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Title: Mercy on Their Souls 
Author: Tabitha K. Muir
Email: TabithaKMuir@aol.com
Rating: R: Romance, angst, harrowing situations
Disclaimer: The West Wing television series and its characters are the 
property of Aaron Sorkin and NBC. The author makes no claim of 
ownership and is using them sorely for entertainment purposes. 
No infringement or monetary gain is implied or intended.
Pairing: CJ/Josh
Spoilers: Anything up through the US 2nd season
Archive: Okay to archive, just let me know
Summary: Josh helps CJ find answers after a life-changing event and 
together they realize that it's okay to be a victim of survival.
Note: The airplane crash depicted in this story is based on a true 
event.
*****
Chapter One:
"CJ, this is for you," Josh said, handing over a sealed white envelope.
"You can't open it though," he hastily added.
"Josh, you came all the way over here in the middle of the night just 
to give me something I can't open?"
She tilted her head to one side in curious amusement, smiling 
slightly. However the easy camaraderie between them didn't last long. 
He could almost detect the exact moment when it crossed over into 
genuine concern. It seemed as if everyone of late was overly concerned 
with the status of his well being. He couldn't really blame them; 
not after all the horrible stuff that had happened over the holidays. 
He knew CJ was no different in this regard. She just wasn't as adept 
at hiding it from him than say Toby or Sam, or the President himself 
for that matter. The thing about CJ was she had these amazingly 
expressive eyes, and even as he watched they shifted from one shade 
of blue right into another. She was simply unable to offer sentiment 
halfway because all that she was went into it without conscious 
thought on her part. Some might want to label that as 'wearing your 
heart on your sleeve' but Josh preferred to view it as having the 
gift of a child's faith.

"CJ?" he asked, gesturing between his chest and the partly opened 
door. "You think maybe I could come in?" This wasn't a conversation 
he intended to have standing out here in the public hallway of her 
apartment building.
"Of course Josh, I'm sorry," she apologized. "Come in," she said 
pushing away from the door to allow him entry into her home. As he 
passed the threshold he caught the scent of fresh apricots and figured 
she'd probably just washed her hair. Or maybe it was peach marmalade 
instead. Although even with his limited acquaintance of women's hair 
care products, he was pretty sure there wasn't much demand for 
marmalade flavored shampoo. Whatever it was though it smelled good 
and he liked it.
"Josh?" 
He turned around somewhat embarrassed. While he had been standing 
there like an idiot stupidly ruminating about marmalade and apricots, 
CJ had been waiting for an explanation for his unannounced visit. 
The truth was though he was suddenly at a loss to give her one. It 
had seemed like a brilliant enough idea a couple of hours ago, but 
now that he was actually here he was beginning to wonder. What the 
hell had he been thinking anyway? She continued to wait patiently, 
while absently fiddling with the long sash to her robe which was 
tied at the waist. It was a lavender terry cloth he noticed, 
floor length, with lots of those fluffy bumpy things here and 
there, like you'd get from repeated washings and many years of 
faithful service.
"Do you want to sit down?" CJ finally asked with a sigh, breaking the 
silence. Astute enough to recognize that someone had to take charge 
of the conversation if they were ever going to get anywhere. Josh 
merely nodded his head like the big mute goof he had devolved into 
and followed her lead into the living room. She took a seat at one 
end of a large comfortable-looking beige couch, and even though there 
was plenty of room for him to sit next to her, he instead chose the 
neutrality of a nearby lazy boy chair. Unfortunately it was one of 
those new age hybrid kind, which went against every known logistic 
of nature and gravity by possessing the ability to gyrate in every 
direction simultaneously. And worse, this one had a hair-trigger. 
Josh labored hard in order to quell its unnatural tendencies and even 
then he was terrified to move. CJ, after making a noble attempt not 
to laugh, did anyway. He relaxed his death grip on the arm rests just 
long enough to appear mortified, feeling the rise of color to his 
cheeks. She had probably been waiting for just such an opportunity as 
payback ever since that whole 'secret plan to fight inflation' fiasco. 
He closed his eyes wondering where he had lost control, or if in fact 
he had ever really had it in the first place. This certainly wasn't 
playing out the way he had hoped.
"Josh?" Only his eyebrows rose in answer. "Get over here," she 
ordered, deciding to take pity on him as she patted the spot next 
to her. It took him another full minute of careful syncopation before
he risked a daring dismount from the bowels of the opponent chair. CJ 
just watched, shaking her head quietly at his performance. When he 
was finally freed from his upholstered prison she reached up and 
tugged on his arm gently, pulling him down to sit with her on the 
couch. "So tell me old pal of mine," she said, still holding on to 
his arm comfortably. "What is this all about anyway?" Josh's mother, 
if she were here, would happily and in excruciating detail explain 
that he was a pacer by birth, and apparently this annoying habit was 
nothing new to CJ either. He had nearly made it upright before being 
jerked back unceremoniously by the tether of his captive arm. CJ was 
no lightweight when it came to coworker control. 
"Just sit here and talk to me Josh," she scolded. "I won't bite." He 
make a real effort to relax; while having to hold back a tidal wave 
of wisecrack replies that threatened to escape at the prospect of 
such a cavernous 'I won't bite' opening. He concentrated on slowing 
his heart rate by taking a deep breath, before he ended up fainting, 
right here, right now. Oh and wouldn't the ramifications of that just 
be a press nightmare to behold? "Josh." CJ had just about reached the 
limit of her patience.
"Okay, but you have to promise not to interrupt."
"Then I should be expecting your usual level of ineptitude?"
"Yes. No. CJ!" She grinned, but nodded her agreement to further 
silence. "I'll be needing this back first," he said, pulling his 
hand from hers.
"Since when do you require your arm as a visual aid?"
"CJ," he groaned. She had the unmitigated chutzpah to feign ignorance 
as she mimed locking her lips to further disruption and throwing away 
the key.
"Yeah. Well, keep quiet this time," he said, mustering forth what was 
at best an idle threat.
CJ's eyelashes--her eyelashes of all things--were currently 
telegraphing a directive for him to go someplace that he was guessing 
would not be at all pleasant. And damned if he wasn't ready to pack 
his bags and sell his soul wholesale in trepidation. The woman was 
just plain unnerving at times and this was absolutely one of them. 
Josh ran shaky hands through the curls of his sandy brown hair, 
feeling the cold flop sweat swan diving down the curve of his neck. 
Oh yeah, he was flustered now and unable to remember what it was he 
had wanted to say. It was impossible what with having to look at CJ. 
Just sitting there and being all CJ like she was doing. It was 
throwing him off his game, just like Leo and those 'beat the clock' 
memo summations he enjoyed inflicting on them so much. He had pretty 
much decided to call it quits and walk away, except he happened to 
glance over at CJ at the same moment. She wasn't looking at him or 
even his way; instead she was studying the envelope he had given her 
earlier, like it might hold all the secrets of the universe inside. 
She maintained a wistful expression as she ran slender fingertips 
along its edges and tapped a corner against her knee. She would never 
open it though. He was positive of this. She wanted to, of course she 
did, but she wouldn't, simply because he had asked her not to, as a 
friend. And it was this friendship that she felt for him and he for 
her which became the catalyst he so desperately needed.
"When my father died," he began without further preamble, "after the 
funeral and the flowers and the sympathy. When it was just family 
again and we had to start going through his possessions, we began 
finding these little index cards." His voice had taken on a serious 
note and CJ turned to offer him her undivided attention. No more 
jokes now. 
"They were all over the place, in his coat pockets, in his car, in his 
desk, everywhere. I even found one in the bathroom underneath the 
sink," he said chuckling at the memory. "Every card had a list on it 
printed out and numbered in my Dad's handwriting. There were lists of 
books and movies, of music, of places and things, everything you could 
imagine. There are some that we still haven't exactly figured out 
yet. At the time I thought it was actually kind of cute. Some old 
guy idiosyncrasy that I'm probably doomed to inherit in my golden 
years. I believed it was just some endearing way he had developed to 
keep track of stuff he had read or seen, or whatever. I forgot all 
about them later on." He stood up quickly, startling her as he 
launched into pacing mode. This time she let him go without a word 
of protest. "I forgot about them that is until after the shooting, 
when I was left with all this recuperating time and nothing else to 
do but think. That's when it hit me CJ. What if those lists weren't 
what we originally thought they were? What if they weren't lists of 
things he had done, but instead were lists of things he still wanted 
to do?" He stopped pacing and stared directly into her eyes with 
something akin to panic in his voice. "My God, what if my father was 
living his whole life under the assumption that he would be around 
long enough to finish all those things he had taken the trouble to 
write down? Only he got it wrong, terribly wrong, which means that 
now those lists only represent all the things he never got the chance 
to experience. Do you understand how incredibly sad that is, knowing 
he had hoped to finish all those things, but now never will? I have 
to tell you CJ; it nearly drove me insane. I began thinking that if 
I could just complete some of the items myself, in his name, then it 
might make a difference somehow. Don't ask me how. It just made sense 
at the time. I was obsessed. Reading all the books on the book list 
and watching all the movies on the movie list. Some of the others 
were tougher to carry out, not to mention difficult to decipher. 
If it's at all possible his handwriting was even worse than 
Donna's." He smiled at her warily. "CJ, I swear, it looked like 
physics on the card, but truthfully it could have been psychics."
"You're kidding," she said astonished, forgetting her vow of silence. 
"Then that whole Cal Tech thing was..."
"All because of my Dad. Yes." She said nothing more, only smiled at 
him after a moment. Josh relaxed visibly, taking a deep break as he 
finally sat back down on the couch again. They both lapsed into a 
companionable quiet.
"Josh?" CJ ventured after awhile.
"Yeah?"
"You don't really believe that doing all those things made up for what 
your father missed, do you?"
"No, not really."
"Were you hoping maybe that it might help you? By missing him a 
little bit less?"
"Yeah."
"It didn't help much though, did it?"
"No. It didn't."
"Josh," she said, wrapping her hand around his. "You do know that you 
were the best son he could possibly have had, don't you?"
"We could all stand to be better sons and daughters, CJ," he answered 
quietly, regret evident in every word.
"No," she said, shaking her head slowly. "I'm not sure that's true, at 
least not in your case."
"I appreciate that CJ."
"Josh? Do you mind if I ask you something else?"
"You're wondering why I showed up on your doorstep tonight?"
"Well yeah, now that you mention it."
"I'm sorry, but I can't answer that question."
"You can't?"
"Nope. At least not right now, and not so much in spoken words."

 
 She glanced down pointedly at the sealed white envelope still 
cradled in her lap. "Then I'm guessing that this letter here might 
help to explain it for you?"
"Yeah. I'm hoping so. But CJ, that's not a letter."
"It's not?" Her eyebrows rose in confusion.
"No. It's a list."
"A list. I see. Then would this be a list of things that you've 
already done?"
"No," said Josh softly. "But it might be a list of things that I'm 
really hoping to do." And with this he slowly lifted their clasped 
hands to his lips and kissed the back of her palm lightly. She gasped 
in quiet surprise at his actions, but made no move to remove her hand 
from his. 
"Josh, this list of things that you're really hoping to do," she 
paused, swallowing hard before continuing, "does it pertain to me in 
some way?"
"CJ," he nodded, "this list of things that I'm really hoping to do 
pertains to you in every way."
*****
Chapter Two:
You could have dropped a pin and heard the recoil as it hit the 
carpeted floor as it was all of a sudden that kind of noiseless in 
CJ's apartment. Josh still held onto her hand and she his, but they 
were staring at one another like it was the first time they had ever 
met.
"Josh?"
"Yeah?"
"I want to know why you were holding Donna's underwear that day?" It 
wasn't exactly the kind of reaction he had been anticipating but at 
least she hadn't thrown him out, so maybe it was a good sign after all.
"How do you know it was Donna's underwear that I was holding?"
"Her name was sewn into the waistband."
"You couldn't possibly have seen that from..."
"I have been blessed with the unique ability to read upside down. It's 
even in my resume. Now answer my question."
"And that question was?"
"Why were you holding Donna's underwear?"
"CJ, are you quite certain that's the only question you want to ask me 
right now?"
"Josh."
"I was holding Donna's underwear because they had just been delivered 
by a messenger."
"I see."
"You do?"
"No."
"CJ, you know Sam was there too, so why aren't you curious as to his
relationship with Donna's underwear?"
"Sam isn't here now and he wasn't the one clutching them when I 
passed by and besides..."
"I wasn't clutching them."
"And besides..."
"Besides?" Josh could tell that CJ was starting to get a bit 
disconcerted. She was showing it by doing that cute thing she did 
sometimes with her mouth, where she scrunches it over to the side, 
and her nose gets twitched up in the process. He loved it when she 
did that. 
"Besides," she continued as a blush began its resolute creep 
forward. "The nature of Sam and Donna's underwear relationship does 
not currently interest me."
"What underwear relationship does currently interest you?"
"Josh."
"CJ, there is not now nor has there ever been anything going on 
between Donna and myself."
"Are you sure she feels the same way?"
"I'd much rather know how you feel."
"Josh."
"CJ, I love Donna in the way that a brother loves his sister, and 
that's as far as it goes. She knows this, trust me." CJ stood up 
abruptly, pulling her hand from his and walking over to stand in 
front of the window. It was a large picture window, which boasted an 
impressive view of the DC night skyline filtering in through a set of 
gauzy curtains. She first looked at the unopened white envelope and 
then slipped it into her robe pocket. After a moment, Josh followed 
and stood behind her, allowing a discreet distance to remain between 
them. The moon was nearly full tonight and it shone luminously 
revealing the complicated tangle of their silhouettes against the far 
wall.
"CJ?" He spoke to her back and she didn't bother to turn around.
"Yes?"
"You and Danny?"
"That's over," she stated in no uncertain terms. "Actually it never 
even got started in the first place." She shrugged her shoulders 
tiredly.
"I heard about the editor's position. He was a fool to turn it down."
"It would have boosted his career tremendously."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant."
"Do you?" he asked, reaching out to lightly trace his fingertips along 
her shoulder blades. She shivered at his touch; turning around to face 
him but with her head still lowered. "Do you?" he asked again, 
lifting her chin to bring her face level with his own. He was 
surprised to discover that she was crying. A trail of strangely silent 
tears whose presence was made known only by the tracks left behind 
along her cheeks as they fell. "CJ," he marveled, moving close to 
gather her up into his arms. "Tell me why you're crying?" he whispered 
next to her ear, as she buried her face in his neck.
"I'm really scared here," she finally admitted, bringing her arms up 
and hesitantly linking them around his waist.
"Good," he said, kissing her forehead. "Because so am I."
"I wasn't expecting this, Josh."
"I know. I'm sorry it took me so long to tell you."
"When did you first suspect...something?"
"It was before we got elected."
