeles."

"You're positive that both of these match Dr. Beckett's age, race, weight, etceteras?"

"Yes, Admiral. You know you don't have to talk to me in such a condescending tone."

"I'm not the one who's been chasing irrelevant data for two months," he spat out. "Okay, we have two possible candidates. Where do we go from here?"

"I could analyze the EEG charts of both patients and see which one more closely resembles Dr. Beckett's brain pattern. Then I can adjust the Imaging Chamber so I can lock on to the new pattern."

"Why didn't you try this before?" Al quipped.

"Because no one specified age."

"Do it, Ziggy," Al ordered, trying to control his rage and remember that, despite all the improvements, she was still only a computer.

"It's done. The John Doe in New York could not possibly be Dr. Beckett. His brain patterns are too dissimilar. However, the one in Los Angeles is a very close match. Although I have modified the Imaging Chamber, I must warn you, the subject will probably not be able to see... Where are you going, Admiral Calavicci?"

The Admiral didn't stop to reply. He was in a dead run toward the Imaging Chamber.

The rain had been pelting down for almost two hours, washing the grimy streets of downtown Los Angeles of most of their soot and debris. The litter which usually peppered every crevice collected in small whirlpools at the mouths of intermittent storm drains. Standing in the recessed doorway of a closed store, Tom tried to avoid the downpour but the wind whipping through the canyon of tall buildings sent sheets of water into the protected alcove. He was soaked to the skin and shivering. His right arm ached and his head throbbed. He had to find shelter from the storm or, in his weakened condition, he would be susceptible to pneumonia. There was no spare money for antibiotics, let alone a doctor's visit for a prescription. Too bad he couldn't prescribe them for himself. He grasped that thought for a moment-a medical degree from Johns Hopkins University-but, as with all the other flashes of memory he'd had recently, a blinding pain prevented him from seeing the name on the diploma. He shuddered, took a deep breath and left the limited protection of the overhang in search of better shelter.

Life on the street had been hard over the past two months. He had no money, no job and no hope for the situation to improve any. He had been released from the hospital two weeks after he had awakened and was placed into the hands of the Social Service Department where his lack of identification had sent the clerks scurrying for a precedent. When none was found they apologized and referred him to the Employment Development Department which refused to even talk to him once they discovered he didn't know his Social Security number. The few odd jobs he had managed to find, sweeping store fronts, washing windows and the like, only paid enough for an occasional meal at a greasy fast food restaurant.

The clothes the hospital had given him upon his release hung on his thin frame. He had lost close to fifteen pounds that he couldn't afford to lose. His face was covered by a full beard, a condition he didn't like but couldn't avoid, the purchase of a razor being low on his list of priorities. He had managed to find a bed every night in the downtown mission until today. The more street-savvy homeless had sought shelter early from the approaching storm. By the time it had started to rain, all available beds had been taken.

He hunched his shoulders and walked into the driving wind and rain, heading west on 5th Street. Although it was only early afternoon, the storm made it seem more like dusk. The street traffic was light even for a Saturday, with most people snuggled up in their warm homes. At least, as the only pedestrian, he didn't have to endure sneers from others.

As he stepped off the curb at Hill Street, he was caught in the full fury of a hailstorm. Pershing Square, with its wide open space, became the center point of the maelstrom. He picked up speed, the hail crunching under his feet, and ran to the hotel on the next block, ducking into the doorway. The sound of the hail pummeling the ground covered the noise of his teeth chattering.

The door opened behind him, lifting his hopes for a warm, dry refuge, but they were quickly dashed as the words, "Damn bum, get out of here," reached his ears. He left the doorway, unaware of the silent, invisible Observer who had been following him for the past five minutes.

"Ah, Sam," the Observer moaned, then punched a key on the brightly colored handlink and disappeared.

"Are you ready to go, Donna?" a young man asked his companion, who sat across from him in the Los Angeles main library's reading room. He watched the young woman's hand jerk across a yellow tablet, scribbling notes. Her dark eyes were cast down, scanning the open book on her left. Her dark, wavy hair, which fell past her shoulders, bobbed when her head yo-yoed between the book and her notes. She sucked contemplatively on her full lower lip.

"Not yet, Frank," she replied without looking up. "Give me a few more minutes."

"That's what you said half an hour ago." He nervously checked the watch wrapped around his left wrist. "I told you I had to be back by 1:45 and already it's 1:30. It's going to take at least thirty minutes to get to campus in this weather."

Donna drew in a deep resolving breath, stopped writing and firmly closed the book. Her eyes, traveling toward Frank's face, were caught by a flurry of movement twenty-five feet behind his right shoulder. Several staff members were converging on a grubby, skinny man whose stance in the foyer indicated total resignation. She couldn't hear the words being directed toward him as he dripped all over the floor, but she could guess what was being said. The way his head was bowed down submissively prevented her from seeing his face but as he turned toward the door, his head came up and their eyes locked for a second before he completed the turn and walked out the door.

Donna had only seen that expression once before. When she was thirteen, a starving, filthy stray dog had followed her home from school. The twelve years that had past since had not faded the look from her memory: total helplessness, total capitulation. The image spurred her impulse to do for this person what she had done for the dog: feed him, give him a warm place to sleep and ask her mother if she could keep him.

"Can we go?" Frank prodded, his tone indicating his rising impatience.

She twisted around, put the book on the cart behind her with a little more force than she had wanted to and replied with an irritated quality in her voice, "Yes, Frank, we can go now." As she gathered the loose pages and spiral notebooks that were spread out on the table, her thoughts traveled to that dog, now in his teens, and how he was probably curled up on her mother's couch at that very minute.

Al felt a mixture of relief and despair as he stepped out of the Imaging Chamber. Relief because Sam Beckett was alive. He had seen Sam with his own eyes which was what had brought on the despair. It wasn't that Sam couldn't see him (he figured a few adjustments would probably remedy that), it was his best friend's condition. The thin, undernourished and totally dispirited human being who had been playing a losing game of hide and seek with the weather had replaced the healthy male specimen Al remembered.

"Ziggy, gather all the data you have on the John Doe in Los Angeles."

"Tom Doe," the computer corrected.

"I don't care what name he goes by." Al glanced around the Control Room and acknowledged each one of the eager faces that looked back. They had all performed their jobs admirably and it was time for the pay-off. With hopeful optimism he announced, "He's really Sam Beckett."

The cheer that followed was deafening. It reminded Al of the second leap, so many years ago, when Sam had disappeared for over a week, only that time he had been a participant, reveling just as loudly as the rest of the staff. The circumstances this time put a damper on his jubilation as he watched the back-slapping and vigorous handshaking. The image of his best friend refused to diminish.

Ziggy interrupted the celebration with a computer-generated clearing of a throat that wasn't there. "There is no further data on Tom Doe, Admiral," she stated. "After his release from Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, he appears to have vanished."

"I just saw him."

"That may be; however, there are no records of his further existence. No Social Security number, no tax returns, no driver's license..."

And no death certificate, Al sighed thankfully to himself.

"Are you certain that the person you saw was Dr. Beckett?" the computer asked.

"Of course, I'm certain. Thinner, dirtier and with a full beard but positively Sam. Put that in your microchips and your damned percentages and smoke 'em, Ziggy."

"Could Dr. Beckett see you?"

Al ignored the question. He tried to block out the scene that had transpired in the Imaging Chamber, the efforts he had made to get Sam to see him only to have his friend walk away, oblivious. There had been times when Sam hadn't known who he was; there had been times when they had lost contact. Through it all, the younger man had always been aware of his existence. He wasn't now.

"Could he, Admiral?"

"No," he replied slowly, then quickly added, "but I'm sure with some fine tuning..."

"Highly unlikely, Admiral Calavicci," the computer interrupted. "Without the subject here I cannot fine tune to the neurons and mesons of his brain."

"Hit and miss, Ziggy. Hit and miss." As he regarded the rejoicing staff again, an encouraging smile swept across his face. His faith in them was implicit. "Now that we found him we'll just keep trying until we get it," he whispered to the computer.

Cold and wet, Tom curled up into a ball, knees drawn tightly to his chest. The bridge under which he lay huddled provided protection from the rain but not the wind which passed through his soggy clothes and chilled him to the bone. He couldn't remember how warmth felt. Hypothermia. He had to worry about hypothermia, if only he could remember what that was.

The day had been miserable; he had been thrown out of every building he had entered seeking shelter from the storm: the three restaurants, the two parking structures and the library.

The library. That's where he had seen her, a face so familiar that it hurt when he tried to recall her name and couldn't. He wondered if she just looked like someone he had known before the accident since she obviously hadn't recognized him. She hadn't come after him when he had left. She hadn't even searched around when she had exited the building five minutes after him. He knew. He had watched her leave through a headache induced haze.

He must have fallen asleep because when he opened his eyes the world was bathed in bright sunlight and birds chirped a morning reveille. He slowly stretched cramped muscles then hugged his aching right arm close to his body and ignored the pounding in his head. The temperature was in the low fifties but it felt much colder when the light breeze passed through his still wet clothes. Necessity demanded that he find something dry to wear but, if his recollections were correct and it was Sunday, none of the local second hand stores would be open which limited his sources for a change of clothes within his means. He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the only bill, $5. It would pay for either clothes from a yard sale or food, not both. His trembling body dictated warmth so he opted for clothes while wishing he could afford a razor and shaving cream.

He washed up at a MacDonald's on 7th Street and bought a cup of coffee. While he sat in a corner booth, sipping the hot liquid, he tried to ignore the stares glaring in his direction. He couldn't blame them for their unabashed gawks, having just seen his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The scruffy man with a shaggy beard and dirty, wet clothes who had looked back at him through hazel eyes set deeply under bushy eyebrows was despicable. His brown hair, with the curious white streak, was unkempt and filthy and the hair covering his face did nothing to hide the sallow complexion or the gaunt cheeks, the combination of both making his prominent nose seen even larger. He had an eerie feeling that he hadn't seen a lot of that face before the accident.