"No," she said pulling away enough to get a good look at his eyes, 
obviously doubting the validity of his confession.
"Yes," he insisted as he brushed away her tears. "It's true. But so 
many things were happening then, what with Bartlet and the campaign, 
and my Dad. Then later on it always seemed as if the timing was lousy 
on my part. I really thought that you and Danny had a pretty serious 
thing going on there for awhile. I didn't want to risk spoiling your 
chance for happiness, not if you really loved him. I mean I had no 
idea and I still don't, if you felt the same way about me. It was 
only after confirming that Danny had turned down the position that 
I realized it was now or never. So I chose now over never. It's that 
simple." She was trembling; he could feel it, and he held on tighter 
trying to absorb her apprehensions.
"CJ?"
"Yeah?"
"So how do you feel about me anyway?"
"Well," she said, taking a deep breath of consideration and sniffling 
loudly against his chest. "I'm pleased to learn that you don't have 
an intimate acquaintance with Donna's underwear."
"CJ," he sighed, exasperated.
"Do I get to open the envelope now?"
"No, you don't. However," he said, reaching into his inner jacket 
pocket and producing a long thin jewelry box, tied with a red ribbon, 
"you may open this instead."
"Josh," she said in surprise, taking the box with all the vigilance 
of a vampire being offered a swig of holy water. "Are you trying to 
kill me?"
"I've heard your statistics on vending machine fatalities, but death 
by gift? I don't think so." She maneuvered around enough in his arms 
to allow room to open the box. 
"Thank you Josh," she said quietly after viewing it's contents, "but 
I'm not sure..." He cut her off by reaching around to pick up the gold 
bracelet from within the box and lifting her hand so that he could 
place it on her wrist.
"Don't make it more complex than it has to be, CJ," he admonished 
after adjusting the lobster clasp to his satisfaction. "It's a 
bracelet."
"Yes Josh, I can see that it's a bracelet, but..."
"Actually, it's not just any bracelet."
"It's not?"
"No. It's a charm bracelet."
"A charm bracelet?" she questioned. "But it doesn't have any charms." 
Holding out her arm and wriggling her wrist as confirmation.
"I always knew you'd be a difficult woman to please," he said and got 
elbowed soundly in the ribs for his troubles. "Ouch! All right, look 
underneath the cotton." CJ did as instructed, pulling out two gold 
heart-shaped charms, each of which was engraved in script lettering. 
One read 'pal of mine' and the other 'mi amor.'
"I was right. You are trying to kill me," she said shaking her head.
"I just thought I'd give you the opportunity to choose which charm 
you'd prefer."
"Josh, despite all evidence to the contrary you really are sweet 
sometimes, you know that?"
"CJ, despite all evidence to the contrary you really are not sweet 
sometimes, you know that? For God's sake woman, would you put me out 
of my misery already? Which one is it going to be?"
"What?" she asked, holding up the charms and exuding the conniving 
interest of a loan shark appraising collateral, "I can't have them 
both?"
"Oh for the love of...that's it. I'm going. I'm going to see if Mrs. 
Landingham is still awake. She'll at least offer me a cookie," he 
declared, turning as if to leave.
"Get over here, Underwear Boy," CJ commanded by aggressively tugging 
him back to her by the lapels. "Patience has never been one of your 
virtues."
"And sympathy has never been one of yours," he countered, bringing 
his hands to her waist and pulling her forward until they were leaning 
against each other, body to body, with no space left in between.
"So are you going to kiss me now?" she stated, matter of fact.
"Do you want me to kiss you now?"
"When are you going to stop answering my questions with a question?"
When are you going to tell me how you feel?"
"You don't know?"
"No, I don't"
"I don't love you like a brother."
"You don't?"
"No. I don't even have a brother to compare it with, so how could..."
"CJ!"
"I love you, Josh."
"You love me. Would that be love as in 'pal of mine' love or would 
that be love as in 'mi amor' love?"
"That would be love as in both of them. I really want to keep those 
hearts."
"CJ?"
"What? You want a cookie?"
"No. I definitely don't want a cookie."
"That's good, because I don't have any cookies and I don't know how 
to make them either."
"Too bad."
"Then I guess we'll just have to find some other way to occupy our 
time."
"You think?"
"No. I'm past thinking anymore tonight."
"Me too. So I'm going to kiss you now, CJ."
"Josh, that had all the spontaneity of road kill and about as much 
anticipation."
"Just wanted to clear your agenda. I know you're a busy woman and 
all." He leaned in slowly and so did she, but just as their lips were 
about to meet he pulled back, staring at something behind her back. 
"Well, would you look at that," he said in amazement.
"What?" She tried to turn and see what he was referring to, but he 
kept her firmly in place with both hands anchored on her hips.
"No. Don't move. You'll spoil the effect," he said grinning. "It's 
our silhouettes CJ, on the wall over there. They're getting pretty 
darn friendly."
She laughed out loud, a rich contagious sound that he knew he would 
never tire of hearing. "You think maybe they're in love?" she 
whispered conspiratorially, watching his eyes dance in the moonlight, 
beneath the muted glow of night and shadow.
"I'm sure of it. Shall we show them how it's done?" And this time, he 
really did kiss her.
*****
Chapter Three:
"CJ?" Josh called out as she was passing by the opened door of his 
office.
"Yeah?" she answered, pausing mid-stride. She nodded to Sam and Toby 
seated on the couch along the wall, both with notebooks on their 
laps, scribbling furiously.
"Is underdog one word or two?" Josh asked her.
"As in: We are sworn to protect and uphold the welfare of the underdog 
downtrodden masses?"
"Well no, actually I was talking about the cartoon."
"The cartoon?"
"Yeah, you know Underdog. The mild-mannered shoeshine dog."
"The mild-mannered shoeshine dog?"
"There's no need to fear, Underdog is here!"
"Excuse me?" CJ said incredulously, pulling off her glasses in order 
to give him a proper stare of annoyance.
"That was...just part of his spiel," Josh explained, his voice 
withering with every word.
"The shoeshine dog."
"Yeah."
"He had a spiel?"
"Come on CJ," Sam chimed in coming to Josh's defense. "You must have 
heard of Underdog before."
"Oh, must I?"
"There is something inherently amiss for someone of your reputed 
education and background not being in touch with this country's 
cartoon heritage," Toby chastised with subtle aplomb.
"Toby, you're actually on board with this topic of conversation?" 
CJ asked, amazed.
"I am a man of many layers."
"Look, up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane! It's a frog! 
A frog?" Josh said, reciting the cartoon's opening theme song.
"I thought that was superman?" CJ said, confused. "Well, except for 
the part about the frog anyway."
"There were actually many major points of comparison between Underdog 
and Superman," Sam contributed. "For instance, they both used a 
phone booth to transform."
"Transform?"
"Yes CJ. Transform, change, metamorphose, transmute..."
"I get it, Sam."
"Superman had one weakness," Sam continued, undaunted, "which was of 
course Kryptonite, and Underdog's one weakness was..." he hesitated, 
trying to remember.
"Underdog was so powerful he had no weaknesses," Josh provided, 
puffing out his chest in a manly-man manner. "And if, and I'm only 
saying if, his power ever came into question he always had the 
revitalizing energy pill, which he kept in his secret compartment 
ring."
"A revitalizing energy pill?" CJ repeated laughing. "Well that 
explains it then. I'm guessing this gem was a product of the 60's? 
And by the way Sam, all these points of comparison between Superman 
and Superdog..."
"Underdog," Toby corrected blandly.
"Whatever. Isn't that what you'd call stealing?"
"No. That's what I'd call parody," Sam replied, smirking.
"Parody at its height," added Josh, proudly.
"Do you remember that episode where the evil scientist Simon Bar 
Sinister created the Big Dipper Machine in order to pilfer the 
world's water supply?" Sam asked, turning to Toby.
"Oh yeah. It's a classic. I have it on DVD," Toby said, his eyes much 
to CJ's dismay, twinkling.
"Wait!" Josh exclaimed. "I remember that one. After stealing all the 
water in the world, he imprisons the citizens and makes them perform 
'Simon Says' just to get a drink."
"Right," Sam confirmed. "You know that wouldn't be a bad plan of 
action for Congress."
"Stealing their water?"
"No, making them perform 'Simon Says.'"
"And that would accomplish what?" asked Toby.
"Nothing. I'd just like to see them doing it."
"I used to like The Banana Splits," CJ piped up. Three heads 
simultaneously snapped her way with such force she was surprised 
there weren't spinal injuries involved.
"The Banana Splits?" Toby stammered, as Sam sadly shook his head. 
Josh was just looking like he was profoundly disappointed in her.
"Well yeah," she went on gamely, wondering why she was suddenly 
feeling a sense of cartoon envy. "The Banana Splits. They wore 
these goofy animal costumes and did slapstick humor." She paused in 
the wake of ensuing silence. "They ran into each other a lot," she 
explained, clearing her throat, "and introduced action shorts like 
Danger Island and...What?" she finally demanded, as they just 
continued to stare at her.
"That's live action," explained Sam pointedly.
"So?"
"That's a whole other genre."
"I'm officially through with this conversation," CJ declared.
"An excellent development on your part," Toby avowed.
"Sam," CJ said, while at the same time managing to pin Toby with a 
lethal frown. "It's 11:30."
"So?" 
"So, my flight is scheduled for 2:45 and you promised months ago to 
take me to the airport."
"CJ, have you looked outside? There's at least seven inches of fresh 
snow. I'm sure the airport is closed."
"Yes Sam, the airport is closed, but I called and it's scheduled to be 
reopened at 2:30. My flight will be delayed, but it hasn't been 
cancelled."
"Then CJ, we have a problem."
"Sam," she groaned.
"CJ, it's actually not entirely Sam's fault this time," Toby 
interjected. "Leo wants a complete rewrite of the Houston speech by 
the end of the day. We won't be going anywhere for hours."
"What, you have time for a whole lecture on the virtues of Underdog, 
but you can't live up to your personal responsibilities?"
"There is always room on my agenda for a lecture on Underdog," Sam 
deadpanned.
"I can take you to the airport," Josh offered.
"But I thought you had that..."
"No, it was pushed back to Tuesday."
"Sam," CJ said smiling, "because of Josh's generosity you will 
live to see another day."
"Oh joy," Sam said, without any joy whatsoever, as he and Toby stood 
and filed out of the office.
CJ walked over to Josh's desk and perched on the edge. "Josh, you 
sure that you have time for this?"
"Of course. Once I heard about the schedule change I was planning on 
taking you anyway." His voice lowered and he glanced over quickly to 
the opened door to ensure no one was within hearing distance. 
"Besides, it'll give us a chance to have a proper airport goodbye."
"And that would be?"
"If you feel up to it, a bit of that running through the hallways 
towards each other with our arms wide open, numerous hugs, and I'm 
thinking at least seven kisses."
"Seven kisses?" she whispered, her eyes unconsciously dropping to his 
mouth. "You sure you have that many in you?"
"Would that be a slur to my manhood?"
"Consider the gauntlet thrown."
"You know how much I love a challenge."
"I'm counting on it. And Josh?"
"Hmmm?"
"I have three words for you," she said seductively.
"And those would be?" he wondered, his breath quickening in 
anticipation.
"Fleegle, Drooper and Snorky."
"That's so...wait a minute. What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"They're the names of three of the Banana Splits," she said, standing. 
"I just wanted you to get used to hearing it because I have a very 
close contact in high places. By this time next week, they'll be 
your, Toby and Sam's new Secret Service code names." She moved over 
to the door. "And don't think I don't know who was responsible for 
getting me saddled with Flamingo," was her parting shot.
Josh just gaped at her as she walked away.
*****
Sam had been right of course; exactly seven inches of fresh snow had 
fallen over the nation's capital that day. The temperature was 
somewhere in the low 20's and visibility was limited. The Reagan 
National Airport had closed temporarily so that its crews could 
plow the runways. It reopened again promptly at 2:30 for business 
as usual; this being a city quite used to the inconveniences of 
inclement weather.
CJ's lips were still warm and tingly from the passion of Josh's 
goodbye kisses, as she took her assigned seat aboard Air Florida's 
Flight 190, non-stop service to Ft. Lauderdale. Three times her 
cousin Anna had had to reschedule her wedding to accommodate CJ's 
demanding work schedule, she being the maid of honor and all. CJ had 
given her solemn word to the harried bride that this time nothing 
short of an impeachment would keep her from attending the festivities. 
She wouldn't be away long, only two days, so the West Wing would just 
have to get along without her until then. She would be flying back to 
DC Sunday night and Josh would be there to pick her up. She turned 
her head to the side sighing, as she stared out the tiny oval-shaped 
window, at the gray over-cast skies and the white snow piled along 
the tarmac. They hadn't even departed the gate and already she was 
missing Josh something fierce. In retrospect it seemed the equivalent 
of a lifetime, but it had really only been four weeks since he had 
appeared at her apartment, carrying a sealed envelope, a charm 
bracelet, and a declaration of love. She smiled now unconsciously, 
just as she always did whenever she thought of that night. She had 
told Josh that she wanted to wait a bit before breaking the news of 
their involvement to others, just a little personal time to simply 
enjoy being together. Over the last weeks she had been sporting the 
bracelet but not the charms. She couldn't wear those because of 
course the engraving would be a dead giveaway. Her left hand strayed 
to her right wrist, absently circling the naked skin she found there. 
She wasn't wearing the bracelet today and for the first time since 
Josh had placed it on her wrist. She fervently hoped he hadn't 
noticed because she wanted to surprise him. The bracelet was at the 
jewelers, having the charms attached. She would be picking it up 
first thing Monday morning and would have it on her wrist when she 
went into work that day. There would be no more secrets after that, 
and she knew Josh was going to be thrilled.
*****
At the same time in the cockpit of Air Florida's Flight 190, Captain 
Larry Weston and First Officer Roger Patterson had just been informed 
of a further delay by the tower. They were now number eleven in 
priority for take-off. Captain Weston was a relatively young man for 
this profession and he was scowling impatiently as he ordered the 
de-icing discontinued. The port side of the plane had just been 
started when the order filtered down to the ground crew.
It would later be considered the first in a series of costly mistakes
made this fateful day.
*****
Chapter Four:
CJ's glasses perched precariously on the end of her nose, threatening 
to jump ship at any time, as she concentrated on the report she was 
typing on her laptop. She was choosing to make the best of the waiting 
game hoping to get some work done in the interim. She had to halt the 
rapid fire tapping of fingers upon the keyboard, just barely managing 
to catch the end of her frames as they toppled away. That's when she 
noticed the stranger blatantly staring at her from over the top of the 
seat in front. He was an enigma, wearing a fuzzy synthetic ensemble of 
fire engine red, with impossibly huge Ping-Pong size eyes, and dark 
pupils that followed her no matter which way she moved. Below this 
sat a round, orange Bozo nose and a wide gaping mouth. He waved his 
stuffed paw at her twice by way of a shy greeting before suddenly 
breaking into a spirited round of vibration and laughter. "That 
tickles!" he exclaimed in a childish recorded voice, as he shook and 
giggled and giggled and shook. It was both irresistible and annoying, 
but undeniably contagious, and CJ found she couldn't help but join in 
as well. A moment later the owner of the 'Tickle Me Elmo' doll made 
her own appearance by standing up on the seat and leaning over the 
top.
"My name's Melissa," she lisped as Elmo blessedly ran out of virtual 
steam. It was a little girl, maybe five years old with long blond 
braids and dressed in a Big Bird jumpsuit.
"Well, hello Melissa. My name is CJ."
*****
There was a thirty-minute delay following Captain Weston's request 
for discontinuation of de-icing during which time the craft just 
idled, a benign giant upon the airfield. The interior of the plane 
was becoming stuffy and beginning to fill with a claustrophobic sense 
of uneasiness and expectancy. Flight attendants dutifully making 
their appointed rounds down the narrow aisles became convenient 
scapegoats for tirades on schedule interruptions, which were 
realistically beyond their control. They shadow boxed questions as to 
estimated departure and arrival times, using vague generalities and 
the lure of enthusiastic smiles. Roasted peanuts and soft drinks were 
offered up as appeasement to soothe the ire of restless natives. 
Captain Weston heaved a weary sigh of relief upon being issued a 
tentative green light. Speaking into the mouthpiece of his radio 
headset he ordered the de-icing procedures to reconvene. Passengers 
were naturally curious as they observed a man outfitted in full 
weather gear, a mask covering his nose and mouth, slowly rising up to 
the level of the plane's windows, nestled inside the bucket of a 
cherry-picker type vehicle. He carried with him what appeared to be 
the business end of a snaking fire hose and pointed it towards one 
of the massive wings, firing off a cloud of white vaporous de-icing 
chemicals. It was shortly after 4:00 when the whole operation was 
completed. At this time the maintenance crew routinely reported a 
'light-dusting' of snow upon the wings, which was not really 
surprising as snow was still gently falling even now. First Officer 
Patterson acknowledged the go ahead to push the airplane from the 
gate. However the small build-up of snow that had fallen after the 
last plow was enough to cause the tires of the TUG to spin uselessly. 
At 4:23 Captain Weston, contradicting company policy, decided to 
engage the reversers for a minute and a half to help assist in the 
push. It only resulted in loose debris and slush being wildly whipped 
about and then thrown back into the engines themselves. As a last 
resort another TUG, this one equipped with chains was called in, 
and a successful push was finally achieved. Air Florida's Boeing 
737 moved into a standard taxi position behind a New York Air DC-9, 
and the cockpit crew began to go over the takeoff checklist. 
"Air conditioning and pressurization?" asked First Officer Patterson.
"Set," replied the Captain.
"Engine anti-ice?"
"Off."
Amazingly neither officer seemed to notice the dire significance of 
this answer as they went on down the rest of the list as normal. 
The anti-ice device was left in the off position. They had apparently 
just forgotten to activate it. This would allow ice build-up to 
penetrate sensitive engine parts.
*****
One of the flight attendants was standing at the head of the cabin 
demonstrating safety procedures, as another was describing what 
she was doing blow for blow over the PA system. The proper way to 
use an oxygen mask, where to find flotation devices and the location 
of every emergency exit were all but ignored by the complacency of 
most of the passengers. This would include CJ as well, who considered 
herself a well-seasoned traveler. In the seat just ahead of hers, 
Melissa's mother was adjusting the seatbelt across her daughter's lap 
and checking for a snug fit.
"CJ?" Melissa suddenly blurted out. "I know the names of everyone 
who lives on Sesame Street. There's Big Bird, Grouch, Elmo..."
"Now Melissa," her mother scolded gently. "I'm sure the nice lady 
doesn't want to hear you go on about Sesame Street."
"She doesn't?" Melissa replied, as if a disinterest in all things 
muppet was just impossible to believe.
"That's okay, Melissa," CJ called back, winking at her mother. "You 
can tell me all about Sesame Street a little later." She hesitated a 
moment before adding with a grin, "And I'll tell you everything I 
know about The Banana Splits."
*****
Captain Weston maneuvered the plane so that it was lined up directly 
behind the New York DC-9 while awaiting takeoff. He was making an 
attempt to use the other aircraft's exhaust to help melt the ice off 
his own fuselage and wings. It was a sound enough idea in theory and 
it did indeed melt the ice. Unfortunately it then blew it back again, 
where it re-froze in areas that the anti-ice system couldn't reach.
"Captain," First Officer Patterson reported, "I'm picking up an 
anomaly in the engine instrument readings. One of the EPR gauges is 
off." He peered out the forward cockpit window at the other 
aircraft. "I'm wondering if it might be the hot exhaust that's 
causing it." Captain Weston glanced over at the gauges, but as they 
got closer to ascent mode the readings suddenly returned to normal. 
Fifteen minutes later just after the DC-9's departure, they were 
advised to move into position and prepare for immediate takeoff.
"Takeoff power is 2.04 EPR," Patterson read off, as he began the 
briefing.
There are two different types of the infamous 'Black Box' that are 
required on commercial airlines and which are in actuality painted a 
bright orange for easy retrieval and equipped with underwater beacons. 
One is called a Flight Data Recorder or FDR and it monitors the 
behavior of the plane, measuring parameters such as airspeed, 
altitude, pitch and roll as well as various steering mechanisms. 
They are designed to store a minimum of twenty-five hours of 
information, using state of the art electrical recording devices, 
and constructed to survive the most hazardous conditions imaginable. 
The other type is called a Cockpit Voice Recorder or CVR and it 
records all cockpit conversations over a looping two-hour period. 
These devices would later show that it was the compressor inlet 
pressure probe that had caused the instrument reading abnormality 
that the 1st Officer had reported. Ice on the probe itself caused 
by the fact that the anti-ice system was turned off, resulted in a 
higher than actual thrust reading on the EPR gauges.
"Palm 190, no delay on departure. Traffic's two and a half out for 
the runway," reported the Air Traffic Controller.
They would be departing from runway 36, which requires a 40-degree 
left turn roll after becoming airborne in order to follow the Potomac 
River, and avoid flying over the Washington Monument and The White 
House airspace. Visibility was now down to only a quarter of a mile. 
The 1st Officer advanced the throttles to begin the requisite roll, 
but less than a minute after takeoff it became abundantly apparent 
that something was dreadfully wrong. What Patterson didn't know was 
that the normal reading of a 2.04 EPR he was getting was incorrect. 
It had in reality only reached approximately 1.70 EPR and this would 
prevent them from obtaining the necessary altitude.
"It's real cold. Captain, this doesn't seem right," Patterson 
remarked anxiously, as the instruments were telling him one thing and 
the feel of the plane was telling him something else. 
"Yes, it is. Look there's the mark." 
It was the second time that the 1st Officer had tried to inform the 
Captain of a possible problem and just like before his input was all 
but ignored. The airplane suddenly pitched up roughly. Followed by 
the shrill alarm warning of an imminent stall.
*****
As soon as the airplane started to pick up speed it began to shudder 
violently. And it didn't stop. The passengers were frantically trying 
to make eye contact with those around them, only to find their own 
terror mirrored there. Seatbelts were tightened sharply and hands 
were grasped together in fear. Some of them were screaming and 
children were crying. The interior was filled with a loud pitching 
whine as if the airplane itself was starting to fall apart, 
bolt by bolt. They were going down.
"Take this!" CJ yelled, leaning forward and shoving a small airplane 
pillow over the seat. "Put it on Melissa's lap and tell her to lean 
forward and grab her ankles. And then you do the same."
"Oh God!" the young woman cried as she took the offered pillow with 
shaking hands.
"Mommy?" Melissa was crying. "I'm scared."
"Melissa?" CJ called out to her. "You hold on now. Everything is 
going to be all right. Just hold on." 
Taking one last look out the window, CJ could see the abyss of the 
icy Potomac River rushing towards them, as they dived to meet it. She 
took a deep breath, removed her glasses and placed them in her 
pocket. Then she assumed the crash position.
"Our Father..." she began under her breath.
*****
Chapter Five:
People were trying to outrun what was shaping up to be one of the 
worst recorded snowstorms Washington DC had ever experienced. Most of 
the school and business districts had opted to close altogether and 
those that hadn't soon realized it was a futile effort. Congress 
adjourned their session midday and the majority of federal workers 
were allowed to go home early. All these precautionary measures were 
executed in hopes of preventing exactly the type of situation that 
would end up occurring anyway. Every major mode of public and private 
transportation in the region was strained to full capacity by early 
afternoon. There were unending lines of traffic snarling the roads, 
and buses and subways were packed like sardines. Every schedule was 
running far behind, if it was lucky enough to be running at all. 
Tempers were flaring as quickly as patience was waning. The 14th 
Street Bridge stretches across the Potomac River and connects 
Washington DC to Arlington County, Virginia. It was currently crammed 
from one end to the other with hundreds of stressed-out frustrated 
commuters on board. The Reagan National Airport is less than one mile 
away from this bridge, yet Josh Lyman was on it nonetheless. He was 
still stuck in traffic more than two full hours after having dropped 
off CJ for her flight. Edging his car forward a mere two inches he 
silently wondered if things could possibly get worse.
He was about to find out.
Without warning, a blue and white Boeing 737 burst through the cover 
of swirling gray mist and churning snow. The bulk of it was traveling 
so close to the ground that it smothered the extent of the bridge 
under the canopy of its huge black shadow. There was no time for the 
hapless motorists to comprehend what was happening. Much less try and 
get out of the way. The tail end of the plane lurched abruptly, 
merging the realms of earth and sky, as it smashed into the deck and 
parapet of the northbound Rochambeau span. The plane continued onward 
without slowing, hitting a total of seven cars before clipping a large 
crane-equipped truck and causing it to overturn. Then it ripped 
through nearly two hundred feet of guardrail like it was kite string, 
before plunging nose-first into the frozen river below. There was at 
least a two-inch thick layer of ice obscuring the Potomac; the surface
 cracked and then shattered like stained glass under the weight. 
Immediately upon impact the plane fractured into several large jagged 
pieces, along with untold hundreds of smaller ones. The fuselage was 
the biggest piece and it floated upside down for a moment with its 
belly up, gutted and exposed, before slowly sinking through the 
opening in the ice it had created. The fury of the behemoth as it was 
being engulfed sounded like the scraping of a million metallic fingers 
down a thousand chalkboards. Only the tail section remained visible, 
buoyed by trapped air and surrounded by ice floes and frigid water.
*****
The first of many cellular calls was logged into the Arlington County 
Emergency Communications Center less than two minutes after the 
devastating crash. These calls advised of 'trouble' at the 14th 
Street Bridge and initially this caused some confusion as to the 
nature of the accident. Rescue personnel were under the impression 
that they would be dealing with a small passenger plane, not a 
full-sized commercial jet. However the severity of it all would soon 
be made clear. ECC immediately dispatched a full alarm assignment 
consisting of three engines, two trucks, two medics and a Chief. Three 
minutes after that the DC Fire Department received its notification 
and responded with a complement of three engines, two trucks, three 
rescue squads, three ambulances, two medics, the citywide tour 
commander and a score of special units. Meanwhile due to poor 
visibility, the airport had lost sight of Flight 190 during its 
takeoff roll, but radar still showed it as airborne. They had then 
radioed the crew of 190 advising them to contact the departure 
controller. There was no acknowledgement. The news of the catastrophe 
was relayed to them by way of the 'crash phone' from the airport 
tower. The Reagan National Airport Fire Department sent a total of 
four rigs, headed north towards the bridge along the George Washington 
Memorial Parkway that runs parallel to the river. Although help was 
on its way it would be racing against time, and would run into a 
myriad of obstacles trying to get to the scene. First off they had 
the weather conditions to deal with, heavy snow and ice. One engine 
stalled and its crew was forced to abandon it and travel on foot, 
while others were delayed because of the clog of traffic congesting 
both sides of the river. Fairfax, Loudoun and Montgomery counties 
sent aid as well, along with a foam truck from Fort Meyer and the 
fireboat John Glenn. Dulles Airport offered two of its crash rigs. 
And what would certainly prove to the most crucial assistance of all: 
the U.S. Park Police helicopter, Eagle 1, was lifting off from its 
base, a scant five minutes after Flight 190 had gone down.
*****
CJ was jolted back to consciousness to find herself submerged in 
slushy ice water. Completely disoriented her first sensations were 
of agonizing cold, followed by a near paralyzing fear. She 
instinctively began clawing her way towards the surface. Her left 
arm refused to move at all, so she was forced to swim through the 
murky ice-encrusted river using only one hand. She came up underneath 
the solid barrier of a sheet of ice and had to inch her way around 
until she could locate an opening. By this time her lungs were 
clamoring for oxygen, and she involuntarily gulped in a mixture of 
air and water. It was icy-hot and tasted foul, making her gag 
sickeningly as it burned its way down her throat and insides. 
She knew her arm was broken and possibly her ankle as well, but she 
couldn't really feel the pain. There was debris all around her. 
Pieces of metal, luggage and cushions, among other things. She 
floundered there for a few seconds confused, with no idea whatsoever 
of what had happened. Slowly it all came back. She could remember the 
plane shuddering and bracing for impact, but after that nothing. 
She treaded water and dodged chunks of ice as she made her way over 
to a large bit of the wreckage, sticking out of the water. The 
tail section. She attempted to climb up on it but was unable to get a
good grip, with her one hand sliding along the slippery metal. She 
didn't have the needed strength to pull her body up. She quit trying 
almost immediately and breathing hard she hung onto the side in 
complete exhaustion. 
"Help! Help us!" a woman suddenly called out.
CJ's head snapped up frantically looking for the source, but she was 
having difficulty focusing. Her vision was blurry from exposure to 
the jet fuel that had leaked from the plane into the river. "Where are 
you?" CJ yelled back. She couldn't recognize her own voice, and her 
teeth were chattering with such force from the cold that it felt as 
if her jaw would break in two. 
"Here! We're over here!" the woman cried, sounding much closer. CJ 
could make her out now not too far away, and cautiously inching over. 
When she was within range, CJ reached out her hand to help pull her 
in. Her heart lurched in recognition. It was Melissa's mother. 
"We...made it," the woman whispered. Her words were directed towards 
something she was clutching against her chest. "Melissa...baby...
safe now," she crooned softly, smiling vacantly. CJ's eyes filled 
with the sting of tears which froze before they could fall. It wasn't 
Melissa she was holding in her arms; it was only the child's 
doll.