Before the accident. He'd had a life, before the accident. He'd been clean shaven, before the accident. He'd been able to afford even the minor necessities, a razor, shaving cream, a bar of soap, before the accident. All he had now were clothes fit only for a garbage can, $4.41 in his jeans pocket and a toothbrush in its now soggy original box tucked away in his windbreaker. A man shouldn't have to live like this, he thought, no matter what the circumstances.

When he finished the coffee he set out in search of yard sales. Finding one on a side street near MacArthur Park, he haggled with the owner over a table full of used but serviceable clothing. Ten minutes later, with two pairs of baggy jeans, three flannel shirts and $4.00 less in his pocket he used the balance of his money to pay for a small, sample tube of toothpaste and one red licorice rope at a nearby drugstore.

He changed clothes at a MacDonald's across from the park. Admitting his old wardrobe was too far gone, he stuffed it into the garbage can on the way out, keeping only the windbreaker. He devoured the licorice while sitting in the park watching families picnic and couples, in the foot pedal boats, glide across the small lake. Like the other homeless men and women who sat on park benches, he was alone and detached, a spectator, not a participant in the scene around him.

"You're getting maudlin," he told himself after his hours of people watching had gravitated to the winos drinking from brown- paper-bag-wrapped bottles and the old men and women pushing junk filled shopping carts from one end of the park to the other.

At dusk, with the paper sack that held his extra clothes tucked under his arm, he left in search of adequate housing for the night. With the weather clear there was an abundance of empty beds at the L. A. Mission downtown. Exhausted from the previous night's ordeal, he slept a dreamless sleep, despite the gnawing hunger in his belly.

"I don't care if it takes ten years, Gushie. Adjust the damn frequency!" Al nervously paced back and forth. He felt like a tom cat trapped on the wrong side of a closed window, able to see what was going on outside, unable to participate. He had spent the entire day popping in and out of the Imaging Chamber, watching his best friend, a man who held several doctorates, hustle small clean up jobs from shop owners on Los Angeles Street. He wished he could enjoy the irony but his attention was transfixed by the repulsive holographic image of a run-down coffee shop where Sam was eating his first decent meal in two days. "I don't understand why I can see him but he can't see me." Frustration permeated his tone.

"Ziggy says it has to do with the physiology of the brain." Gushie's disembodied voice filled the air around him. "Evidently, the accident altered the receiving portions of the neurons and mesons without affecting the parts that transmit to you. She's also saying that these attempts at fine tuning his reception might result in adverse effects."

Al left the Imaging Chamber, his face drawn into a look of deep concentration mixed with worry. "Tell me about the accident, Ziggy." He hitched a hip on the brightly colored console that was the nerve center for the project.

"The head-on collision occurred on August 24, 1979," the computer began. "Alan Lester was driving west on Beverly Boulevard when a vehicle heading east and driven by Steven Alexander crossed over the center line traveling at a speed of approximately forty-five miles per hour. Both drivers were killed, Mr. Lester, aged fifty-six, from a massive heart attack microseconds before impact, Mr. Alexander from injuries sustained during impact. An autopsy revealed that Mr. Alexander had a blood alcohol level of two point one percent. Tom Doe was the only survivor."

Damned drunken driver, Al cursed to himself. "Tell me about Alan Lester," he demanded aloud, knowing he was heading into dangerous territory but unable to stop himself.

"Born January 7, 1923, Alan Lester was a stockbroker with offices in Century City. He was survived by his wife of thirty-five years, two sons and three grandchildren. At the time of his death, both his personal and business checking accounts were overdrawn. He had just completed bankruptcy forms at his lawyer's office when he died."

"And Alexander, what about him?"

"Steven Alexander, aged twenty-seven, had a history of driving under the influence, starting when he was seventeen. He had been arrested and convicted five times before August 24th. At the time of his death, his driver's license had been revoked."

"What are you looking for, Al?" Dr. Verbena Beeks asked upon entering the room. As the Project psychiatrist, she had spent the time since Sam's disappearance watching the slow deterioration of the man she had been acquainted with and had learned to know well over the past four years. Relieved that he finally looked rested, the flamboyant wardrobes had been pulled out of mothballs and the spring was back in his step, she still kept a wary eye on the deep crease that remained between his eyebrows.

He swung around quickly as though caught in the act of doing something wrong, then, just as hastily, recovered. "If we can figure out what Sam Leaped in there to do, we can do it for him." He tried to convey an air of impeccable logic. "And then when history is changed, he'll Leap out. When he lands he'll be back to his old self since he's never carried injuries sustained in one Leap to the next."

"And how do you intend to change history, Al?" Verbena's eyes were dark and foreboding. "Go into the Accelerator yourself?"

"Yes," Al answered quickly, his expression a mixture of little boy excitement and mature adult cynicism.

At that moment, Verbena wished someone else could become the voice of reason, someone who didn't know or care what effect the words that needed to be uttered would have. "You know the Committee will never approve it." She gave his forearm a sympathetic squeeze. "Besides, that's all we need, two of you bouncing around out there."

Al looked down at the comforting hand then back at her face, his expression one of desperation. "I feel so damned powerless," he confided. He didn't need to tell her that, over the years, their vicarious relationship was as important to him as it was to Sam-correction, had been to Sam. The poor bedraggled man who he had watched devour a cheeseburger with ravenous expediency was no more aware of Al Calavicci than he was of the man in the moon and now there was the added turmoil of causing God only knew what kind of detrimental consequences because of their tinkering.

Nights were the hardest. With darkness came an overpowering loneliness and the grief for something or someone lost. As he lay awake amid the muffled sounds of the men sleeping around him, his hopes would build that the next morning's ritual call to the police department would be the one where the officer answering the phone would have information on a missing person, mid-forties, Caucasian male with hazel eyes and brown hair with a white streak in his forelock. But the morning of Tuesday, November 20th, proved no different from the 19th, the 18th, the 17th... No such person had been reported missing in the last twenty-four hours and, most likely, would not be in the next.

For over two months he had allowed himself to be a victim of circumstance, pining over a past he couldn't remember. The reality that he had fallen into a complacent acceptance of those circumstances shocked him to the core.

He tossed his head as though shaking it out of a long daydream and perused the scene before him: grungy men standing patiently in a food line and the pitying faces on those who served the meager rations. He didn't belong there, in the company of alcoholics, drug users and the mentally incapacitated whose ambitions had withered away without a whimper. He wanted no part in their drama. He was a casualty like the men who had fallen on hard times, a part of the scene until they could get their lives back together, if only someone would give them a chance. Although he had no idea what his abilities were, he was certain there had to be something, a skill he could recall to help get him off the street. He was not going to accept his fate without a struggle.

While pouring over the L.A. Times' Sunday classifieds at the central library, a snippet of memory flickered into his head. He was working on a computer, but not a regular computer; there was no keyboard, no monitor. He was digging around the massive inner workings, talking to it and it...she, with a feminine voice, was conversing back. Almost as quickly as it came, the flash was gone.

He paused, clasped his hands over his head and stretched backward lazily to unkink the taut muscles in his shoulders. Remaining in the same position, he homed in on the glimmer of knowledge about computers and then he saw her walking out the door, the same young woman who had witnessed his altercation in the front foyer the Saturday before, the same woman whose face had been mingling into his dreams about people and places he didn't recognize. The relentless pounding in his head began a slow crescendo and his eyes remained fixed on the door as though he had no will of his own, the image of her an attracting magnet to metal in his pupils. The pain ultimately forced his stare away. While bowing his head and slowly massaging his forehead with small circles that started in the middle and worked out toward his temples, he felt a claustrophobic-like sensation grip his chest. The need to get out of there became overwhelming. With hands shaking so hard that it made grasping difficult, he collected the scraps of paper with his notes on them and quickly left the building.

Panting, he stumbled to a tree and hung on to it as though it was a lifeline, trying to catch his breath. He pressed his head against the tree trunk, shut his eyes and waited for the needles stabbing behind them to stop. So caught up in the fight of mind over matter, he almost didn't hear the horrific scream coming from the parking garage. When it finally sank past the pain, his emergency reflexes kicked in, and he raced toward the source of the sound.

The enclosed two-story structure was lit only by feeble lightbulbs placed too far apart for adequate illumination. He paused at the entrance and listened. Several seconds passed before the soft murmur of a woman whimpering reached his ears. He started to follow the sound at a jog, moving by instinct, muscles coiled, senses acute. When he came to a darkened corner, he saw the silhouette of a large man hovering over a huddled figure caught between two cars and the back wall, the source of the cries. Without a second thought, Tom grabbed the offender's shoulder and spun him around.

"What the..." Within a second the perpetrator was sprawled on the pavement, unconscious, the victim of a skilled tae kwon do kick to the face. Tom didn't even stop to acknowledge what he had done. He bent down and surrounded the woman with his arms.

"It's okay," he said consolingly. "It's okay."

Her body trembled violently with silent sobs while her clenched fists ineffectually beat against his chest. He pulled her closer, stroked her hair and rocked her back and forth. "It's over. You're okay," he reassured her again then slowly helped her to her feet. With a protective arm wrapped around her shoulders, he escorted her back into the building and placed her in the first available chair. It wasn't until they were inside and he was kneeling next to her, examining her for injuries that he realized who she was, the same haunting young woman. She was still shaking, her hair was in total disarray and her clothes were covered with grease spots but she appeared to be unhurt.

"What are you doing to her?" The condemning tone in a woman's voice brought him to attention.
He looked up at his accuser to see a small gray-haired woman with pinched, angry features scowling down at him. She was the same woman who had led the confrontation with him a few days ago and her expression held the same incriminating look, but this time he squinted back defiantly, sending a clear message that he wasn't going to submit to her again.

"Someone tried to attack her in the garage," he barked. "And, no," he quickly added, "it wasn't me. Why don't you call the police before he comes to and gets away?" He knew by her stiff stance that she didn't believe him.

"Is that true, dear?" she prodded, her wary mien shifting back and forth between him and the woman he was shielding.

The young woman's slight nod of the head was the only acknowledgment that a question had been asked.

The older woman spun on her heels, snarled a disapproving remark to herself and stomped away.