*****
There was total pandemonium on the 14th Street Bridge. Tragically four 
people had died instantly in three of the passenger vehicles that had 
been completely crushed by the plane. Another had had its roof severed 
entirely from the rest of the body, with its occupants badly injured. 
The remaining three cars had been split into sections, the parts 
strewn out half-hazard across the bridge. The driver of the overturned 
crane-equipped truck was now trapped in the cabin, pinned underneath 
its massive weight. The ones who hadn't been killed or injured were 
blindly filing out of the vehicles, spilling onto the bridge. They 
stumbled about in shock like an army of dazed zombies. Far away you 
could just make out the sounds of approaching emergency vehicles, 
reminiscent of those eerie bombs sirens of a bygone age.
Josh had felt the intense power of that first cracking collision 
before even knowing what had caused it. The bridge had rocked and 
swayed back and forth as if it was about to collapse. The vibrations 
had filtered up through the length of his body by way of the car. It 
had been like nothing he had ever before experienced, as the whole 
world had seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of what was to 
follow. He had leaned over the steering wheel, searching for what it 
could be and that's when he had seen it. A plane, falling out of the 
sky. Falling. It had been nothing but a blue and white colored streak 
of twisted metal before his eyes and then it was gone. Leaving behind 
a trail of devastation in its wake, before sliding off the edge and 
into the river.
Blue and white, blue and white, strangely the words kept repeating 
over and over in his head. Blue and white, blue and white, as his 
mind kept trying to tell him something he didn't want to hear. 
Blue and white, blue and white, was all he could think of as he 
suddenly jumped from his car like a maniac and rushed over to the 
side of the bridge. There below in the icy depths of the Potomac 
River was all that remained of a once noble airplane, as snow 
continued to fall over it. Blue and white, blue and white, his 
frenzied thoughts insisted he understand. He stood there immobile, 
face drawn, fists clenched, his coat whipping wildly about him, and 
his toes mere inches from where the destroyed guardrail leapt off 
into nothing but air. Blue and white, blue and white followed by 
total horror as everything instantly clicked into place with 
frightening clarity. He had watched her board. CJ's plane was blue 
and white.
"No! God no!" he screamed, running towards the nearest embankment.
*****
Only ten minutes after the crash of Flight 190, yet another 
cataclysm was unfolding not far away. Down in the subway tunnel 
that connects the Federal Triangle with the Smithsonian station, 
Metrorail employees had been making an attempt to reverse an 
eastbound train that had crossed over into the westbound track. 
The lead car in the process had careened into one of the concrete 
bulkheads, snapping the train in two before it was plunged into 
darkness. A transit police officer made the initial call for help. 
The accident would end up causing several fatalities and dozens of 
injuries, as well as the forced evacuation of over 1200 commuters 
from the tunnels. Several of the EMS units were being diverted from 
the 14th Street Bridge to respond to this new call. In less than a 
fifteen-minute period of time, DC had lost use of one of its busiest 
airports, along with its expressway and subway line. The most traveled 
bridge connecting DC to Virginia was closed as well as its rapid rail 
transit line. The region was being faced with its worst 
transportation disaster ever.
*****
The door to Leo McGarry's office opened without warning, swinging 
back and hitting the wall with a loud bang.
"What the hell?" Leo demanded, standing up and pulling off his 
glasses at the same time. Toby and Sam were seated behind him in 
chairs looking on. Carol stood there in the archway, not saying a 
word with Margaret behind her appearing flustered and shaking her 
head at Leo in confusion.
"Carol?" Leo asked, lowering his voice and moving over to stand in 
front of her. "What is it?" She stared at him in silence, her lips 
trembling and her eyes stricken, as she lifted up her hand. 
There was a white piece of paper bunched in her fist and he had to 
pry open her fingers in order to retrieve it. He read what appeared 
to be a travel itinerary, showing an airplane flight schedule. It 
had today's date and Claudia Jean Cregg's name neatly printed 
across the top. Leo looked back up as Carol pointed to the 
television set that was in his office, playing but without the sound 
turned on. It was tuned to CNN. 'Reporting live' was stenciled 
across the bottom of the screen. Along with 'The Crash of Air 
Florida's Flight 190.'
"Oh dear Lord," Leo whispered in shock, as comprehension set in.
*****
Chapter Six:
The water of the Potomac River was slowly re-freezing around the 
crash opening; integrating bits of metal and debris among the ice, 
like paint spilt over an artist's palette. The ethereally falling 
snow resembled the canvass of a Norman Rockwell Christmas, absent 
all the expected pleasantries of hearth and home. There were only 
five survivors left from a total manifest of ninety-three passengers 
and six crewmembers, and none was wearing a life vest. These two 
women and three men were clinging desperately to the sides of their 
temporary sanctuary tail section, as seconds passed by in hour 
increments, ironically being kept aloft by the very source of 
their predicament in the first place.
CJ's head was bowed low to her chest, her breathing shallow and 
decidedly labored. There were delicate icicle spikes hanging down 
from her eyebrows, and entangled within her hair, issuing a 
crinkle-snap noise like tissue paper every time she moved. The 
skin around her lips and fingers was puckered and turning blue, 
and her pupils were enlarging. Her uninjured arm shook with fierce 
spasms as she was made to let go her precious grip with what little 
coordination she had left, just long enough to reposition her 
hand-hold. It was a difficult thing to do, equivalent to hanging 
over a bottomless pit, as she had no feeling whatsoever in her 
extremities. But if she didn't keep rotating her hand around it 
would stick solidly to the metal's surface. Her thoughts kept 
drifting randomly back and forth between the landscapes of 
past and present. Just now she had been revisiting that time as a 
child coming home from school, distraught and in tears, after 
being made fun of by her classmates about her height. Even at 
the tender age of ten years old she was already towering far 
above the other children. Her mother listened to her tale of woe, 
smiling understandably as she dried her tears.
"Claudia Jean, you're very lucky to be so tall," her mother said.
"I am?" CJ asked sniffling.
"You get to be that much closer to heaven every day of your life."
CJ had realized even back then that it was the kind of thing a 
mother would say to comfort her child, but it had made her feel all 
safe and warm inside just the same. She was despairing of ever 
feeling safe and warm like that again. There was no safe anymore. 
There was no warm. There was only the cold and the pain and the fear. 
The survivors were huddled around each other, hoping to conserve body 
heat, with Robert being nearest to CJ. Robert was a young black man, 
wearing the tattered remains of what had once been his crisply 
starched military uniform. They had exchanged names; between 
pregnant pauses of violent shivering and chattering, back when they 
still had the stamina to talk. All was silent and motionless now; 
save for the metronome lapping of the frigid river as it ebbed and 
flowed. Robert appeared to have sustained the least amount of 
physical trauma, and CJ perhaps the worst. When Melissa's mother-
Penny was her name-had slipped back underneath the water during a 
particularly frightening moment, Robert had dived in immediately 
and pulled her out. He had been completely supporting Penny's 
weight ever since, with her arms wrapped tightly about his neck, 
and still holding onto Melissa's Elmo doll. It was apparent that 
Penny's major injuries were of a non-physical nature, as she 
possessed neither the will nor the desire to fight anymore. CJ 
felt certain that if Robert were to let go of her, she would not 
try and save herself.
They had been subjected to the grisly sight of bodies drifting by, 
with unseeing accusing eyes, and pallid faces forever locked in a 
testimony of shock and horror. CJ kept trying to dislodge these 
disturbing images from her mind, but they refused to give her peace. 
Thank God, at least Melissa's body hadn't been among them. No doubt 
the majority of the rest of those poor souls aboard Flight 190 were 
still strapped into their seats, lying at the bottom of the river. 
And right now, CJ wasn't at all positive that they weren't the true 
fortunate ones. She closed her eyes; as a headache worse than any she 
had ever experienced stabbed at her temples relentlessly. Although it 
felt like an eternity, they had only been in the water for a total of 
ten minutes.
"Josh," she murmured, unaware she had spoken aloud.
*****
On the 14th Street Bridge, the first emergency response teams had 
arrived on the scene and were already at work, trying to free the 
trapped passengers, while at the same time treating casualties. It 
was like a battle zone, similar in nature to the MASH units of the 
Korean War, with triage sites set up to evaluate the most serious 
injuries from those that were minor. The unfortunate four victims who 
had died had been removed from their vehicles, and were lined up on 
the pavement side by side, covered over by blue tarps. The wind was 
whipping through and around the stiff plastic material, outlining the 
shape of the host, and creating an unsettling timbre in its wake. The 
ones who had been spared death or injury had nowhere to go. Nothing 
was moving, with the exception of the emergency squads, and even those 
were having difficulty getting through. Traffic continued to be backed 
up for miles along the bridge and far beyond. Police and Fire 
Department personnel had unceremoniously herded all the people over to 
the side of the bridge, out of the way. All they could do was linger, 
shivering in the cold, starting at what might have been but for the 
grace of God, a fate of their own. And in the opposite direction, they 
were faced with yet another abomination. They could actually witness 
the five wretched survivors of the plane itself, down in the frozen 
Potomac, holding on, barely alive, and waiting to be delivered. Most 
turned their heads away, unable to bear the sight, as if those in the 
water could reach out, searing straight into their souls. The guilt 
they felt was irrational certainly, but overpowering nonetheless; 
hearts weighted with the knowledge that there was nothing they could 
do, but stand there and watch.
*****
In the West Wing, Leo McGarry, Sam Seaborn, and Toby Ziegler each 
currently had a phone attached to his ear. Leo was sitting ramrod 
straight at his desk, while the other two impatiently paced the 
interior of the office. Leo was coordinating with his contact on the 
National Transportation and Safety Board. Sam was loudly arguing with 
a customer service representative from Air Florida. And Toby was 
attempting, for the tenth time now, to reach Josh via his cell-phone. 
Meanwhile, the rest of the staff was forlornly gathered out in the 
bullpen area, following news of the crash as it was unfolding live 
on CNN.
"Damn!" Sam swore angrily, slamming the lid of his cell-phone shut. 
"I dropped every name I know, including the President's and I still 
can't get anyone to give me a straight answer. They won't confirm or
deny whether CJ actually boarded the plane, and refuse to give out 
any information on survivors."
"Josh still isn't responding. I keep getting voicemail," Toby 
announced, punching the 'end call' button, and swiping a hand 
across his forehead in frustration. "Where the hell is he?"
"That's right," Leo was saying, body language tense. "Yeah, I 
understand. Call me the second you hear anything new." He paused, 
listening intently to the man speaking on the other end. "Steve," 
he stressed. "She's like a daughter...to me," his voice breaking 
uncharacteristically. He nodded once more, and then returned the 
phone to its cradle. He swiveled the chair around toward the window, 
allowing a brief private moment to gather himself together. And then 
he stood and walked around to the front of the desk to address the 
two expectant expressions waiting there.
"It's not good news guys," Leo said, shaking his head. "There's been 
an unprecedented series of major accidents today. The plane crash, 
the bridge, and a metro derailment, and all of them with fatalities. 
Combined with the weather conditions out there, we're looking at the 
makings of a full-fledged disaster. Rescue operations are underway, 
but every emergency department is under fire right now. Everyone's 
doing the best they can under the circumstances."
"What about..." Sam began.
"I've spoken to the President," Leo jumped in, anticipating the 
question. "He's cutting the conference short. Air Force One will 
be bringing him back from California at the earliest opportunity."
"How did he...take it?" Toby asked hesitantly.
"How do you think?" Leo answered gruffly.
"We should go down there," Sam charged, his face pale and drawn.
"And do what exactly?" Toby reasoned.
"Be there. Help her. Something..." Sam faltered, running fingers 
through his hair. "I don't know."
"Sam," Leo said, putting his hand on the younger man's shoulder. 
"The only thing we'd accomplish by going down there, would be getting 
in the way. We may have the authority of the President of the United 
States behind us, but this is in God's hands now."
"So, we just wait?"
"We wait," Leo confirmed stoically.
"We wait," Toby agreed. "We wait...and we pray," he added quietly, 
bowing his head.
*****
Hear...that?" Robert called out to the others, his voice unsteady and 
raspy.
CJ weakly opened her eyes and listened carefully, straining her ears. 
"Hear...nothing," she reported back, badly slurring the syllables. 
She was used to working twenty-hour days, seven days a week, but 
nothing could have prepared her for this level of exhaustion. She 
was ready and willing to sell her soul for one minute of uninterrupted 
sleep. Her body had defected outright, no longer under her control. 
She was frozen inside and out, except for her chest, which ached 
steadily as if it was on fire. It was like being made to swallow acid 
with every intake of breath.
"There...it is...again," Robert insisted, with a note of underlying 
excitement that was impossible to ignore.
This time CJ heard it too. She lifted her head marginally searching 
for the parent source. The sky was a brooding darkish gray; an 
indication that night would soon be falling. Their water and ice cage 
had settled more or less, but it was now moving again agitatedly, 
as if it too sensed the change in atmosphere. All of a sudden behind 
them, a loud roaring cheer erupted from the people atop the bridge. 
The lazy muffled echoes washing over them like strands of dribbled 
honey. There was no mistaking it now, as the noise and vibration 
continued to increase steadily. It was a helicopter approaching.
Chapter Seven:
An unnatural wave had formed, widening out in extended circles, like 
the growth rings of a toppled redwood. Moments later, the phantom 
source came into visual range, advancing steadily from behind a 
sheath of ominous storm clouds. The black helicopter made a tight 
surveillance loop with running lights on, and then returned to hover 
over what remained of Air Florida's tail section, and the five 
survivors struggling there. The chopper belonged to the National Park 
Service with the call caption of Eagle 1, and was both compact and 
sleek in design. It carried aboard it a three-person crew, consisting 
of a pilot along with two air-flight paramedics. They were uniformed 
in bright-orange weather-insulated coveralls, and boots. Their white 
helmets were equipped with a built-in radio and hands-free microphone, allowing them to communicate with one another over the deafening roar. The pilot's face was an inscrutable mask set behind a pair of opaque goggles, as he considered the limited viability afforded him, just outside the realm of dome-shaped cockpit glass. He expertly finessed the controls by millimeters and fractions, dropping the helicopter low, and lower still, drifting dangerously close to the glossy ice shard surface of the Potomac. The heady wind was bombarding from all sides, making the craft rock back and forth, like a marionette suspended from wire. The elongated, steel side door popped free from its holding clamp, sliding back like a drape to reveal the interior skeleton framework. The paramedic sitting nearest the opening immediately unbuckled his seatbelt and attached a safety harness to the roof instead, carefully testing the strength with his weight. He then crawled forward to the furthermost jump seat, bringing his legs out from under him to let them dangle freely in space. Peering down at the 
victims below, he began a series of shorthand signals while speaking 
into his microphone. A second later, the other paramedic passed over 
a large flotation ring, the strap threaded through the eyelet of an 
attached rope and pulley mechanism overhead. The incredible power of 
the lethal blades in constant revolution made it impossible for the 
survivors to accurately judge the path and purpose of the rescuers. 
There was a furious whirlwind of scattered debris flying about their 
heads, bringing the risk of further damage to already over-sensitized 
eyes. The ring was now being lowered, yet from CJ's perspective it was 
like anticipating the release of a guillotine, while simultaneously 
caught up within the vortex of a tornado.
The initial elation, which had arisen in all their hearts at the 
promise of rescue, was fast giving way to nagging apprehension and 
uncertainty. Arlan and Max were the names of the last two survivors of 
Flight 190, and they were hanging on next to Robert and Penny on the 
other side of CJ. Arlan was a burly man in his late-forties, stocky 
in build but not quite overweight, with a receding hairline. He 
possessed the kind of face that under normal circumstances would 
launch into laughter without prompting, and a trace of this quality 
still loitered there, despite the seriousness of the situation. He 
was the sort of person others wanted to be around; whose name was 
first priority on any party invite list, and the last anyone wanted 
to leave. He was known to brag to those who knew him best, and 
oftentimes to those who knew him not at all, that his greatest 
accomplishment in life was being a husband and father of five. Max was 
diminutive in comparison and the eldest in the group by at least 
twenty years. He was compassionate by nature, although he would never 
describe himself as such. He demonstrated it though by the way that 
he would lean over at times and gently pat Penny's back in silent 
commiseration of her loss. He was by all means a bespectacled, 
grandfatherly sort, proud of the fact that he was both old-fashioned 
and a gentleman. He felt comfortable in growing old and of growing 
old alone. Recently, he had retired after forty-five years on the 
same job, and was looking forward to the freedom that accompanies 
such a milestone. This flight had been but the first of many in a 
long list of scheduled travel tours. Robert had become their caretaker 
by proxy; he possessed an indomitable will to survive, and a 
contagious belief that this nightmare would eventually end well. 
Whenever one started to feel otherwise, he or she only needed to 
glance Robert's way to be dissuaded back to the straight and narrow. 
He was Penny's savior literally, and would do the same for any other 
person without a moment of hesitation. He was a modern-day hero of 
olden-day lore. CJ was viewed with equal fondness in return, as a 
woman of remarkable courage, enduring serious injury without comment 
or complaint. The water was detrimental no question, but it was also 
an instant equalizer, removing the periodic prejudices occasioned by 
height or White House position. Arlan was struck by CJ's vibrancy and 
Max her devotion and concern, for Robert it was her enduring spirit. 
It would take many months before Penny could bear thinking of what had 
happened at all, but later on she would recall CJ's maternal side, 
revealed in a golden moment of Sesame Street and shared laughter. It 
might seem extraordinary to anyone outside this unique experience; 
to understand how it is that five strangers brought together by 
tragedy could manage to forge a bond so formidable, in such a short 
period of time. However, it was the truth. It isn't always the matter 
of the encounter, but rather the circumstances surrounding it, which 
helps to establish the blueprint for lasting memories, whether happy 
or sad. The bets were on that CJ would not be able to recall the face 
or name of her ninth grade social studies teacher, even after spending 
months together in a classroom. Yet she would never be able to forget 
the events of this day, or these people. Awake or asleep, in conscious 
thought or wafting daydream, they would always be there with her in 
some form or another, and she with them.
They had been left adrift in the nearly frozen water for going on 
twenty minutes by the time the first lifeline came within fingertip 
reach. The yellow-over-sized flotation ring lightly skimmed over and 
then splashed down upon the river, falling flat when the rope was 
given slack from above. Arlan stretched out a hand devoid of feeling 
or color from the extreme cold, and was just able awkwardly to snare 
it through the middle. Grunting from the exertion, he cradled the 
treasure next to his chest like a newborn child, and then laboriously 
lifted it high, passing it hand over hand to Max, who in turn passed 
it on to Robert. Seeing that Robert was intending to pass it on to 
her, CJ quickly spoke up, forced to yell to be heard over the 
helicopter. 
"No...now...you..." she gasped out, the words almost unrecognizable as 
English. Her chest was uncomfortably tight and had immediately 
protested the requisite deep breath taken beforehand. After making 
this Herculean endeavor, the words that had tumbled forth weren't 
even the ones she had meant to say at all. She was having difficulty 
translating her thoughts to the desired action, as if there was some 
short in syntax in between. It was like having to learn to speak all 
over again, similar to the debilitating affects of a stroke. She had 
to try again, and it had nothing to do with playing the martyr; CJ 
wanted out of the water just as much as the rest of them. This had 
to do with the deterioration of Penny's condition, and the certainty 
that she would never make it out of here without Robert to guide her.
She closed her eyes briefly, concentrating, focusing on the idea and 
then matching it up to the correct words. 
"Penny...needs...you," she stammered, willing him to understand what 
she was desperately hoping to convey. She was more successful this 
time, but was afraid it had taken more out of her than she had to 
give. Robert was clutching the tethered ring and staring back at 
CJ blankly, obviously deeply in turmoil. Going first went against 
every military code of honor and chivalrous bone in his body, but 
at the same time he knew in his heart why CJ was insisting that he 
do just that. Penny hadn't spoken a word since calling out for help 
immediately after the crash, except at times to babble incoherently 
or cry inconsolably for her daughter. She was steadfastly holding 
onto Robert's neck and Melissa's doll, but it seemed more a reflex 
than conscious choice on her part. After a moment, Robert grudgingly 
nodded his agreement, and CJ gave him a sad grateful smile in 
return.
*****
There is something extremely unsettling about watching a live 
telecast of a catastrophe in progress. Your eyes are drawn to 
the screen of their own accord. You can't look away, but you don't 
really want to see. You might judge yourself sound enough to remain 
separate emotionally from what's occurring, but it's just impossible.
 Some part of your inner being will instinctively reach out, if only 
subconsciously, to touch the wayward ones in empathy and sorrow. And 
you ask for mercy on their souls. It might be expressed in varying 
ways by varying people, such as a hand hastily risen to cover the 
escape of a sob, while Kleenex is wrung into confetti pieces within 
sweaty palms. It might be trembling fingertips swiping at the burden 
of sudden tears and a heart beating a rhythm at twice its normal 
tempo. It's the human connection. It's the acknowledgement of our 
fragile life and imminent mortality. It's everything that matters 
stripped down to connect-the-dot simplicity. It's who we are. 
The West Wing was currently absent all its usual coordinated line 
dance of rush and activity. Which was doubly strange, because this 
was the time when the wall clock struck high noon in political 
circles, of intermission afternoon and descending twilight. Where 
outside, on clear days, the sky is displaying sample color-swatches 
made up of peach, blue and purple abstract, before opting for 
traditional basic black. The interval when the West Wing phones 
usually rang off the hook in tandem, as paper-pushing wheelers and 
dealers dialed up last minute lobs, in hopes of currying favor. 
Today the whole area was engulfed in uneasy restraint. The ringers 
had all been silenced, with calls being diverted through the main 
switchboard. This was an arena commonly ripe for outbreaks of 
conflict. Where heated debates were known to spring up over the water 
cooler and in elevators. For once, everyone was on the same page, and 
that's how you knew just how very bad things really were.
"Carol?" Toby demanded testily, and not for the first time.
"Shut up. Let me think," Carol snapped back instantly, refusing to 
look at him, keeping her eyes straight ahead. The entire staff was 
assembled there, her coworkers, her friends, and now they parted 
into two neat rows to let her pass through unheeded. She stopped only 
when she could go no further, with her face right up next to the 
screen of the television set sitting on top of the filing cabinet 
in the bullpen. She was so very close to it that her eyes were no 
longer able to discern the whole image. It was merely a swarm of 
multi-colored pixel spots. She stepped back a bit and her hand rose 
to touch the glass gingerly, eliciting a tiny snapping static charge 
along her fingertips. She frowned, her conscience heavy with this 
important responsibility. She wasn't interested in the details of the 
crash. She had no desire to hear about how quickly the rescue 
helicopter had arrived. She was terribly sorry for, but couldn't 
help, those who had died on the bridge. She wasn't concerned with the 
sidebar story on the overall safety of 737's. She had one single 
item on her agenda, a lone quest. It was to remember exactly what 
CJ had been wearing this morning so as to determine whether or not 
she was among those five survivors. And Carol was doing her 
professional best not to acquaint it with being called in to identify 
CJ's body at the morgue. She studied the live coverage as they did 
another pan-shot of the survivors in the river, and in one crystal 
moment of pure insight, she knew for sure.
"Yes!" she cried, turning around abruptly with tears in her eyes. 
"That's her! That's CJ! There," she said, pivoting back and pointing 
at one blurry stick figure representation in the shaky picture of 
five people, who were at this very moment, fighting for their lives 
in the middle of the Potomac. "Red blouse with long sleeves, gray 
slacks, and look at the length of her hair. You can tell that she's 
tall even in the water. Her arm there, see how long and slender it 
is..."
"Carol..." Leo cautioned warily, still unsure and unwilling to declare 
victory without absolute proof. He wasn't conscious of it, but he was 
silently begging her to convince him she was right.
"Leo," Carol answered, her voice suddenly rock-steady as she walked 
over so that he would be able to witness the conviction in her eyes. 
"I'm sure about this. You, Sam, Josh and Toby may think you spend a 
lot of time with CJ, but matched up with how many hours she and I 
have logged together, it doesn't begin to compare. I know her favorite 
perfume and her dress size. I know that she's allergic to talcum 
power with cornstarch. The fact that she hates pastry but eats it 
anyway, any time one of you brings it in for a breakfast meeting, 
because she doesn't want to hurt your feelings." She paused in her 
litany to take a deep breath. "It's her Leo. I wouldn't say so if 
I weren't positive. I wouldn't."
"All right then," Leo nodded, more than happy to concede this 
particular campaign. A huge smile spread across his craggy face, 
momentarily breaking apart a fresh cluster of worry lines. "CJ's 
alive," he whispered under his breath, as if test-driving the words 
to ensure they were up to delivering the promised performance. He 
grabbed Carol in an impulsive bear hug, as the rest of the room took 
his cue and broke out into loud whoops and cheers. However, this 
release of pent-up tension was short-lived.
"What's the matter with you people!" Sam demanded, bursting from out 
of his office at the commotion, where he had been watching the news in 
self-imposed isolation.
"Sam..." Toby started, but was cut off as Sam turned on him, a 
predator in attack mode.
"Do you sail Toby?" Sam questioned savagely, out of the blue.
"What?"
"I asked you if you sailed. It's a simple enough question. Do...you...
sail?" he repeated slowly, as if he were talking to an imbecile.
"No," Toby said quietly, taken aback at Sam's vicious tone.
"Well I do," he declared triumphantly, as if it should explain 
everything.
"Sam, why don't you come to my office," Leo offered, coming near. 
Sam didn't reply. He just stared at him through the haze of angry 
eyes, before moving over to position himself in front of the bullpen 
television set, watching it with his back turned away from everyone 
else.
"Hypothermia," he stated after a moment, addressing the screen.
"What?" Leo asked.
"Hypothermia is the first lesson they cover in sailing. Did you know 
that? I didn't. I always thought it would be something interesting 
like nautical knots, but it wasn't, it was hypothermia."
"Okay Sam, let's..."
"Do you have any idea how cold the water in the Potomac gets this 
time of year?" Sam asked, not that anyone in the room was even 
considering answering him at this point. "The body can lose heat in 
five ways, respiration, evaporation, conduction, radiation and 
convection. Hypothermia occurs when the core temperature of the 
body falls to less than 35 degrees Celsius. There are three stages of 
hypothermia, mild, moderate and severe. When you've got a mild case, 
you get a chilly feeling and shivering begins. The skin has some 
numbness and there might be minor impairment to muscular 
performance. If the exposure continues, the shivering becomes 
violent, and there's a lack of coordination. You have difficulty 
speaking and some confusion. Moderate hypothermia comes in with a 
gross loss of muscular coordination. You reach a point where you 
lose control of your hands. There's mental sluggishness, slow 
thought and speech and sometimes even retrograde amnesia. Later, the 
shivering stops altogether, as muscle stiffness develops, along 
with incoherence, confusion and irrationality. Then there's the 
final stage, severe hypothermia. When this happens you have muscle 
rigidity, extreme lethargy, desire for sleep, and the pupils dilate. 
The skin is ice cold to the touch, and respiration and heartbeat 
slow down to the point of arrest." He paused. His tense figure 
outlined in ghostly whiteness by the starkness of the screen. 
"This is followed by unconsciousness and then death, due to heart 
and respiratory failure," he finished as his shoulders slumped 
in despondency.
Toby came forward then, moving up to stand beside Sam, and together 
they watched the continued coverage in silence. Eventually Sam 
turned to him hesitantly, like a lost lamb seeking shelter from 
the rain. 
"Toby, if they don't get her out soon, she'll have survived the plane 
crash only to die in the water."
*****
Chapter Eight:
Night was falling fast like a heavy cloak adorning the weary shoulders 
of a quivering sun. The moon was somewhere in between, a large faint 
circle covered with green-cheese pockmarks, hanging high in the sky 
and keeping itself hidden from the dwindling light. Its noncommittal 
appearance reminiscent of the faded yellowish tint from among a pile 
of discarded Nickelodeon photographs. The city air was overtly frosty 
and too crisp, feeling like the sharp sting of an open-handed slap to 
the face, as the temperature dipped into the bottom glass-bubble 
limits of the thermometer.
Josh Lyman was running hell-bent along the tar pavement of the 14th 
Street Bridge, with steamy puff clouds of breath escaping on the tail
of every strained exhalation. They were like an out of formation 
squadron of overhead comic strip bulletins, without comment, which he 
destroyed one by one as he broke through them. It was so bitterly 
cold; each intake of oxygen was expressed straight down to his lungs 
and then lodged there like lumps of squatter ice. There was a 
dizzying rush of blood pumping through his veins by detour route of 
his ears, and it was attuned in perfect symmetry to the rapid-fire 
beating of his heart. The beautiful song Ave Maria, was playing 
somewhere, he could hear it. Though it was different than before, 
vice-versa. Now the music was being interpreted within the wail of 
real-life sirens, switched around from what he had come to expect. 
It was all so hard to guess at anymore, akin to turning the knob 
to reveal your Mystery Date, never knowing for sure what you're 
going to find behind the game's cardboard door. No dress rehearsals 
allowed and no practice tries either, because we're playing for 
keeps here. You get whatever you end up with on your throw of the 
dice, and you're stuck with it, even in the face of wild cards, 
like fire and bullets and plane crashes. So learn to live with it 
buddy or start learning to live without her, whichever 21st century 
politically correct side of the fence is easiest for you to stomach. 