"Thank you." The words were barely audible. She slowly pulled herself out of his embrace, wiped the tears off her face with nervous fingers and leaned back in the chair. When she looked at him for the first time, her breath caught in her throat and her eyes went wide. He backed away as though by reflex.

"Well, um, you're safe now, and the, um, the librarian, or whoever she is, is, um, calling the police," he stammered, continuing his backward retreat.

"No, it's all right," she said. "I know it wasn't you." She studied his face closely. "You're the man from the other day." It wasn't a question. "The one they threw out of here during the storm."

"Yeah, that was me," he confirmed.

"That was so mean of them."

"I guess they didn't like me dripping all over their floor." A sheepish smile swept across his face. The awkwardness he felt was disconcerting. The woman totally unnerved him and it wasn't all due to the strong sense of deja vu. There was something else, an attraction so overpowering that he knew he had to get away from her before he did something he would regret later.

"Don't leave," she pleaded to his retreating back. The words and the tone in which they were spoken stabbed at his consciousness as though they were knives. He had heard her say them before. "Let me do something to repay you."

"I didn't do it for any reward," he replied adamantly and turned back around to look at her. The expression on her face was earnest while her fingers, as they played with the top button on her blouse, belied the calm.

"I know, but I feel like I at least owe you a dinner." A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"You don't owe me anything."

"Just shut up and accept gracefully," she said with mock indignation, her smile widening. "My name is Donna. What's yours?" She extended her hand toward him.

Accepting her offering, he replied, "Tom. My name is Tom and I guess, since you won't let me do otherwise, I'll accept your invitation."

"Oh no, Sam, not Donna Alessi." Al slapped his forehead with an open palm, hoping the impact would change the scene before him. It didn't. Donna Alessi still sat in the coffee shop booth with his best friend. And Sam still wore that same puppy dog look he always got when it came to Donna, total devotion, absolute love. "Of all the people he could have run into he runs into you." He gave the handlink a vehement whack while he shouted, "Get me out of here, Gushie. We've got even bigger problems to contend with now."

The longer he stayed with her the more he was convinced that he knew her. While they sat in the Pantry Cafe, the smell of her kept tickling at his memory. Femme, she always wore the cologne called Femme. He remembered buying her a bottle of the real perfume once. The reward had been unexpected but gladly taken. As he recalled, even Al would have been embarrassed by his stamina...

Al? A name with no face to go with it. His head began to pound again.

"Are you all right?" Donna asked, eyeing him anxiously.

"Just a headache," he responded, trying to ignore it but the white, blinding pain was sneaking back up behind his eyes, blurring his vision and sending his head into a tailspin. He was going to be sick. "Excuse me," he whispered and quickly stumbled to the men's room. He barely made it in time before the precious meal he had just consumed came back up. He remained on the stall floor, too weak to stand.
"What's happening to me?" He asked out loud while he waited for his head to explode.

He didn't remember passing out but when he opened his eyes, Donna was looking down at him, concern in her eyes, and he was stretched out on the bathroom floor with his head in her lap. She was bathing his forehead with a wet towel that must have come from the kitchen.

"Don't worry, an ambulance is on its way," she reassured him.

"No," he replied and thought, no more hospitals, no more tests. "I'll be okay."

"Someone who passes out in restaurant bathrooms is not okay." She carefully placed the towel over his eyes. "Or were you just trying to impress me on our first date?"

"Cancel it, please," he pleaded. He tried to concentrate on the wet coolness of the towel.

She relented. Gently lifting his head off her lap, she scooted out from under him and got to her feet. The look on her face was similar to the one from the librarian. "All right, if you insist but you're being stupid." She left him alone in the room.

He got to his feet slowly, using the toilet for support. Once he was standing, he realized that the worst of the pain had subsided. He put his head under the cold water tap and let the water run, hoping it would clear the fogginess in his brain. Ignoring the water dripping down his neck and shoulders, he looked in the mirror. His face looked drawn and white as a sheet. No wonder she had called for help.

He met her at the restroom door. Feeling embarrassed, he pointed to his head and said, "It seems to be almost over." He gave her a faint smile. "How long was I out?"

"I started getting concerned after ten minutes. Do you get these often?"

"Not usually that bad." He was concerned also. He'd had a lot of headaches over the past weeks but it was the first time he had lost consciousness. As he recalled, the doctor had said they ought to stop, not get worse.

"What causes them?"

"I was in a car accident a couple of months ago," he explained. "But I don't remember anything about it," or anything before it, he wanted to add but didn't. There was something about her that compelled him to pour out his heart to her. He wanted to tell her about the loneliness and the isolation, to describe the poverty in minute detail. Instead, he just stood there looking at her, unable to decide what to do next.

"I'm sorry about your dinner. Do you want to eat again?"

For the first time in over two months, he chuckled. "No, I don't think so. Thanks anyway." He started walking toward the door.

"Well, let me give you a lift home," she proposed.

"No, that's okay." He stole a quick glance up Figueroa. "I'd rather walk. It might help clear my head." The desire to get away from her, that he had to get away from her became foremost in his mind.

"I want to thank you again for what you did for me back at the library." She held her hand out to him and he accepted it. "I hope that man never regains consciousness. Did you hear the police say they've been chasing after him for months?" Her expression grew quizzical as she studied him closely. "Where did you learn to kick like that, anyway?"

Not knowing the answer, he responded with, "I saw it in a movie once." Reluctantly, he released her hand and turned to go.

"When will I see you again?" she called after him.

As much as he wanted to, he knew he shouldn't see her again. She was all of maybe twenty-five, well groomed, well educated and innocent to the hardships that befell people like him. He was not going to be the one to introduce her to them. "Maybe we'll meet at the library some time," he shouted back without stopping, and kept walking up Figueroa Street.

Donna thought about Tom all the way back to Pasadena. She should have been thinking about her doctoral thesis, which she hoped to have finished by late spring, but her mind kept drifting back to those hazel eyes with the little specks of green. They had such a kindness and gentleness to them. And the man behind them was quite handsome under all that hair. She remembered how his arms had felt as he had rocked her after the attack.

What was she doing? She had no time for fits of romantic fantasy. He was too old, well into his forties. And he was homeless. Even though he might not have looked like it tonight, with the clean clothes and the freshly scrubbed hair, she knew otherwise. She had been a witness to his condition last Saturday and there had to be a reason for it. She was certain it wasn't alcohol; he hadn't reeked like the men who lay drunk on the streets.

While she tried to unravel the mystery, her thoughts drifted to the dog at her mother's house in Omaha. She tried to convince herself that her interest in this man probably all boiled down to an unconscious need to nurture, some sort of embedded biological code. She had always had a penchant for strays and that's all he was, a stray. By the time she had persuaded herself that she was being quite foolish, Cal Tech was already on her left. She had passed the street to her apartment.

"You know about Donna Alessi, Verbena." Al was pacing again. "She's mentioned several times in Sam's profile."

Dr. Beeks wondered, when Sam Beckett finally returned and the Project was closed down, would the floor have permanent worn out spots where all the miles of nervous pacing had occurred? "Of course I know about her. What I don't know is what you're all worked up about," she said, watching him go round and round in circles. She was getting dizzy.

"You would if you'd seen that stupid, goofy expression on his face." Al chomped down hard on a cigar. "He doesn't even know who she is and already he's in love with her." He removed the cigar from his mouth and peered at it for a second, like he didn't know where it had come from, then let his hand fall to his side, the offending stogie dangling precariously from his fingers. "I tell you, this is bad news, very bad news."

"So, he's in love with her. You should be happy that he's not totally alone any more."

His head shot around. His stare was intense, coming from deep brooding eyes that looked capable of spewing lightning bolts. "You really don't get it, do you? If he's in love with her, nothing's going to change. If nothing changes, he won't Leap and one of the greatest minds this world has ever seen will go on living as a wino on Skid Row." He resumed his pacing.

"Has Sam taken up drinking?" Verbena asked matter-of-factly. The man was becoming totally irrational and it was her job to point that out.

"You know what I mean." He threw her another scowl. "We've got to find some way to get through to him."

"Everybody is working on it, Al. It's not for lack of trying. You've seen how the overtime hours are piling up. Just give it time."

"How much more time?" His voice was filled with heartfelt desperation. She was the only person left to whom he could show such emotion. Tina became uncomfortable when he displayed what she considered behavior different from the norm and Sam... Sam wasn't accessible at the moment and if he had been, all the turmoil would have been moot. "I can't stand seeing him like this."

"Is that the real reason why you've been such an absolute bastard for the last couple of months?" In the past, she knew that she and Sam were the only ones who could get away with a remark like that. She wasn't so sure any more but forged ahead. "Or is it the fact that you haven't been able to communicate with the only person you really care about?" The look on his face confirmed that she had read him correctly, again. "Don't worry, we'll get him back."

Tom slammed down the phone angrily. Fourteen calls in response to the help wanted ads and no one would take the time to talk to him. He was frustrated with the Thanksgiving Eve excuses and the "Call us back on Monday morning" answers. If they didn't want to talk to anyone, they shouldn't have placed the ads in the first place. Half the day had been shot following worthless leads. It was too late now to venture down to Los Angeles Street and hustle jobs, since all the proprietors would be in a rush to close early for the long weekend. The $20 in his pocket would have to last through four and a half days. Thanksgiving, and all he had to look forward to was another hungry weekend. He wished he could curl in front of a television set and eat a bag of microwave popcorn but instead went to read at the library.

He smelled rather than heard the person standing behind him two hours later. Femme. He waited for his headache to heighten. When it didn't, he slowly turned around to look at her.

Her face was spread into a wide cheerful grin as she looked down at him. "Hi," she said brightly. "I'll bet you didn't expect to see me here today." She hadn't really expected to find herself there either. As much as she had tried to resist, especially after the rebuff that had been politely given the night before, she couldn't get her mind off of him. Despite her most stalwart attempts, the level of her enchantment was too overpowering.

"No, I didn't." He tried to ignore his quickening pulse and the joy he felt at just seeing her. To cover his true reaction, he strove for annoyance when he asked, "What are you doing here, Donna?" His attempt at annoyance only managed to display indifference.

"I want to ask you over for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow night." She continued to beam. "That is, if you're not busy." The sunlight filtering in through the windows landed on her head, accentuating the copper highlights in her hair.

"Thanks, but I can't make it." He turned back to his book. He silently chided himself for being rude but, not trusting himself around her, he had to get her to leave.

Ignoring his snub, she pressed on. "Come on, Tom. My mom's in Omaha and all my friends have other places to go. I don't want to be alone on Thanksgiving."

He had no doubt that she was setting him up. There was no way such a bright, beautiful woman was going to spend the holiday by herself. He prayed for her to leave and go back to the boyfriend he had seen her with the other day. He wished she could find someone else to bother. Couldn't she see the effect she had on him? He squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted her. It had been so long since he'd made love with her...

He shook his head, expecting the constant pain to increase like it sometimes did when desultory memories entered his mind. Nothing happened. He felt the color rise on his face.

"I'll pick you up and bring you back, I promise."

She was making it impossible for him to refuse, again. He rubbed his fingers over his closed eyes and sighed. He couldn't waver from his decision, no matter what he wanted.

"I'll meet you here at eleven o'clock so you can catch some of the games on TV." She was silent for so long he thought she might have taken the hint and left. His hopes were dashed when after several moments she said, "Say 'okay', Tom."

"Okay, Tom," he surrendered, knowing it was a mistake.

Thanksgiving Day was a treat. He lounged on a couch, watching a college bowl half-time show while munching on airpopped popcorn. He glanced down at the bowl in his lap and smiled to himself. So it wasn't microwaved but it was close. Donna was draped on the opposite end, legs curled up under her, leaning against the arm. The scenario felt so familiar, like it had been played out a hundred times. The smell of roasting turkey filled the apartment.

His attention continued to drift until it settled on the silence between them. He wondered if she perceived how awkward it had become or if he was the only one bothered by it because he knew that all the earlier dialogue, the superficial chatter on the drive from downtown to Pasadena and the typical hostess inquiries had been propelled by her. He realized that courtesy demanded his contribution even though he had no past experiences from which to draw topics and no future aspirations to expound on. While she had rattled on about Cal Tech and her thesis, her home in Omaha and the dog her mother was watching for her, her days at Lawrence College and a professor she had known there, he had nothing but blanks.
Sneaking a look in her direction, he saw her attention was fixed on the television. He stole those quick glances all during half time, savoring her youthful exuberance and finding himself allured by her wit as much as he was to the graceful curves of her body.

He shook his head in an attempt to direct it away from idle thoughts and back to finding a suitable subject to talk about, or at least back to the game which had resumed playing.

"Does your head hurt?" she asked.

It always did, still he shook it no.

"I could get you some aspirin." She bounced off the couch. "I've got to check the turkey and it's just about time to start the rest of our fine feast."

He followed her to the kitchen. "May I help?"

"Sure." She glanced around the room. "You can help me peel the yams." She put a vegetable peeler in his hand and pushed him toward the sink.

"No canned yams?" he asked.

"Yuk," she said making a face. "Those things are awful." Her expression turned indignant. "I hope you're not expecting any of those insipid marshmallows either. I can't stand those things."

He flashed on someone else who shared her feelings, then as quickly as it appeared, the thought was gone. "No, I don't think so," he mumbled and, finishing the first tuber, reached for the next. When her hand got there at the same time he quickly drew his back, paused a second then took a different one as he felt the heat rise in his face.

"Why did you bring me here?" he asked.

"I told you. No one should be alone on Thanksgiving. It was a purely selfish act on my part."

"But you picked up a stranger. That's not safe."

"You're harmless." She threw him a smile accompanied by a flippant toss of her head.

"How do you know I'm harmless? For all you know, I could be a serial killer." His expression was dead serious.

"You're not." She took two beers out of the refrigerator, popped the tops off and handed him one.

He stopped peeling, took the bottle then looked at her closely. Her eyes were full of mischief. "How do you know?" he repeated.

"Serial killers don't turn and run when a boorish and rude old biddy kicks them out of the only shelter available during a torrential downpour." She took a sip of beer then continued. "Serial killers don't rescue foolish and stupid damsels in distress and then try to walk away without collecting their reward." Her eyes grew warm. "That's how I know." She looked away toward a distant point beyond the window over the sink and fell silent. "God, I was stupid," she chastised herself when she finally spoke. "I know better than to walk into a dark garage by myself." Her eyes dropped to the floor and she shook with the memory.

The police officer had warned them about possible psychological aftereffects from the attack. He had given Donna a pamphlet from a victims' support group and had encouraged her to at least telephone them. Tom doubted she had placed the call. Aware of his lack of training, he forged ahead, hoping he could muddle through and properly deal with her terror. He fought his first instinct to hold and reassure her like he had done in the garage, and instead, gently placed a finger under her chin and lifted her head so her eyes were forced to look into his.

"It wasn't your fault," he said, peering into the dark irises and noticing that her lower lids were brimming with unshed tears. "A security guard was supposed to be there. You didn't know he'd left to get a cup of coffee."

"That's no excuse," she cried. "I've been so damned preoccupied with my thesis that I forget or ignore everything around me." Her eyes dropped and she shuddered again, turning in on herself.

"What's your topic?" he asked, taking an alternate route and trying to get her mind off the attack altogether.

She had wrapped herself into a personal hug, hands gripping her upper arms, head bowed. He was shut out.

"Your topic, Donna," he prompted a little more forcefully. "What's the topic of your thesis?"

"Huh?" She drifted back to the present. Her arms dropped to her sides and her eyes latched onto his. "Physics," she stated, her tone indicative of someone who expected others to shy immediately away once the subject was mentioned, certain there would be no need for further elaboration.

But instead of the normal response, Tom took a swig of beer and encouraged her to finish with a nod of his head.

"That the universe is finite."

His throat constricted and he choked on the liquid.

They sat down to eat at four o'clock. Tom carved the small turkey while Donna poured the wine. They toasted the holiday then ate in silence. The dishes were washed and put away by 5:15.

"What do you want to do now?" Donna asked, reaching to put the last bowl away. "How about a video? There are a couple next to the VCR."

"We should go," Tom said, not really meaning it. "You shouldn't be driving around after dark."

"Not yet," she protested. "It's too early. How about a game of cards?"

They finally settled on Scrabble. As the game progressed, the words all veered toward a scientific theme, "quark", "byte", "zygote". It transformed into a challenge of technical and scientific terms where point gathering became incidental. By the time the eighth round was finished and all the tiles were on the board, it looked as though they had played in a foreign language and, to most people, they had. They stared at what they had done.

"How do you know all this stuff?" Donna demanded, her face awash in astonishment.

"I don't know." Tom was just as baffled as she was. He had gotten so caught up in the game that he hadn't stopped to think along the way. He gawked at the words and wondered what most of them meant.

"What the hell are you doing, living on the streets?" The words popped out of her mouth without thought. She was sorry the moment they left her lips but, once asked, there was no taking them back and she was dying to know the answer. She became angry at both herself and at him. "How does a man who uses the word 'atresia' in Scrabble end up in poverty?" She was nearly shouting as she pointed at the board.

"I had too many vowels?" he suggested, a sheepish little-boy look on his face.

She collapsed into her chair laughing. She suddenly realized that she had never met a more intriguing, enigmatic person in her life. How in one moment he would allow a five foot three inch woman to chase him off with the simple swipe of a hand and in the next wouldn't even think twice about challenging a potentially violent opponent who easily outweighed him by a hundred pounds was beyond her comprehension. And the fact that he knew words like quark, atresia and allele (too many 'l's, he would claim) fascinated her even more.

"Come on, Donna. It's 8:30." He grabbed her hand and pulled her off the chair. She was still giggling. "It's time to go."

She looked into his eyes and turned serious as she pondered how little she knew about him. Over the course of the day, while she had poured out her life's history, he hadn't offered even a scrap of information about himself. The few questions she had ventured to ask had been carefully skirted and adeptly turned back toward her. She wondered if he honestly thought she hadn't noticed.

She felt an overwhelming urge to crawl into those eyes and take the deep hurt away.

Tom took an abrupt, involuntary step backward, shock registering on his face. Then, as his features twisted into a grimace, his hand darted to his forehead and he started rubbing it. The symptoms were easier to recognize this time; she had seen them before. He was getting another migraine.

"We're not going anywhere," she said, taking his hand and leading him to the couch where she gently pushed him down. He offered no resistance. His face had drained of all color and he started breaking out in a sweat.

Although she was scared and close to panicking, she fought the temptation to call for help, remembering his obstinate resistance at the restaurant. Instead, she rushed to the bathroom, brought back a wet towel, and placed it over his eyes. "Don't you dare throw up my Thanksgiving dinner, mister," she said, her voice a mixture of scorn and concern.

He managed a weak smile then his face contorted in pain. The headache was a bad one. Even though he had learned to live with the constant aching throb, he didn't know if he could endure many more of these sudden bursts of agony. A wave of nausea swept across him but when Donna's words came drifting back, he fought it which only seemed to make it worse. He changed course and started to roll with it then direct it, envisioning it as a boat riding out an ebbing storm. He took control of the storm, forcing it to rise and fall until it finally sank into a calming flow. His last thought before he lost consciousness was that he had, in some way, kept Donna's dinner down.

She was there when he came to, sitting on the floor next to the couch, still bathing his face. She looked anxious. "You really should see a doctor about these," she said softly.

He took the now warm and clammy towel from her hand. "There's nothing they can do," he muttered. How could he explain that the pain seemed to intensify when memories of his past burst forward, like that look she had given him, recalled from a past life with her that couldn't possibly be. None of it made any sense. Trying to explain would have been impossible.

Starting to pull himself up, he met the resistance of Donna's hand on his chest, pushing him back down.
"You're not going anywhere," she said, both her voice and stance assertive.

He propped himself up on one elbow and touched his head. "It's gone," he lied. It was never gone. "And you did promise to take me back, remember?"

She smiled as she removed her hand. "The headache may be gone but you still look terrible. You can sleep on the couch tonight." She threw an afghan over his legs.

He could tell by the stern set of her jaw that this was going to be another confrontation he wouldn't win. He wondered if he was destined to lose every one with this woman.