His sister had once described music to him as possessing the capacity 
to touch heaven and earth at the same time, achieving the best of 
both worlds simultaneously. It was she'd said the purest form of 
prayer, transcending all derivatives of faith in all lands and by 
every age group. Somewhere over his shoulder, the ghost of family 
past was offering up prayer right now by setting up court in the 
southbound lanes, as forever young Joanie laid everlasting claim to 
her favorite piece. She stepped up to an invisible podium, an angel 
conducting over a silent symphony, tapping a delicate bamboo-reed 
baton as she turned over a never-changing page of music. Ave Maria 
has such a haunting refrain and Joanie was expertly leading it into 
that high crescendo now, taking him along as an unwitting accomplice. 
Josh could so vividly visualize CJ standing there in his office the 
last time he had played that song. She was holding a glass of wine in 
her hand, listening carefully and waiting patiently for him to make 
sense, or join the party, whatever one might make its appearance 
first. He remembered wondering then how it was she couldn't see it 
plain in his eyes, just how much in love with her he was. She'd 
called him 'sweet' and in his mind he had changed the script, 
bringing in 'sweetheart' as substitute, just to try it on for 
size.
He ran on feet that felt like they were turned the wrong direction, 
keeping him in place so that he would never be able to reach the 
finish line. Police and Fire Department people were strategically 
stationed over the whole of the bridge, blowing on tone-deaf metal 
whistles, and directing the choreography of just beginning to budge 
car and pedestrian traffic. Trying to help free the scene for 
emergency transport and the imminent arrival of a team of air disaster 
investigators. More than once Josh had been detained by authority 
figures trying to keep him away from where he needed to be, with CJ. 
That's all that was material anymore, getting there, wherever exactly 
there might be. Each time he had been required to disclose the nature 
of his presence to get through. It was like presenting your travel 
papers at a border crossing, infuriating him with the waste of 
precious time. He had to follow the evolution of their stony civil 
servitude faces, first cracking the bat with wariness, then rounding 
the corner of disbelief and finally, sliding home into pity. He 
hated having to look at that visage most of all and had nearly been 
compelled to punch their lights out for thinking of her dead. She 
didn't need that kind of defeatist-karma spoiling the mix, like 
stepping on a crack and breaking your mother's back. If he stubbornly 
kept on believing she was alive, then she just had to be right? 
The outside pocket of his unbuttoned woolen winter coat had been 
ringing off the proverbial hook, in the muffled song notes of a 
jarringly bad digitized tune. His was set to the William Tell 
Overture, because he had programmed it that way earlier, arbitrarily 
hoping to annoy Toby during the meeting this morning by pretending 
he had forgotten to switch it to silent. Only it never did ring 
during the meeting and he really had forgotten about it later. It 
started ringing again now, with its solid weight repeatedly hitting 
his thigh as he ran. He reached in and grabbed hold of it, never 
breaking stride, pulling it out and glancing briefly at the caller 
I.D. display. It was the White House, Leo's personal line, and it 
was coded as a double priority 911. He disregarded this official 
summons, filing it under yet another obstacle blocking his way. 
Whatever was happening over there was bush league next to this and 
he couldn't be bothered, neither with it, nor by them. He pitched 
the cell-phone over the side of the bridge without hesitation and 
kept on running, as if the remainder of his life depended on the 
continuation of hers. 
And oh My God, it did. It did. 
He faltered, stumbling awkwardly; nearly tripping over his own 
feet as the power of this naked revelation hit full force. His 
heart palpitated, caught in the net of a sudden full arrest 
from the protracted promise of its next beat. He couldn't escape 
this time; the intruder had traveled incognito, getting past all the 
erected barriers and posted security checkpoints in his head. He 
was thinking of her dead now, and the slightest possibility of it 
being true nearly broke him in half, before he was able to hammer 
it back down into firm denial. And so, with his resolve freshly 
reaffirmed, he ran on; nothing else mattered to him anymore, nothing 
whatsoever.
*****
When CJ was in college, she had been living off the nub of a 
string on a shoestring budget. She had a full scholarship, but still 
needed to eat; so during her sophomore year, she had impulsively 
volunteered to be a guinea pig for an on-going campus research project.
The accompanying disclaimer, which she'd only skimmed, purported it 
to be a comparison study to the decades-earlier experiments on the 
affects of sensory deprivation upon the human psyche. She had 
answered the ad immediately simply on the basis that it offered to 
pay more money than she could earn in a full week working at her 
part-time job. She had heard of sensory-deprivation tanks before, 
although not in great detail, and at face value it sounded harmless 
enough. She had smiled tolerantly at her pseudo professor-wannabes as 
they scurried about the lab, making ready, while she waited outside 
the opened door of a large enclosed water tank. She was in fact bored 
out of her mind, feeling utterly ridiculous wearing a full-body 
non-restrictive wetsuit. A pair of blackened-out eye goggles atop her 
head and holding a set of ear and nose plugs in her hand. Once she 
went inside the tank, with the help of these, she would be unable to 
hear, see, or smell, and would be required to breathe through her 
mouth. She had pictured herself looking like an ignoble platypus; a 
progeny claimed by neither land nor sea, put together in haste and 
with mismatched leftover parts. The absurd thought had made her laugh 
out loud. Though there was nothing to laugh about once the door was 
shut and locked behind her. 
She couldn't hear the official clang it made, but the unmistakable 
symbolism associated with the loss of one's freedom was there just 
the same. She had never considered herself claustrophobic, but 
apparently that myth was on the table for debate. It was enough to 
make her waver uncertainly as to the soundness of this decision. 
However, nobody would ever accuse CJ Cregg of being a quitter, so with 
pride shackled at the helm she went on with it. She floated 
weightlessly in water saturated with Epsom salts, precisely maintained 
at skin temperature. For a long period, although she had no real 
measure of time, everything was fine. She just bobbed there, unable 
to feel her body; mute, blind, deaf, alone, and kept separate from all 
things that defined the physical world. No light, no sound, no smell, 
no pull of gravity and no temporal or spatial ability. She had tried 
sampling her environment or the lack thereof, by sending specific 
signals to her mind to move her fingers or toes, but stopped that 
game soon enough. Unable to accurately judge whether the 
aforementioned appendage was moving or not, she found the resultant
 ambiguity profoundly unsettling. Too much like a whole-body 
paralysis. She attempted to relax, but it was impossible. Weird 
things started creeping into her mind. Things she didn't want to 
consider, and never would have otherwise, but here without any 
competitive stimulation to waylay it, no alternative input, and 
just nothingness, they came unbidden. Images were randomly 
spiraling behind the lids of her vacant unseeing eyes. Disturbing 
images mixed in with the mundane, flash dissolving one into another 
so quickly that she didn't know whether to laugh or cry at any given 
moment. Suddenly there were noises everywhere, inside and out, 
hurting her overly sensitive eardrums. She couldn't really hear 
them of course, but just knew somehow that they were there, grossly 
overloud and wrong. It was a slow torture, like drowning in 
increments with water being leaked into her lungs, one eyedropper 
at a time. She wanted out. She wanted out now. She started 
screaming hysterically, getting that point across post-haste to the 
designated key-master in the lair of her would-be captors. They had 
been electronically monitoring her progress all along, and fell over 
themselves trying to get the door unlatched and opened immediately 
following the first clear signs of her distress. But there had been
a moment there, nestled somewhere alongside her newfound 
insider definition of hell, when she was absolutely positive that 
that tank had now become her tomb. That dreadful experience had 
been but a light-beer shot, to foreshadow the swallow of the hard 
whiskey chaser of her current predicament.
Robert and Penny had made it in safely, already loaded into the bays 
of waiting ambulances. The helicopter had returned to the tail 
section for a second rescue, as it poised precariously overhead on a 
scaffold composed entirely of air and technology. The ice-cold water
 was the maw of an angry beast as it sloshed and churned, spurned on 
by the backlash of the blades, unsettled like the dissatisfaction of 
a no-win argument. The sky was a menacing solid black background; 
there were no stars out tonight. The only cast of light issued from 
the underside glaring beams of the chopper and a row of gargantuan 
Hollywood premiere spotlights set up onshore, meticulously scouring 
the crash area in hopes of locating last-minute survivors. The 
swiftly moving ovals of reflected light slithered up and over their 
targets, scraping across ice floes and illuminating them in repose, 
resembling a string of upright translucent pearls. Arlan was reaching 
over trying to snare the lowered lifeline, just like he had done 
before. It was costing him dearly too, his face grimacing out a two-
page grievance list of internal aches and pains. CJ's mind was 
shutting down; operating only sporadically in fits and spurts. She 
would have brief moments of clarity, interspersed with increasing 
periods of confusion. It had happened again. She had been watching 
Arlan grab for the ring one second and then the next that same ring 
was being pressed over her head by way of Max.
"Go...CJ...go live..." Arlan bid her shakily in a trembling old man 
voice that hadn't been that old earlier on.
He had aged two full decades in a single night. They all had. Max 
smiled at her wearily as he nodded his blessing as well. CJ hadn't 
the strength to brook protest this time even if she wanted to, and 
she didn't. She was drained of energy and wanted to sleep. She 
wanted to be warm. She wanted to go home, like Dorothy from the 
Wizard of Oz, and if she could just feel her feet she would tap 
together the heels of her ruby red slippers and make it so. The 
helicopter began moving away and dragging her with it, although 
she couldn't feel the tug of the rope because she was so numb. 
CJ wanted to say something to Arlan and Max, to thank them or wish 
them well, something like that. But she was unable to form the 
right words and there wasn't time anyway. She looked at each one in 
turn and somehow understood that everything was okay. They knew. Her 
uninjured hand squeaked along the metal fa�ade, until the tail 
section was out of reach. Then completely gone from sight. She was 
alone now, just like she had been in that tank back in college. It 
felt like that too, total isolation. As she got a little closer to 
shore she could make out people milling about, amid the red and 
blue flashing beacons of ambulances and police cars. The sight 
calmed her a little. It reminded her of how as a child at Christmas 
time she would sometimes take off her glasses and gaze at all the 
displays of holiday lights. It was the one time of year when she 
didn't really mind being near-sighted. Her unfocused fuzzy vision 
would magically transform the lights into a kaleidoscope of 
multi-colored snowflakes forever suspended in air, never to fall 
to earth. Those lights had been beautiful in an untraditional 
way, and so was this because it was almost over. Max had looped 
the flotation ring over her head, and under her good arm. The 
other arm trailed behind her in the water uselessly. Her only job 
was to hold on, but she was having trouble doing even that. She was 
so very tired and cold. The grasp of her fingers was tentative at 
best; clumsy like the gills of a fish out of water, opening and 
closing trying desperately to catch onto something that just isn't 
there. 
Suddenly, a large ice floe appeared in her path and she couldn't 
avoid it. It smacked her soundly in the hip, twisting her body around 
dizzyingly until she was facing the wrong way. The ring slipped away 
from her body, going on without her.
Chapter Nine:
Josh clumsily stumbled forward, just clearing the crest of a large 
snow embankment, as he stiffly crouched and rolled over to the other 
side. The tactical placement of the mound provided a natural 
fortification, and bordered one end of the 14th Street Bridge, leading 
down to the frigid water of the Potomac River that ran beneath it. 
He was out of breath and puffing hard with unyielding lungs that felt
 as though they had been wrung inside out like a discarded dishrag. 
The terrain he had just covered had been, to his way of thinking, the 
urban league equivalent of scaling the face of Mount Everest. Even 
though his doctors had declared him fully recovered from the gunshot 
wound, they had cautioned him about over-stepping the boundaries of 
his physical limitations. Josh had never, before today, considered 
testing the hypothesis of this theory, but obviously they had been 
right, and he was starting to suffer the consequences of too much too 
soon. He had also miscalculated the speed of his descent, having cast 
off too quick from the ridge and causing a cavalcade disturbance 
within the ice and slush aligning the slope. An unsteady eruption of 
this heady mixture followed in his wake, building on itself like a 
snowball and picking up speed and density as it traveled. The 
miniature avalanche soon caught its second wind; eventually sprinting 
ahead and coming from underneath to trip up his feet. He lost 
traction and then couldn't stop the momentum, falling down on his 
rump and sliding ungainly for the last few remaining yards. He landed 
hard upon his knees at the very bottom; both of his arms, all the way 
up to the shoulders were completely buried inside the potbelly of a 
pile of tightly compacted snow. Josh was a relatively young man, being 
only forty-one, but he was feeling twice that and then some right 
about now. He struggled there, rocking on his knees, caught up like a 
netted fish and working feverishly to free himself from the snowy 
stockade. He was beyond frustrated and it was all coming to an 
explosive head. Somewhere deep inside his gut a pit of simmering 
anger broke through the dam and spewed forth in hot waves to storm the 
Bastille of his tolerance. His fury was of mammoth size having 
evolved in direct proportional response to answer the call of each 
and every tragic event of the long day. The fruit of this poisonous 
tree was internal for the most part, but it also included God, the 
world in general and anyone at all really, who happened to cross his
 mind. Josh's face was a contorted mask, unrecognizable, as cold 
droplets of sweat trickled from his forehead and down his back, which 
only served to chill him further. It wasn't like he was demanding 
deliverance for God's sake. He wasn't. He had already arrived at the 
tacit understanding that he couldn't hope for much more then that 
CJ had survived the initial blunt trauma of the plane crash. That 
would be more than enough of a miracle, and if given half a chance 
the two of them could take it from there. He had made it back; so
could she and together they would face whatever hardships the course 
of her recovery might compel. No, the only divine assistance he was 
seeking at this moment was to stop blocking the way like this by 
throwing up detour after detour that kept him from getting to her. 
He would be the first to admit that he mightn't be as openly devout 
as Toby, but at the same time he wasn't so far removed from the 
foundations of his faith to feel hypocritical now. If CJ was already 
dead and that was the real truth of the matter then after the smoke 
finally cleared nothing and nobody was ever going to change that 
fact. The thing was though, he didn't believe it was so, and what 
he couldn't accept was the real possibility of her dying out there 
in the water, alone and afraid. If she should die like that because 
he couldn't reach her in time, he would never be able to forgive 
himself. It would be like losing Joanie all over again, but made ten 
times worse because it was CJ this time. He was no hero and held no 
illusions that he was even qualified to apply for the position, but 
he was here. He was here right now. He had been placed on the bridge 
at that precise moment and surely that must mean something. A higher
 purpose maybe, one that went beyond his ability to comprehend or put 
into words. But it just had to mean something. 