"Good," she said triumphantly, watching him settle back down. She could tell he was a person who didn't take orders easily by the way his demeanor changed to objected capitulation, eyes drawn into slits and mouth pulled into a pout. She stifled the laughter that threatened to escape and, in an even voice, ended the battle of wills with, "I'll see you in the morning."

He had trouble falling asleep. At first, listening to her prepare for bed, with the sound of water rushing through the pipes and the rustling behind the closed door of her bedroom, kept him awake. Then it was the foreign noises-not the loud snoring or the squeaky cot springs under shifting bodies he was used to, but the constant drone from the refrigerator in the kitchen-that drove his thoughts toward Donna and kept his mind reeling. He found it disconcerting that she was asleep so close by and no matter how hard he tried to herd his musings in other directions, they kept settling back on her. He didn't believe in reincarnation, or at least he didn't think he did. Why was he so certain they had a history together? His lascivious impulses toward her confounded him and, even though his emotions ran beyond simple lust, he ached to touch her, to smell her, to kiss her, to make love to her. He felt himself grow hard while her image danced in his mind.

He rolled over and tried to think of something else. Al. Just a name with no face to go with it. Whatever meaning the name had was lost to him now, becoming just an insignificant word that had somehow managed to squeeze through the huge void in his mind. He strained to remember. He knew remembering was important but he couldn't even recall if Al was a man or woman, friend or foe. Amid the sentiment of deep loss, he finally fell asleep and dreamed about cigars.

Donna couldn't fall asleep either. She had managed to feed him, had provided him with a warm place to sleep but she didn't know how she was going to keep him from leaving. As much as she had tried to prevent it, her protective instincts had changed into selfish needs. While she lay in bed replaying their repartee during the Scrabble game, she recognized that he was the first person who had ever rivaled her intelligence. She had never had so much fun playing a game. The more time she spent with him the more she realized that she didn't want this man to get away. Her attraction to him was stronger than any she had experienced before. He was entertaining, he possessed an unbelievable intellect and his bashfulness was refreshingly endearing. The memory of how he had blushed when their hands had casually brushed over the yam brought a smile to her face.

She was surprised at herself. Ever since she had taken that first science class in junior high school, she had known where her life was headed: toward a degree in physics in order to sate an uncontrollable need to know how and why things were the way they were. She had always prided herself in her ability to stay focused and her doctorate was the culmination of all those years of unwavering dedication. A job already waited for her at the Starbright Project in Washington. But suddenly, she was faced with a shy, highly intelligent homeless man who had managed to interfere with her set course, something imbecile teachers or chauvinistic professors had never been capable of doing. He was making her aware that there were other things besides the questions of whether the universe was finite or if quarks really did exist and these other things mattered for the first time. He mattered and she wanted to be the one to let him know. She wanted and needed this man in her life.

Friday morning dawned as crisp and as clear as a morning could be in Southern California. But as the hours passed, the sky took on an ominous look with dark clouds rolling down from the north, bringing with them the promise of another storm.

Tom awoke at first light and, while waiting for Donna to get up, started skimming the various textbooks he found on the bookshelf over the television. Physics, he seemed to know something about physics. Quantum theory, astrophysics, all the information made perfect sense to him. He gobbled up book after book, unaware that he was speed reading until he finally glanced up at the Regulator clock on the wall and noticed it was almost ten a.m. He had been reading for over three hours.

Suddenly he felt an overwhelming desire to get out of that apartment. He was terrified by this newly discovered information about himself. Donna had been right, why was someone with his knowledge living on the streets? Visions of a criminal past entered his head and the questions started flowing. Was his amnesia a self-induced phenomenon to hide some horrendous crime? Why was he in Alan Lester's car right before the accident? Nothing made any sense. Until he knew more he had to put some space between himself and Donna.

He toyed with the idea of leaving without a word and hitching a ride back downtown but some instilled sense of courtesy demanded that he thank her for dinner and say good-bye properly. Hoping he could coerce her into waking up, he started cooking breakfast. Flour, eggs, butter, milk, a dash of baking powder all mixed together and voila, he had someone's famous griddle cakes. He looked down at what he'd done. Whose griddle cakes? The headache started its upward spiral. Instead of fighting it this time, he tried to see through it, to see the person's face that was trying to get past the void. Soft, pale blue eyes, almost gray. Security and warmth. A woman, an older woman. The instant he almost grasped her name, it was gone, taking most of the pain with it.

"Yum, coffee." A soft voice came from behind him.

Tom almost jumped out of his skin. He hadn't heard her approach.

"And you cooked breakfast, too."

She looked half asleep with no make-up, rumpled hair and puffy eyes. Her long legs poked out from under the light cotton robe she had casually thrown over a long tee-shirt and her feet were covered by fuzzy yellow slippers. She looked beautiful.

Tom turned away quickly and busied his hand by flipping griddle cakes that didn't need flipping.

"You're cute when you're embarrassed," she commented while pouring two cups of coffee.

"You could at least get dressed," he said, still fussing over the stove.

"What? And miss this? My own personal serial killer blushing? I wouldn't have missed this for the world."

"Well, I wouldn't be blushing if you'd put some clothes on."

She laughed and looked down at herself innocently. "To be perfectly honest, I forgot you were here," she lied.

"Go get dressed. Breakfast will be ready in five minutes."

Once breakfast was finished and the dishes were packed away in the dishwasher, he gathered his windbreaker and waited by the door.

"Will you please take me back now?" he inquired, impatient to be out of there.

"Later," she answered while pulling back the drapes covering the living room window to check the weather outside. "I have some errands to run before it starts raining. I hope you don't mind."

Another one of those flippant tosses of her head and he knew he was being manipulated. He did mind but remained mute and threw her a dirty look in rebuke.

She laughed. "Do you always pout when you don't get your way?"

"I'm not pouting," he insisted. "I was just thinking about how you're the most infuriating woman I've ever met. You're a spoiled brat."

"I am not," she argued, then added with a sagacious smile, "I'm just used to getting my way." She headed out the door.

Her errands took them to a dry cleaners, three bookstores and then a supermarket where she seemed to dawdle on every aisle and appeared to have a propensity for frozen foods. By the time her purchases were put away in her apartment it was pouring rain.

"There's no use going back to town now," she announced prosaically as she flopped down on the couch. "You'll just be stuck out in the rain like last time." Her scheme had paid off and luckily, the weather had cooperated. Although she had blown two weeks' worth of food money on the frozen items alone, it had been worth it, he hadn't gotten away. Her next challenge was convincing him that leaving was irrational. "You should stay here again tonight," she mentioned offhandedly, as though the idea had just occurred to her.

"Take me back," he said forcefully, looming over her and looking like one of the dark clouds outside. He was losing what patience he had left after enduring put-offs all day.

"Come on, Tom. Don't be ridiculous."

"I can't stay here." He was insistent.

"Sure you can. There's plenty of food. The couch isn't the greatest but it's comfortable once you know where the lumps are and I really enjoy your company. That is, I did before you turned into a sourpuss."

"I'm not one of your strays, Donna." His look was icy. It was the only way to cover up the emotional conflict.

She shot to her feet. "Damn you," she shouted, fire in her dark eyes. "Are you so proud that you'd rather sleep out in a rainstorm?" Her index finger poked the air in front of him. "I want to know. Does that damned stupid pride of yours keep you warm when you're soaking wet?"

She turned away, rage boiling up inside. How could someone be so stubborn, someone who so obviously needed her help? She pondered that for a moment and came to the conclusion that he was too intelligent to let pride interfere. There had to be something else. It took another moment for the answer to finally dawn on her. Checking her temper, her voice took on a tone of understanding when she turned back around and asked, "Why are you afraid of me? Do you distrust me?"

"No, Donna, I don't distrust you," he said sadly, looking down at his scuffed shoes and shifting his weight. "It's me I don't trust."

She took the few steps that crossed the gap between them and wrapped her arms around his waist. She rested her head against his chest and said, "Don't worry, Tom. I'm a big girl." She lifted her lips to his and kissed him. It was a testing kiss, lips closed, pressure of mouth on mouth.

Tom felt what he thought was electricity charge through his body. It was a familiar sensation. "Donna, don't," he said when her hands moved up to his face and started stroking his jaw and cheeks under the beard. He was consumed with the need for her but by sheer will, his arms remained at his sides.

"Why not?" she asked, watching his stoic expression while she ran a finger down his neck and started playing with the hollow at the base of his throat. When his eyelids dropped, she exchanged her fingers with her mouth. Letting her tongue linger on the spot, she realized that she had been wanting to do that all day. She felt his pulse racing under her touch. She had never seduced a man before, had never wanted to. It was a heady, exhilarating experience, feeling him turn to putty under her influence.

Suddenly, he became a flurry of movement, pushing her away, his hands vice grips on her upper arms. His eyes flew open and she could see the fever in them. Still, he held her at arm's length. "I said don't." His voice was strained but firm.

"I don't understand," she said, squirming under his grip. "You want this as much as I do. I've seen it. I can see it in your eyes right now." She tried to rub against him again and laughed. "Don't be afraid of me. I don't bite, that is, unless you want me to." She stole a quick glance at his hands still grasping her arms.

He followed her look down and, seeing where her eyes had settled, his hands flew open, releasing her. The guilty look on his face confirmed that he hadn't realized the amount of pressure he had been exerting on her. His expression changed to one of immense regret. "I'm sorry," he whispered when he saw the red marks where his thumbs had been.

She ran a fingernail seductively across his lower lip. She wasn't going to give up so easily. "I'm not going to wait for you to make the first move, Tom." She started unbuttoning his shirt. "If I did that, I think I'd probably still be waiting by the end of next week." She pushed the shirt out of the way and started rubbing her hands across his chest. "Don't stop to think. Don't analyze all the reasons why we shouldn't do this." She watched the inner turmoil play across his face: eyes shut, deep furrows building between his eyebrows, jaw clenching and unclenching.

"Don't think, Tom. Do." She took the hands that had been hanging limply at his sides and placed them on her waist. Pressing against him, she pulled his head down to hers and kissed him again, a little more demanding than before, lips slightly parted as an invitation. Just as she realized she might be making a mistake, that she shouldn't be forcing herself on him even though she knew he wanted her as much as she wanted him, and that, no matter what she wanted, she should look for a graceful way out for him, he stirred.

A deep, guttural moan marked the end of the battle. His arms wrapped around her responsively and he drew her into a kiss of passionate ardor. His tongue, taking her invitation, passed her lips and entered her mouth, gently probing, gently seeking. Donna had never been kissed with such fervor or such need before. It made her feel as though the air was being sucked out of her lungs, making it hard to breathe, but she didn't want this to end. When she thought she might collapse, he stopped. His hands came up to her face and caressed her behind both ears while his thumbs rubbed her cheeks and his eyes probed hers. There was something beyond mere arousal in them as he cradled her head.

"I don't know how long it's been," he said tenderly. "But it's been a long time."

Donna didn't understand why he would say such a thing. She was well aware, by the tone he had used, that the declaration was directly connected to her and not just any sexual encounter. But further debate on the issue was lost as his mouth started gliding down her neck and she began to melt under his touch.

His hands moved up from her waist underneath her sweater. She felt the rough calluses moving across her back and grew impatient, wanting to feel his skin against hers. They must have thought about it at the same time because his hands were already on her sweater, groping for the bottom hem. He disengaged his lips only long enough to pull the sweater over her head and then they were back, spreading sweet fluttering kisses across her shoulders. She pushed his shirt off his shoulders and ran her hands down his back, feeling the hard muscle. Running her tongue up his chest, she found his left nipple and flickered it lightly. She felt his body stiffen under her control and it excited her. Although she was no virgin, she had never behaved so boldly with a man before, had never dared to cross the invisible line into their territory of aggressor. However, with Tom that line didn't seem to exist. She wondered if it was the difference between being made love to and making love with.

She removed her bra and placed his hands on her breasts. His look was one of adoration as he fondled first one then the other. Her nipples puckered into hard peaks, anticipating what was to follow, and he didn't disappoint her when his mouth closed over one and his tongue gently danced against it. Then his head came up to hers and he pulled her into the sweetest, most consuming kiss she had ever experienced. His tongue beckoned hers and she willingly obliged. They met halfway then he sucked her lower lip and gently grabbed it with his teeth. They stood in the middle of the room, both naked from the waist up, exploring and seeking each other's bodies.

"I love you, Donna," he said softly in her ear, then started sucking on her earlobe while his hand captured her right breast.

It took a moment for his words to filter through her foggy brain. She pushed him away to study his face. The truth was written on every feature: the sincerity in his eyes, the pursed lower lip, and the determined set of his jaw even visible under the heavy beard. Her head suddenly cleared.

"Please don't say you love me," she said, bewildered. "Until you know me."

"But I do know you," he responded. His hands moved to the juncture where her neck met her shoulders. Kneading it gently with both hands, he stared deeply into her eyes. "I know you cry at movies whenever an animal is involved. I know you hate summer and start praying for October in June. I know you're more comfortable with science than religion. And I know you like this." He moved his finger to her ear then followed it with his mouth, causing her to shudder under his touch. "Don't ask me how I know," he whispered. "I just do."

Donna felt herself turning to liquid and wondered how her legs were still holding her up. She didn't question how he knew what he knew. Instead, she put her hands down his waistband in the back and pressed his hips toward hers as she arched forward and rubbed against the bulge in his jeans. The ache low in her belly became the center point of all thought as he played her like a partner who knew what she wanted and when she wanted it. Hands and mouth and tongue all finding the right places at the right time to make her hunger for him.

He unfastened her pants and pushed them down past her hips, rubbing and lingering along the way. He stroked her lower belly, her buttocks, the tops of her thighs. When he softly glanced across the wedge of hair below, his touch sent her into a renewed frenzy.
With trembling fingers, she managed to unbutton and unzip the fly to his jeans. She felt his erection against her and she reached down to touch it, wanting to fondle it. His hand quickly clamped down on her wrist. She looked up at him and saw a cautionary expression on his face.

"If you do that, I won't be able to do this right," he said with both warning and urgency in his tone.

"You seem to be doing just fine," she chuckled softly. "I just wanted to reciprocate."

He smiled back. "Well, if you don't save your reciprocation for later this will be over before you know it."

He grit his teeth, trying to gain control of his body again. She didn't know how close he was to exploding. She didn't know about all the times he had fantasized about this moment. He was aching with desire for her and he wanted nothing more then to feel himself surrounded by her but not yet. Not. Yet.

They helped each other out of their clothes then down to the floor. His mouth captured her right nipple and he rolled it softly between his teeth while his hands worked her into a fevered pitch, across her cheek, down her neck, along the contour of her breast, stroking and kneading her into wanton lust as he continued the descent. Her hands dug into his neck and shoulders as she forced his mouth down harder then down his back to his tight buttocks and narrow hips where the hardness of him reminded her of other hard places.

The need for fulfillment overwhelmed her. "Now, Tom," she pleaded, writhing against his hand, trying to pull him into her.

"Not yet," he replied as he slipped his finger in and out of the opening. "Not...yet."

She wanted more. No one had ever made her wait on the brink like this before. She needed to feel him inside and he was torturing her. Only when she thought she would die, her body shattering into a million pieces and convulsing into spasms of glorious proportions the likes of which she had never felt before, did he finally enter her. He let the waves suck him deep inside her and before they passed he moved with them and against them. And even though he filled her, she wrapped her legs around him trying to take more of him then there was to give. They fell into the steady rhythm. By the time he reached the explosive conclusion, thrusting one last time then spilling deep inside her, she was experiencing her third orgasm.

She exhaled audibly as they lay replete in each other's arms. "I have never been made love to like that before," she finally whispered. Her muscles felt like Jell-O.

He smiled in the dark then rolled off of her. Taking her back into his arms and holding her close he thought, I have, even though he couldn't remember the exact incident.

Hours later, an invisible visitor appeared at the foot of the bed where they slept curled up next to each other. They didn't see the Observer's pained expression as he watched them shift in their sleep nor did they hear the anguish in his voice when he said, "Ah, Sam, what have you done now?"

When Donna awoke the next morning, the first thoughts to enter her mind were reminiscences of the night before but, reaching out languishingly with eyes still closed, her hand found the bed next to her empty. It took her brain a few seconds for the water sounds emanating from the bathroom to register. As she rolled over and buried her head in Tom's pillow to drink in the smell of him, an unconscious smile broke out on her face. She remained there for several minutes then stretched and dragged herself from the warm comforts of both her recollections and the bedcovers to join him in the bathroom.

He was dressed and standing in front of the mirror, scissors in hand, when she walked in. Hair clogged the sink as she caught him in the midst of cutting off his beard.

Donna frowned, recalling the sensuous feeling of his whiskers on her skin. "You're not going to shave it all, are you?"

"That was the plan," he replied, taking another clump in his fingers and shearing it off.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressed against his back and addressed his reflection in the mirror. "I don't suppose I can talk you into just trimming it."

"You like this stupid thing?" he asked, amazement dancing in his eyes.

"Yes, I do," she answered and ran a finger across his jaw-line. "But I will admit, a trim wouldn't hurt."
She took the scissors from his hand. "Please, allow me." She moved to the toilet and dropped the lid. "And while we're at it, you could stand a haircut, too."

He obligingly conceded and sat down. "Have you ever done this before?" he asked wryly.

"No," she admitted, laughing at his wary expression as she started snipping near his ear. "But I promise I won't turn you into a Van Gogh look-alike."

As he watched his hair fall to the floor, he pondered how he was going to untangle himself from the quandary into which he had permitted himself to fall. He had awakened with an eerie premonition that he shouldn't be there and, despite his fervid need to be with her, he knew he'd made a terrible mistake. The more the hair piled up around his feet, the more the instinct grew that what he had allowed to happen the previous night had put them both in a precarious situation, and that it was imperative for him to get out of there as quickly as possible before he did something else he shouldn't.

When she was finished, she led him to the mirror in order to admire her handiwork. Their reflections startled him. There was something so right in their standing next to each other but the images were wrong and he couldn't, for the life of him, understand why or where they were wrong.

"Thanks," he said, noticing that while the trim was not professional, it was perfectly acceptable. Evening out the hack marks in his whiskers, she had left him with a half inch long beard and his hair, which had fallen past his shoulders, barely grazed the nape of his neck. "Now will you take me back to L.A., or am I going to have to hitch a ride?"

"I'd rather you stayed," she responded and flashed a crooked grin. "You don't have to go back there. I mean, you don't have anyone waiting for you, do you?"

"No, but things are getting too complicated, Donna."

"I don't see any complications other than the ones you're trying to invent." Her expression took on an air of inflexibility. "I don't understand why you would want to go back there when you could stay here."

"I believe we had this discussion last night and..."

"And I thought we had settled it," she added before he could continue and then kept on. "Last night meant something to me. It wasn't just another one night stand due to rampaging hormones. It was special. You're special and I don't want you to go."

Tom never returned to downtown Los Angeles. When he couldn't refute Donna's logic, he took up residence in her apartment and assumed the domestic chores of cleaning, cooking and doing the laundry, which freed her to work full time on her thesis. He took a part time job tutoring kids in math and science at the local elementary school for $4.00 an hour. He hadn't had a migraine in over three and a half weeks, not since Thanksgiving night. They made love often and talked about getting married. Life fell into a comfortable routine until she discovered, by accident, that the modest, impoverished man with whom she had fallen in love possessed a brilliant understanding of physics which far surpassed that of anyone she had ever met before.

She had been mulling over the same calculation for nine hours. Crumpled pages littering the floor around the table provided evidence that she was no closer to a solution then she had been hours ago. She was so engrossed in her computations that she didn't notice Tom quickly glance over her work when he bent down to scoop up the paper.

"The red shift," he suggested casually then twisted his head to catch a memory that had flittered into his mind. She was always forgetting the red shift.

"Huh?" she grunted without looking up.

He pointed at her work. "You'd have the answer if you wouldn't keep forgetting to compensate for the red shift."