Josh abruptly fell backwards when his arms suddenly popped free; 
standing up he hastily brushed away the peppered remnants of snow and 
ice. The normally vibrant color of his eyes was faded by shades and 
had glazed over as he lifted his gaze to search across the indistinct 
measure of the immense Potomac. This up close and personal, the river 
completely dwarfed its surroundings, and was currently artificially 
animated under a deluge of searchlights and people. There was a 
hotbed of activity centered where river greeted shore and boasted 
representatives from every imaginable emergency department, present 
and accounted for. At least twenty police cars were neatly lined up 
side by side upon the bridge directly above, marking the exact spot 
where the doomed plane had hit. First destroying the girders and 
supporting framework of the guardrail before falling into the river 
below. The standard issue red and blue domed lights perched on the 
hoods of the cars were circling strangely out of synch, as if they 
had been purposely started at different times, like a staggered 
chorus of 'Row Row Your Boat.' The resultant fluctuating glow made 
for an effective contrast against the dark of night, leaping from the 
bridge in brilliant flashes and reflecting off the diverse surfaces 
it met along the way. There was a service utility road off to the side 
of the bridge, running parallel to the hill Josh had climbed over. 
Normally access to this road would be closed to the public, but today 
it held a stand-by convoy of ambulances, fire engines, rescue squads 
and more police cars. At first glance and to the untrained eye, it 
might appear like outright pandemonium, but there actually was an 
underlying coordination to the whole operation. A group of rescuers 
stationed next to the water was diligently wrestling with a 
cumbersome silver canister of compressed air, using it to pump up a 
rubber raft, which at this stage had only been inflated halfway. 
One band of firemen and police officers were hoisting up a fire 
ladder and extending it over the water, attempting to reach the 
cradle of a nearby ice floe. But it kept falling short of the 
intended mark, and they would immediately regroup and try again. 
Others were testing the strength and fitness of rope-lines while 
mulling over the feasibility of suggested rescue scenarios being 
offered from the rank and file of their comrades. Hand-held 
walkie-talkies and headsets were loudly crackling back and forth, 
alive with a rapid crossfire report of status and communication 
updates passing between the bridge, ground and air rescue support. 
Up to this point, Josh's unauthorized appearance had gone largely 
unnoticed, but all that changed with the ringing slap of a large 
beefy hand coming down hard on his left shoulder. There was a 
hitherto untapped source of natural power coursing through those 
stubby fingers, and the man attached to them was now expertly 
applying direct pressure meant to disable, as he roughly spun Josh 
around. The man was an epitome of authority personified. A DC 
police officer. He was red-faced, bug-eyed, approaching middle age 
and graying around the temples. He stood at least six foot three 
and was nearly that broad through the middle. He wore the badge of 
law enforcement like a second skin; he was a decorated veteran both 
of the force and the hard-knock school of life.
"You press?" he demanded without preamble. His voice oozed liquid 
acid laced with contempt and disapproval. His no nonsense stance 
and demeanor suggested he had seen and heard it all before, and 
had no interest whatsoever in an unscheduled romp down nostalgia lane.
"No. I..." Josh tried to explain, but didn't have a chance.
"You guys. You should be ashamed of yourselves," the cop went on, 
ignoring Josh's protests as he kept shoving him back, throwing his 
full bulk behind it in order to keep him moving. "I'm thinking it 
should've been one of you blood hounds on that plane there. Cause 
then maybe you'd get a dose of your own medicine."
"Wait! Would you just wait a minute!" Josh yelled, digging his heels 
into the ground so he couldn't be bulldozed any further.
The two of them were suddenly distracted by the clamor of a 
powerful noise as it filtered onto land from somewhere within the 
obscurity of the murky water. The source of the sound was shyly 
anonymous, originating from where the spotlights couldn't quite 
reach. It rumbled low and deep, growing stronger. An unhurried 
reverberating echo, like the paced flapping of a pair of huge wings 
upon a prehistoric pterodactyl; it was in fact what could be 
considered that creature's modern day technological descendant. A 
helicopter the color of dark forest chocolate prophetically broke 
through the opaqueness offset only by a row of brightly-lit underbody 
lights to pave the way. It was heading towards shore, but traveling 
at such a depressed rate of speed that at times it appeared to just 
hover there in mid-air without noticeable traces of movement. The 
pilot skillfully skimmed the edges of both propriety and safety by 
continuously keeping the chopper within mere feet of the water's 
unsettled surface. A helmeted paramedic precariously leaned out from 
the open bay door, one gloved hand steadying a rope line that 
dangled from within and dropped down into the river beneath. He would 
peer below, repeatedly checking the progress of his charge, and then 
would speak into the microphone to the pilot, who would adjust the 
craft accordingly, backtracking or going forward, increasing the rate
 of speed or slowing it down. As the helicopter got closer, those on 
shore were able to see that there was a woman clinging to a flotation 
device tethered to the end of the rescue line. The large ring was 
looped over her head and under one arm, but it wasn't a secure fit by 
far, lying half on and half off her body, made worse by the fact that 
she was only using one hand to hold on. For every two feet of travel 
gained the ring would slip off an inch or two, first riding up from 
around her waist, then sliding to her chest, and now heading for her 
neck. It was a desperate race against the clock to see which would 
get there first, in more ways than one. Something vital in Josh's 
heart broke apart at the pitiful sight and even though she was still 
too far away to clearly see her face, intuitively he knew this was 
CJ. He was positive.
"Let me go!" Josh insisted. So crazed to be set free that he began 
to physically struggle against the ironclad grip of the experienced 
officer who held him at bay.
"Whoa there paperboy," the cop warned, bearing down on him like a 
vice without breaking a sweat. "I'll take you in and bust you for 
assault on an officer if you don't quit it."
"That's my girlfriend out there, you asshole! Let me go!" Josh 
screamed hysterically, his eyes wild and unfocused. He had never 
before in his life been this incensed. Blood ricocheted through 
his veins at the speed of light. His pulse rate doubled, tripled and 
then flew completely off the scale. His fingers clawed inanely at 
the cop's hands banded tightly across his chest, trying to pick them 
off. It made no difference; the guy was just bigger and stronger and 
those were the logistics, might over fight. He was going nowhere.
"Yeah. Yeah. That's rich, buddy. She's your girlfriend. You guys 
really have no scruples you know that? Anything to sell a paper," 
he scoffed, as he lifted Josh nearly off his feet, herding him 
towards a nearby police car. Josh was in total shock. He just 
couldn't believe that he'd gone through all this hell, gotten so 
far, only to be turned away now. He had failed her. 
Failed miserably. The police officer aggressively bent Josh over the 
trunk of the car, pinning him face down with his left cheek rubbing 
metal. He kept him in place with one large hand splayed across his 
back, and with the other he reached behind him for his handcuffs. 
He was just about to click them into place on Josh's wrists when the 
call-radio clipped to his shoulder pad suddenly sparked into 
action.
"This is Eagle 1 to ground base. This is Eagle 1 to ground base. 
We've lost her. We've lost the victim in the water. Do you have a 
visual on her from shore? Repeat. This is Eagle 1. We've lost sight 
of the victim. Do you have a visual? Please copy."
"CJ!" Josh bellowed at the top of his lungs upon hearing the dreadful 
news. This wasn't happening. This just wasn't happening. It was the 
only thought running through his mind as the pain of unfathomable 
grief engulfed him like wild fire. "CJ!" he cried again, 
inconsolable.
"What did you say?" the cop asked, his voice soft. Letting go his 
grip on Josh as he completely changed the venue of his personality 
from hostile over to sympathizer.
"What?" Josh responded slowly, weakened and confused.
"Your girlfriend. Her name's CJ?"
"Yes, CJ," he confirmed. "Why?" he asked in a shaky voice that was 
gaining strength with every word, fueled by a gnawing sense of 
reawakened hope. He stood up hesitantly.
"Oh jeez man, I didn't believe you. I'm sorry."
"What are you talking about?" Josh demanded, needing to cut to the 
chase.
"Before you got here, two of the survivors had already been brought 
in. One was a guy by the name of Robert, and he told us there were 
three other people still out there, two men and one woman. The woman 
Robert had brought in with him was named Penny, and he said the other 
one was named CJ. I mean how many CJ's could there have been on that 
plane?" he asked, looking askance. Josh stared at him incredulously 
for perhaps half a second, letting this new information sink in, 
before sprinting off in a mad dash to reach the water's edge. The 
police officer was close behind him, keeping pace all the way, 
surprisingly nimble for a man of his girth. Meanwhile, the helicopter 
had been circling the area, retracing its path and shining a spotlight 
down into the water, tirelessly searching. The stratagem finally paid 
off as they caught sight of their elusive quarry. They quickly began 
to lower the rescue float once more, but by this time CJ had nothing 
left in reserve. It appeared as if she was trying to swim in the rest 
of the way by herself. She paddled restlessly with one arm, barely 
staying afloat, aimlessly slapping at the water and getting nowhere. 
The floatation ring dropped down right in front of her, just inches 
away and yet she made no motion to grab for it. Her dilated unseeing 
eyes stared straight ahead, registering not a thing.
"Oh God. She's not going to make it," Josh declared, shedding his 
jacket and shoes, throwing them to the ground.
"What are you doing? Are you crazy man? You think the rest of us here 
have just been standing around for our health? Nobody's gone into the
 water because it's a suicide mission, don't you understand? It's too 
cold. You'll just end up a victim yourself, and what good would that 
do her, huh? Please. Wait for the raft. They've almost got it ready."
"Wait? There's no time. Look at her," Josh implored. "She's dying."
"Okay. Okay. But at least let me tie a line to you." Josh nodded 
impatiently, never taking his eyes off of CJ. A second later the 
cop was back. "My name's Murray by the way. And you?" he asked, 
while securing the rope around Josh's waist.
"Josh."
"Well listen up, Josh. When you've got a hold of CJ you tug twice 
on this line here, real hard, and I'll pull you both back in. Don't
you forget to do it either, you hear? Once you get into that water, 
you'll have about five minutes before the cold zaps all your 
strength. You won't have the energy to make it back by yourself. I'm 
telling you now it's the truth, so just let me do all the work. Got 
that?"
"Yeah. And Murray?"
"Uh-huh?"
"Thanks."
"My thanks will be when you get that lady of yours back home safe. 
Now go on, before I change my mind and decide to lock you up for your 
own good."
*****
Chapter Ten:
Less than half a hour had gone by since the crash of Flight 190 into 
the frozen Potomac River, and during that period the city had 
transformed fully from day into night. The huge moon had risen; an 
impressive spectacle of silver hues jostled from its repose of 
mystical slumber. It showered husks of chameleon light upon the 
world below and summoned forth a radiance that remained aloof and 
jaded. The lunar beams spread out like feelers to cross the terra 
firma and were similar in appearance to the questing probe of a prison 
yard light, as it illuminated both land and glistening water. All 
around the strident piercing timbres of the emergency sirens shrieked 
in a continuous counterpoint. The forlorn sounds wrapped within the 
embers of the blizzard wind as it blew, like fire catching fire. 
The moon shadow had been chasing Josh since nightfall, and he as well 
was not immune to its hypnotic pull. It watched with rapt attention as 
he waded out into the freezing water, like a repentant sinner seeking 
a last chance at redemption. The unspeakable pain of cold, the likes 
of which he had never before known, consumed his body inch by inch and 
he was forced to clamp shut his jaw to keep the agonized cries from 
escaping. The knowledge that CJ was experiencing this same 
excruciating pain and more besides was enough to bring fresh tears to 
his eyes, which he resolutely blinked back. Josh was no longer the 
same man he had been this morning, not by far. He had been forever 
changed and was now world-wearied in both mind and spirit; the growing 
cynicism shaped by the experiences of the day and those of the 
preceding months. These events had taught him that the familiar 
promises of shelter and safety so often taken for granted were but 
falsehoods; a network of crafted lies told to a foolhardy listener, 
and he would listen no more. Not far away from him a sizeable portion 
of ice shattered into pieces with a resounding echo, collapsing under 
the pressure of some unknown influence. The noise it made was over 
loud when matched against the deceptive calm and seclusion of the icy 
water that held him surrounded on all sides. His body shook in spasms 
of shivers and his teeth chattered as he reluctantly drew the frigid 
air deeply into his tortured lungs. Already he was suffering from 
overexertion and the raw biting edge of a fear that never lessened. 
It was comforting at least to feel the tension that Murray applied to 
the strong rope tied around his waist, allowing just enough slack to 
proceed, but not so much that it would hinder his progress. Josh 
lowered his eyes as the water reached chest level, as if he was able 
to discern his feet and was carefully mapping the placement of each 
footstep. Then the next instance there wasn't anything supporting 
him at all except the water, as the river bottom fell away into 
nothing. He stretched out limbs that ached and burned from the 
constant exposure and started to swim, keeping the strokes uniform 
in pace and length to conserve energy and so he wouldn't tire as 
quickly. He concentrated solely on the task at hand, lifting one arm 
and arching it overhead while the other sliced neatly through the 
water, breathing evenly from side to side and then repeating the 
cycle. The mindless chore fast became mechanic despite the cold, and 
in fact it helped to increase his circulation and warmth. But it also 
freed his attention and he had to purposely lure his thoughts away 
from her, because he was too afraid of what he was going to find, so 
instead he tried to think of other things.
He remembered a time when as a young boy out riding his bicycle he 
had stumbled upon an old deserted graveyard. It had been located in 
an adjacent clearing which couldn't be easily spotted from the paved 
road, and as young boys are apt to do, he decided to explore. The 
cemetery had seen better days of course, and was sorely in need of 
attention. The once lovingly cultivated patches of grass and field had 
given way to some aggressive flowering weed of bright red and rich 
lavender. The seemingly misplaced festive colors were incongruous 
amongst the dead and neglect, but were still somehow in keeping with 
the overall theme. Their top-heavy buds had been strangled by the 
embrace of leaf and stem, waning from the natural inclination to 
reach upward towards the sun, now lying limp and withered upon the 
vine. There was an abundance of stenciled names and passages upon 
the weathered granite headstones and wooden pallets bordering most 
of the mounds, which were overgrown with foliage. Young Josh had 
continued on reverently, maneuvering through the twists and turns of 
the topography with the likened familiarity of a seasoned mourner. 
He came to a stop, bending down balanced upon the soles of his feet 
to stare transfixed at a rather nondescript headstone. It was the 
only one in the entire graveyard that was still in good repair, having 
a polished well cared for finish. There was little fancy adornment 
on this particular stone, just a drawing of an ornate feather entwined 
with greenery and encircled twice with interlacing rings, and below 
this the sentiment 'My Beloved Wife' chiseled in script. All of a 
sudden he felt decidedly uneasy and wasn't exactly sure why. Perhaps 
it was due in some part to the setting and so apropos this keeping 
company with a minion of dead, but that wasn't it. That's when he 
noticed the flowers lying across the grave; a fresh bouquet of red 
roses in full bloom, at least a dozen or more, with dew still dripping 
off the petals. Next to the grave was a wrought-iron park bench 
without a single blemish of rust or corrosion, and upon it sat an 
opened paperback book. The discovery had sent chills up his spine, 
like a moment interrupted. He stood up quickly and ran, leaving the 
graveyard never to return. He had felt seedy like an unwelcome 
intruder on something that was supposed to stay private and personal, 
and he was deeply ashamed of his trespass. He had pedaled away that 
day wondering if he would ever be lucky enough to share that sort of 
loving bond with a woman when he grew up, one that could be expressed 
in so few words, and transcended even death. The adult Josh had been 
searching his whole life for that kind of love and he had finally 
found it in CJ, and he was damned if he was ready to lose her now.