She stared at him, trying to assimilate what he was saying while, at the same time, trying to understand how he could know what she was doing wrong after only a fleeting glance when she had been pouring over it for nine hours. Then she remembered the Scrabble game and the question that had never been answered properly.

"Okay, darling," she smiled, her voice dripping with affected sweetness. "I want an answer this time." Her tone changed to one which demanded a response. "How the hell do you know so much about physics?" Her smile returned as she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms under her breasts. Never letting her eyes leave his, her stance indicated she was willing to wait all night until he told her the truth.

His expression brought to mind the proverbial child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, feigned innocence. "I read your textbooks," he suggested, toying with the paper in his hand. How was he going to explain it to her when he didn't know himself?

"I'm not buying it, Tom." Her effort to keep an accusatory tone out of her voice was faltering. "In the first place, it's taken me years to read all the information in those books and I still don't understand it all, and in the second place, the answer to this problem isn't even in them. And somehow, you weren't just able to solve it but you did it after only a passing glimpse. This is creepy and I want to know the answer."

He had managed to put her off for almost four weeks but she had him backed into a corner and his flair for deftly avoiding her questions was not going to help this time. The phrase "the best defense is a good offense" popped into his mind and then he remembered someone expanding on that with, "And when all else fails, lie. It works for me." So he lied. "I can't tell you," he said, eyes glued to the floor, afraid she would see right through the ruse.

"What do you mean, you can't tell me?" She was appalled.

"I just can't."

"What are you, some sort of government spy like MacGyver?"

He didn't know who MacGyver was but a government spy sounded plausible. "Don't ask me any more questions, Donna. I won't be able to answer them." His feeling of guilt escalated.

"I thought you loved me, Tom." She sounded like she was on the verge of tears and was doing everything in her power not to cry. "You said you did. Has that all been part of the sham?"

"There hasn't been any sham." He went to her and tried to put his hands on her shoulders but she shrugged them off. "I do love you and I always have," he said even though his concept of "always" was a bit obscure.

"Sure you do, Tom," she said sarcastically and ran to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

When Donna didn't emerge for the rest of the evening, Tom, not wanting to disturb her, curled up to go to sleep on the couch, using the old afghan for a blanket. But sleep wouldn't come. He felt horrible about lying but even with his short memory, he had learned to trust his instincts. There was no room for vacillation.

He lay awake for hours, tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable with either the couch or his conscience. A siren wailed in the distance, the wall clock chimed three times and then the chatter began.
"'Am, 's 'e, 'l. 'An 'ou 'ee 'r 'ear 'e?"

The sound was garbled and unintelligible but real, nonetheless. His heart started pounding in his chest as fear gripped him. He tried to peer through the dark to see who was speaking but no one was there. He was alone in the room.

"'Od. 'Ushie, 'e's 'arting 'o 'ear 'e. 'On't 'ow 'f 'e 'an 'ee 'e 'et. 'E 'ooks 's 'o 'e's 'earing 'osts." What followed sounded like laughter.

"'S 'kay, 'am. 'Ust 'ew 'ore 'justments 'nd ''ll 'e 's 'ear 's 'e 'ose 'n 'ur 'ace, 'ich 's 'ity 'ear." More laughter, then silence.

He stared wide-eyed into the darkness, hearing only the sound of his palpitating heart. Then, suddenly, it was as though all the capillaries in his head had constricted at once and a hot searing knife was being thrust through his forehead to a point somewhere behind his eyes. He screamed from the shock and grasped his head between his hands. He was barely aware that Donna had magically appeared and was cradling his head and stroking his forehead gently.

"It's okay, Tom." He could barely hear her voice. "It'll pass." He felt her massaging his right temple.
He moaned and cried out again.

Donna rocked him back and forth for what seemed an eternity before she realized he had gone still in her arms. The tears she had been holding back started flowing down her cheeks to fall on his unconscious face and mix with the sweat on his skin.

As she brushed back the hair plastered to his forehead, she realized that, no matter what, she loved him and, if he wanted to keep secrets from her, far be it from her to meddle. He could do whatever he wanted, just so long as he didn't leave. She couldn't have stood it if he left.

She pulled the afghan over him and held him closer. With the initial shock from his attack dissipated, she started worrying about his health. She reproached herself for allowing him to convince her that nothing could be done about the migraines and the lack of them over the past three plus weeks had given her a false sense of security. He hadn't miraculously gotten better. After this night's episode she was determined to take him to a doctor and find out exactly what was going on.

She watched him nervously for over an hour until his breathing calmed down to the quiet, slow rhythm of sleep. Wishing she could, somehow, move him into the bedroom, she went back to bed.

The next morning, although visible shaken, he avoided her concerned stares as he went about his normal morning rituals. He practically jumped out of his skin when she came up behind him in the bathroom while he was towel drying his hair and he dodged her eye contact over the breakfast table. She felt responsible for his uneasiness. They had, after all, gone to sleep without resolving their argument and she was upset with herself for acting like a spoiled brat, something he had accused her of being before. After two hours of the reticent behavior, she approached the subject.

"Tom, I'm sorry about last night. I had no right to say the things I said." She was sitting at the table, so upset that she couldn't recall what she had been doing with the papers that were spread out before her.

He continued folding the laundry at the opposite end without looking up and without saying a word.

"Talk to me, Tom. I'm trying to apologize," she laughed nervously.

"It's okay," he muttered putting all his attention into folding the teeshirt in his hand.

"No it's not. I won't do it again." She paused, waiting for him to acknowledge her. "Please, Tom, look at me."

He slowly lifted his head and their eyes met. The deep sorrow that had been missing for weeks was back and there was a new element present as well: fear, something she had never seen there before. She checked herself, knowing that what she wanted and needed to say had to be presented gracefully.
"Is there any way I can convince you to call your doctor about the headaches?" she asked.

"No." He returned his attention to the laundry.

"Even after last night's episode?"

"There's nothing they can do. We've been through all this before."

Even though she had promised herself she wouldn't get angry, she felt her temper rise. "That's bullshit, Tom," she said through clenched teeth, throwing down the pencil that had been in her hand. She then took a deep breath and checked her rage. Her voice was calm when she spoke again. "You woke me up screaming and I held you until you finally passed out. Why won't you see a doctor?" she asked. "What happened last night that has you so scared?"

He absently toyed with the teeshirt in his hand. She could tell he was trying to build up the courage to confide in her.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he finally whispered, the words and situation so painfully familiar.

"Try me." She leaned forward in her chair, consciously aware that her body language needed to persuade him that he could tell her anything, and waited patiently for him to continue.

"I heard a voice," he mumbled after a long pause. "It was trying to talk to me but I couldn't understand it." The look in his eyes was pleading.

"It was probably me," she said and smiled warmly. "I've been told I talk in my sleep."

He dropped the teeshirt, wrung his hands together and returned her smile. It was a nervous smile and it did nothing to hid the fear still on his face. "You do," he stated. "But we've been together long enough for me to recognize your voice. Besides, you were in the other room behind a closed door and this was definitely a man's voice."

"There has to be a logical explanation," she offered, hoping to belie his fear. "The people in the apartment next door probably had their TV up too loud."

He stood up abruptly, his legs sending the chair flying behind him to land on its back four feet away. He started to pace. "No, Donna, it wasn't the TV in the apartment next door or the TV upstairs or anywhere." His voice had the quality of abject dread. "It was in the room with me, trying to talk to me." He was shaking.

She had jerked back in reflex to his sudden outburst and was still trying to recover when she got up to go to him. "Come on, hon, relax," she said quietly, wrapping her arms around him, trying to get him to calm down. "No one was in this apartment but us."

But he knew otherwise. He was awakened every night by the same inarticulate gibberish that droned on for several minutes then stopped as quickly as it had started. He would at last fall into a fitful sleep only to wake up the next morning with a migraine. Although the headaches weren't as intense as the one on the first night, they had him scared.

He wondered if he was losing his mind or if everything was somehow connected to the guilty conscience that had been plaguing him continuously after the scene over her formula. He wanted nothing more than to tell her about his amnesia but the haunting impression that he shouldn't would not go away. Rather than betray his feelings, he became aloof and introverted.

Donna's anxiety increased with each passing day as he grew more and more withdrawn. Their enchanting intercourse, both sexual and verbal, stopped. He wouldn't come to bed until long after she had retired and when he ultimately did, only because exhaustion had totally claimed him, he hardly slept. His muttering and squirming would awaken her several times a night.

By the afternoon of the ninth day, worn out from his tumultuous midnight activities and unable to concentrate on her work, Donna decided it was time to take action. While he was at school tutoring, she pulled out the phone book and starting calling every hospital listed, looking for a late August admittance record for a Tom Doe.

On the twelfth attempt she finally found success when she called Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. The receptionist, a very helpful young woman, had the information within ten minutes. Donna received not only the name of his attending physician, Dr. Emily Katz, but her telephone number as well.

Donna checked the clock while she dialed the number. Four o'clock on a Friday afternoon. It would be a miracle if the doctor was in so late and another one if she could complete the call before Tom, who was due home any minute, walked through the door. She felt strange going behind his back but she had reached a point beyond caring about his feelings in the matter. He was going to end up killing himself and she wasn't about to stand by passively and watch that happen.

The voice that answered the phone had a warm and maternal quality, detectable in even a few short words. "Hello, this is Dr. Katz."

"Dr. Katz, my name is Donna Alessi. You don't know me but you treated a friend of mine about four months ago. Tom Doe?"

On the other end of the line, the doctor had no difficulty recalling the soft-spoken man who had watched the procedures being performed on him with the critical eye of a colleague. "Sure. I remember him. How's he doing?"

"Not very well, I'm afraid," Donna replied, trying to keep the emotional edge out of her voice but not succeeding. "He seemed to be better but then these horrible headaches started up again and he's been passing out. I was wondering if you could do anything for him."

"I'm not sure," Dr. Katz explained. "When he was here at the hospital, we ran every test available and couldn't find anything wrong. I assume, since he's still going by the name Tom Doe, that he hasn't regained his memory yet. Perhaps..."

Donna's loud, startled gasp cut off whatever else the doctor was going to say. Her mind set off in several directions at once as the pieces of a puzzle began falling into place. "He has amnesia," she whispered almost inaudibly.

"Yes," the doctor stated matter-of-factly. "Didn't he tell you?"

"No, he didn't." Her hand fidgeted with the telephone wire.

"He received a pretty severe head injury in the accident. He couldn't remember anything except an inaccurate birthdate. He was lucky to have survived."

It took a moment for Donna to regroup her thoughts and focus her attention back on the telephone conversation. "So there's nothing you can do for the migraines?" she inquired, her tone indicative of fading hope. "He says he's hearing voices now. He's not sleeping and he hardly eats anything."

The doctor recalled how his eyes had screamed out for help the one time she had seen him caught in the throes of an attack. Her heart went out to woman on the other end if she was having to endure a multitude of them. "I never expected the headaches to last this long," she said. "They should have stopped by now since none of the tests we ran showed any permanent damage." She mulled that over and mumbled to herself barely loudly enough for Donna to hear, "We could try medication but the results might not be satisfactory since there are no physiological problems." Then she addressed Donna directly. "Have him here January second, eight a.m. sharp, suite 465 in the medical building. I'm sorry it can't be sooner but my schedule is booked solid."

"Thank you, doctor," Donna said. "You have no idea how much I appreciate this." And as she hung up the receiver, Tom walked in.

She thought he might have sensed her guilt because the moment he entered the room, a frown swept down his face.

She had no way of knowing that his dark mood had nothing to do with her activities. He was totally exhausted and at his wits end. On the way home he had come to the conclusion he had to move on. His inability to confess the truth to her was not only eating away at him but was also making her miserable. He loved her. Complicating her life was the last thing he wanted to do. "I should go," he announced.

Donna felt her heart skip a beat and the blood rushed from her head. "You can't," she answered, trying to maintain her composure.

"What I can't do is 'this' anymore," he said resignedly, sweeping his arm to take in the room.

"I made an appointment with Dr. Katz," she stated with no forewarning, not knowing how to do it otherwise. "We have to be at Cedars-Sinai on Wednesday."

His arm dropped as his head shot up and she could see the veins sticking out in his neck. "You talked to Dr. Katz?" he asked. A wave of shame swept across his face, turning his cheeks red.

"Yes, and she told me, Tom," she answered gently and then added imploringly, "Why didn't you tell me? It wasn't something you had to be ashamed of."

He ignored her question and started collecting his few belongings.

"Talk to me, Tom," she begged. "I want to know what you're thinking." She followed him into the bedroom.

He knew the time for lies, dubiousness and evasion was over. He had never been very good at that anyway. He took a deep, acquiescing breath, dropped the clothes he had been collecting on the bed and faced her where she leaned against the dresser, watching him. He saw fear and trepidation in her eyes and it pained him that he had been the one to put them there. God, how he loved her. "I don't know what my real name is," he admitted quietly.

"I know," she replied. "What I don't know is why you felt you couldn't tell me."

"I'm not sure. A premonition. Or something just as stupid." He gave her an embarrassed smile.

"Maybe you really are a serial killer, after all," she suggested, her expression changing first into a mischievous grin then into a smile that teased and beguiled, giving him a not so subtle cue that everything was forgiven and he was off the hook. "And I've been living with you for the past four weeks?" she added with feigned horror.

He laughed lightly, walked over to her and cupped her head in his hands. "Maybe. I don't know." He probed her eyes intently. "There's a little more."

She looked at him curiously.

"Do you remember I told you that I knew you, knew everything about you?"

"Vaguely." She thought for a moment, then her smile got wider. "There was something about ear kissing in that, wasn't there?"

Tom blushed. "Yeah, well, I knew you the first time I saw you in the library that rainy night," he explained. "You were with some guy."

"I was with Frank." She was quickly losing interest in the discussion as her attention was drawn to his moving mouth. Her thoughts drifted to how it was the most sensuous mouth she had ever seen and he could be doing far more interesting things with it other than talking.

"I watched you leave that night."

"Oh, I understand, now. 'Peeping Tom'." She rubbed her hands against his hips.

"And the night you were attacked." He fidgeted in an attempt to keep his mind on the discussion.

"You were watching me again?" Her fingers had worked their way under his shirt to play with the short hairs below his navel.

"No. I had to leave when I saw you. You gave me a migraine."

"I'd much rather give you something else." She stood up straight and her hands, still under his shirt, moved up to his chest.

"Come on, Donna." he said, trying to grab her wrists. "I'm trying to have a conversation here."

"Well, I'm trying to seduce you. Which one of us do you think is going to win?" She took his hand and led him to the bed.

"So your migraines are connected to memories." Donna was lounging across Tom's chest, twirling the dark hair that grew there. They were lying naked on the bed, disheveled from their lovemaking. "What about the voice? Could it just be some manifestation of your unconscious mind?"

"No it's real. It's external."

"Hopefully, the doctor will be able to figure it out." She stretched like a cat that had spent the entire afternoon napping in the sun, slowly and methodically attending to each muscle group. "You wore me out, hon. I'm ready for some sleep." She yawned and nuzzled her head against him. The room grew quiet, the only sound coming from their even breaths until her voice nudged into the calm. "Tom."

"What?"

"I don't care if you are a serial killer. I still love you."

The voice returned at four a.m., awakening Tom from the first deep sleep he'd had in days.

"Jesus, Sam. If I ever complain about your libido again, remind me of this Leap. That is if you remember it." It was the deep gravely voice of a smoker who didn't think anyone was listening.

"What?"

"Hey, Sammy," the voice shouted enthusiastically. "Can you hear me? You can finally hear me?"

"Shhh. You'll wake her," Tom whispered as he untwined himself from Donna's arms and slowly got out of bed. He quietly left the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Standing naked in the middle of the living room, he asked, "Who are you? Where are you?"

"You didn't have to worry. She can't hear me." The voice became even more exuberant as it continued. "Boy, is it good to see you. Well sort of. I didn't expect to see quite so much of you. Can you see me?"

"I'm supposed to see you, too?" He was wrought with wonder and amazement. He should have been afraid but the easy and familiar manner with which the voice spoke to him dispelled his fear.

"Of course you're supposed to see me. What's the point of being a hologram if you can't see me?" The tone was a mixture of genuine hurt and mocking indignation. "Gushie, just one more time, fine tune the visual or Sam'll be convinced he's hearing ghosts."

"Who are you," Tom asked again. He watched as the visual image of a man in his sixties, wearing the most outlandish clothes Tom had ever seen, materialized before his eyes. The outfit consisted of lime green slacks and jacket, lemon yellow shirt with blue spots, a garish bolo tie and a lemon yellow fedora. The man held a long cigar in his right hand.

"Come on, Sam. We've been through this before."

"My name is Sam." It was a statement as a light flicked on in his brain.

"Yeah. Dr. Samuel Beckett. And I'm..."

"Al." The word was spoken like a prayer. "Al Calavicci." He shivered with excitement. "I know you, Al."

"Yeah, kid, welcome back. Boy, did your brain get magnafoozled in that accident."

Sam shook his head slowly. For the first time in months there was no pain. "The headaches," he started. "All those headaches were caused by you." Relief washed over him as memories continued to flow into his mind.

"The accident affected your neurological synapses. We've been trying to find the right frequency for four months."

"What am I doing here?" he asked as the memories kept coming, clumping together like the bacterial reaction used to make swiss cheese, forming solid mass from liquid yet marred by huge gaping holes.

Al wondered where the holes would be this time and silently prayed they'd be merciful. But when the process was complete and Sam's head jerked around to the bedroom door, he realized there would be no such luck.

"Donna," Sam whispered, remembering.

Quickly consulting the handlink while feeling the drawbacks to being a hologram, Al hoped he could come up with some vital information to distract his friend. "We don't know why you're here," he said and looked up in time to see Sam was almost to the bedroom door. "Don't go in there, Sam," he yelled after his friend.

But it was too late. The door was already open. Sam stood on the threshold looking at her sleeping form. She stirred slightly as the light from the living room fell on her face, but she slept on. "Donna," Sam repeated mournfully without taking his eyes off her.

"I know, Sam," Al said, walking up behind him, painfully aware that the words were totally inadequate but unable to offer a comforting arm or a sympathetic pat. "I know. But you can't stay."

Sam looked at him. The agony Al saw on his face had been there before, on June 5th, 1985, when Donna had failed to show up for their wedding. And despite their new commitment to each other, that debacle was playing out again, five and a half years before the wedding. This time neither one was a willing participant; not Donna, whose dreams were enraptured with her lover at that very moment; and not Sam, who was feeling the beginning tugs of a Leap. He had gotten her back only to lose her again.

"I know," he lamented.

As he moved into the room, he wondered how she would react to his mysterious disappearance. Would she remember their time together with affection or with the bitterness of a scorned lover?

Time. There wasn't enough time. He could bounce around in it forever but he didn't have enough of it to say good-bye. "I love you Donna." The words were on his lips as he Leaped.

Al shouldn't have been surprised when he stepped out of the Imaging Chamber. Diane McBride's sudden appearance at the Senate subcommittee meeting two years ago had been just the first of many time shifts he had experienced since Sam had started Leaping. By now he should have known when to expect them. But no matter how prepared he should have been, it was still extremely disconcerting to see her walking toward him, her expression a mixture of anxiety and dread.

"Is he okay?" she asked emphatically.

Memories that hadn't been there a second before started to congeal in his brain to mix next to those that had been there for years. The same as before, both time lines would stay forever embedded in his engrams. He instantly knew this woman well, had a long history with her and realized just as suddenly that he was almost as close to her as he was to Sam.

"He's fine, Donna." He put an arm around her shoulders as he escorted her out of the Control Room. "He's just fine."

He regarded her for a moment and was surprised that despite nineteen ensuing years she looked almost the same as she had in 1979. "But let's talk about you, darlin'. How have you been? I haven't seen you in a while." His expression turned devilish yet playful as he added, "You know, I'm curious why you've never really told me anything about your first fiancé."

Donna returned a quizzical look, then her face spread into a knowing grin.