He had been making good time when he pulled up short, swiping at the 
excess moisture that clung to his eyes and nose. He treaded water, 
shocked at the sight before him. It was CJ. She was draped over a 
small ice floe, holding on with one arm and using it like a makeshift 
life preserver to keep her head above water. She wasn't moving at all 
and for one terrifying moment he thought maybe she was dead, but then 
she shifted slightly and turned her head his way. 
"CJ?" he called to her excitedly. 
He quickly covered the remaining distance between them, coming beside 
her. He brought his hand up to brush against her cheek, but she 
flinched and pulled back from his touch. She was behaving as though 
she didn't know him at all. Her eyes were the color and texture of 
crumbled charcoal. The windows to her soul were sightless, with no 
sign of activity residing behind their fixed glassy fa�ade.
"It's me...CJ," he whispered urgently, trying to get through to her, 
his voice catching on the emotion. "It's Josh." But again, there was 
no response. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to him, 
wrapping his arms tightly around her waist. "CJ. Please...don't...
don't do this," he begged. She resisted him at first, holding herself 
stiff as a board, but after a few seconds she gave out a little sigh, 
as if she had been holding her breath the whole time, and then relaxed 
noticeably. Her skin felt like a solid block of ice next to his, 
colder even than the water and the contact made him shiver violently. 
Nothing had felt better in his life. They were so close to one another 
that he could easily detect the changing flutter in beat as her heart 
quickened, although maybe it had been his own, which was even now 
thundering madly in his chest. He could no longer tell for sure, 
because their lives and mutual fear had become interchangeable. 
CJ was panting more than breathing, obviously having some difficulty 
as he could hear the wheezing wet rattle of her water-soaked lungs. 
In truth, they were both only a stone's throw away from a complete 
physical breakdown, and the mental stakes at hand were even greater. 
He pulled away a bit so that he could study her in detail. His hands 
rose to cup either side of her face, taking note of her pallid color 
and the furrowed brows under trails of beaded frost. Her clothes no 
longer fit the definition of the word having been shredded into 
tatters, and there were numerous cuts and abrasions over her entire 
body. He followed the trail of her immobile left arm with his eyes, 
down to the point of a visible break, wincing in sympathy. He could 
only imagine what she had been through. He drew her back within the 
cocoon of his body, forming a protective barrier, as if he could undo 
all the damage. "It's okay," he murmured next to her ear, kissing 
the top of her head. "You made it. We're going...home."
"Home..." she repeated quietly a moment later, and his heart soared.

This time her eyes rose a fraction and he was gratified to finally 
see a spark of recognition there, enough so that she was able to meet 
his gaze and forge a small smile of reassurance. It was a half-smile 
really, and one that never reached all the way to her eyes, falling 
far short of the intended target, and in the end being only a 
haunting play at normality. She turned her head away under the 
intense scope of his scrutiny, burrowing her face into his neck, as 
if she was afraid he would be able to read beyond the mask that she 
was trying so desperately to keep in place. Josh lifted the rescue 
line from below the water's surface and tugged on it twice, as hard 
as he could. There came an answering tug from Murray's end a moment 
later. He gently turned CJ around so that her back was nestled against 
his front and brought one of his hands under her right arm, his 
fingers splayed across her stomach, securing her body alongside his 
own. She leaned back resting her head against his shoulder, closing 
her eyes tiredly as the rope line grew taut under Murray's strong 
ministrations. They began to move away, slowly being led back to 
shore. They were uneven in height which hindered a fluidity of 
movement, but Josh soon fell in with a natural rhythm, swimming 
with one arm, holding onto CJ with the other, and letting Murray 
supply the needed power. Silence reigned. He could place the 
straining pull of his back muscles, contracting and relaxing with 
every lap, and he could feel the curved sway of CJ's hip as it 
bumped against his own. There was a rise of concentrated heat born 
of uncertainty, which wafted outward from their bodies. He welcomed 
all these things because they were small reminders of her presence 
and life force, small reminders of his own. Everything was going 
fine; they were more than halfway there when Josh began to realize 
that something was terribly wrong. CJ seemed agitated and no longer 
was passively allowing him to drag her to shore. She squirmed 
restlessly. Her hand crept up around his anchoring arm, trying 
to pull it away and when that didn't work she started to struggle 
in earnest. Josh had no effective way of signaling Murray to stop 
the pull, so that he could take a moment and determine what it was 
that was causing her distress. He could only look into her eyes, 
searching for clues to her current state of mind. They stared back 
at him with empty resignation.
"What is it CJ? What's...wrong?"
"Listen...Elmo...laughing..." she stammered, struggling with the 
words. But they made no sense to him.
"I don't...understand." She pointed off into the distance and he 
looked, he did, but there just wasn't anything there. "I don't...
see anything."
"Melis..sa...yellow. There," she insisted, but this time she was 
pointing in a completely opposite direction. She was hallucinating, 
and all the while they were still being towed in, although without 
the combined efforts of all three, the going was slower. CJ suddenly 
seemed to understand what was happening and it drove her to 
distraction. Josh didn't know where she was finding the strength, 
but she fought him tooth and nail. She was pulling away from him 
and with no way to halt the efforts from shore there was a real 
danger that CJ could slip out of Josh's reach. He couldn't take the 
risk. He had no choice.
"Laugh...doll..."CJ was saying, beating her fist furiously against 
his chest. She broke off her rambling mid-way unable to continue, 
as she was overcome with a nauseating wave of pain that even the 
numbness couldn't conceal. She slumped over weakly and Josh caught 
her, as she bit her lip hard to keep from screaming. Her arm felt 
as though it was on actual fire, alive and throbbing insistently 
with waves of raw agony. She opened her eyes; her face riddled with 
physical and mental torment, as she let her focus stray from his 
sorrowful eyes down to his hand. His hand, that still rested on 
top of her broken arm. He had aggravated the wound on purpose, 
intentionally causing her pain. She looked at him and burst into 
tears. It was more than he could bear.
"I'm sorry. I'll go back...CJ. I promise. After we get you...to 
shore. If...if there's someone else...out there. I'll go back." 
"No..." she said plaintively through her tears.
"Yes. I promise. I'll...go back."
"No," she repeated, covering his lips with her fingers. "Sorry...
so...sorry...Josh." She shook her head, frustrated with her inability 
to communicate. "Know...Melissa...dead," she said in a strangled 
whisper. "Know."
They didn't have another chance to speak as Josh's feet came into 
contact with the river bottom once more. Their cloistered world was 
suddenly alive again with lights, sirens, helicopters and people 
shouting and cheering. Police officers, fire department personnel 
and others splashed into the water to escort the two of them the 
last few remaining feet to shore. CJ was quickly whisked away to 
a waiting stretcher and loaded into an ambulance with a full team 
of paramedics hovering over her care. Murray came forward and 
slapped Josh on the back, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders 
as he enfolded him into a sloppy bear hug.
"You did it Josh," he beamed, as he worked to untie the rope from 
Josh's waist. "You brought your lady home."
"No, I think we have you to thank for that one, Murray."
"Oh go on," he scoffed. "Now if you'd like I'll give you a personal 
police escort on over to the hospital where they're taking CJ. I know 
you want to be with her."
"Thanks. Murray?" he asked, as he gazed one last time over the 
expanse of the Potomac.
"Yes?"
"Is there any chance that someone else might still be out there?"
"No," Murray answered without hesitation. "We've checked, 
double-checked, triple-checked. CJ, Robert, Penny and Max, 
that's the lot of them."
"Wait. That's only four. You said before that after Robert and
 Penny there were still three other survivors. Two men and one 
woman."
"Yeah, I did. But while you were out there with CJ the helicopter 
went back for another rescue. The last man handed the floater to Max, 
just like he'd been doing all along. He'd catch the float, but he'd 
pass it on to the others. By the time the chopper returned to get him 
he was gone. Drowned. His name was Arlan and it bears repeating 
because he was a genuine hero."
*****
Chapter Eleven:
Toby had turned his back on CJ and the news coverage just after she'd 
lost her grip on the lifeline. Normally he would do anything in the 
world for her, but he couldn't be expected to watch her die. 
Truthfully he was furious with her, and the growth of his anger 
copied the increasing distance between her fingers and the flotation 
ring, as the helicopter pulled away. CJ was injured and no doubt 
incapacitated from the debilitating affects of hypothermia; he 
understood these things. Hell he had watched them, because the live 
raw footage left nothing whatsoever to the imagination, but none of 
that mattered. The thing he couldn't accept was the notion of her 
giving up and that's exactly what she was doing to his way of thinking.
Toby closed his eyes and concentrated on staying mad at her because 
it was his only weapon of choice in a completely powerless situation. 
But he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead he was picturing 
how comical she had looked after falling into the pool in California, 
the day he came out to invite her to join the Bartlet presidential 
campaign. A graceful water ballet swan she wasn't. More like a 
six-foot tall, badly near-sighted albatross, sputtering directives 
for him to avert his eyes around a mouthful of chlorinated water. 
Ironically she had held out some hope of emerging from the depths of 
that pool with a smidgen of her dignity still intact. Toby being Toby 
couldn't allow that of course, and had proceeded to cement the level 
of her embarrassment with some flippant remark. She had turned the 
tables on him though, marching out of the pool anyway with clingy 
clothes, well...clinging and carrying on their conversation as if 
nothing strange had occurred. That particular moment had CJ stamped 
all over it. Toby had been lucky enough to witness the infamous 
Benigni escapade as well, much to her disgrace. So that made twice in 
his presence that CJ had fallen into a pool or been pushed, as she 
resolutely insisted was the case with Roberto. That coincidence alone 
had to be one for the 'believe it or not' record books, and as such it 
had come to be a personal joke between them over the years. He had 
taken it upon himself to forewarn her in surreptitious ways about the 
hazardous risk of puddles along the White House walkways, especially 
on rainy days. He loved rainy days. Sometimes he even went so far as 
to leave a detailed schematic on top of her desk outlining alternate 
routes she might want to consider before venturing outside. She had 
never said anything about them to him or he to her, but once he had 
caught her studying one of his more elaborate plans, and smiling 
broadly in spite of herself. He shook his head, the anger momentarily 
forgotten. And now look at what had happened; she'd gone and fallen 
into the water again despite all his warnings. What was it with her 
and water anyway?
The past rescinded abruptly as the chaos of the present returned with 
the choked sound of a woman sobbing just over his shoulder. He was 
pretty sure the woman was Bonnie. Her muffled cries were at once 
solemn and intense, like the internal guilt of a child who has broken 
her favorite toy by loving it too much. Toby was Bonnie's immediate 
supervisor and so it was probably his place to go over and offer 
comfort, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. The decades 
spent cultivating a tough, lone wolf persona made that kind of easy 
spontaneity all but impossible to pull off, and if the truth be 
known, he had come to believe his own press. The awkwardness such an 
act would impose on them both would outshine any real charity behind 
the motivation, and things were bad enough already. Fortunately, 
someone more suited to the task must have stepped forward because in 
the next minute Bonnie's cries were summarily silenced. Even though 
Toby wasn't watching the televised operation anymore he could still 
hear the reporter's overlay, confirming now that the rescue team had 
indeed lost sight of the woman survivor. His anger returned with 
vengeance at this update, double its original size and slamming into 
his belly like a sucker punch, taking his breath away. Toby suddenly 
flashed back to another dark event and not so long ago. The night of 
the assassination attempt and him being the one to stumble upon Josh, 
lying on the ground and bleeding from a gunshot wound. But as 
horrible as that whole night had been, he had not once entertained 
the possibility of Josh dying. Now it was CJ who was in danger and 
he wasn't at all sure this time, not at all. The chasm of uncertainty 
that is the deciding flipped coin of life and death left him a 
fragile old man, totally out of his element. That's why he loved 
writing so much. Words never intentionally left you hanging for the 
conclusion. They did only what they were told to do, and nothing more. 
And if someone should assign another interpretation it made no 
difference, because it was at best, a second-hand rose.
For whatever reason his attention was eventually drawn to the fixture 
hanging over Ginger's desk. One of the florescent bulbs was flickering 
on and off like a bug light zealously zapping its mesmerized prey and 
under any other circumstances, it probably would have annoyed him to 
no end. For Toby, life could be summed up as a series of annoyances, 
broken by the occasional day of jubilee. Today though he wanted to 
fall to his knees and kiss the feet of its flawed existence, and the 
mind-numbing distraction it offered. He observed it for a long time, 
silently measuring the space of delay between long and short flashes, 
as if it was a Morse code dispatch of top-secret nature. The rest of 
the staff gathered round had gone very quiet, and try as he might it 
was simply impossible to escape the pervading mood of disaster. Soon 
he was picking up the ominous vibes as if by osmosis and without 
conscious planning, he found his hand wrapped around the solid mass 
of a desk stapler. Since it was in his palm there, so convenient, he 
tested its weight and contemplated throwing it at the offending 
light. It had had the audacity to blasphemy her name at him, repeating 
it over and over again like a subliminal message hidden within the 
latter flashes. CJ...CJ...CJ. He was already savoring the satisfying 
cascade of glass and filament that would result from this act of 
vandalism. He hoped the White House janitorial staff would still be 
dust-busting fragments and slivers from the carpet a week from now. 
His own personalized 'Kilroy was here' moniker. The muscles in his 
arm had already begun to loosen as he labored towards wind-up, and 
then Ginger happened to glance his way. Time stood still as two sets 
of eyes in two separate colors grew wide simultaneously, the first 
one admitting his culpability and the other showing her disapproval. 
There most certainly would have been more to the standoff if Donna 
hadn't spoken up just then.
"Oh my God!" she croaked out in disbelief, as a hand flew to her 
mouth. "There's Josh!" Out of habit, most everyone looked towards 
the nearest entrance waiting for his scheduled appearance. When he 
didn't show, unconscious head counts were placed, like an 
overburdened family with too many little deductions, just realizing 
they are one kid short from the last rest stop. "No, not there," 
Donna clarified impatiently. "There," she said, pointing to the 
television screen and the sight of the White House Deputy Chief of 
Staff wading into the frozen Potomac.
It was half past midnight, and the blizzard conditions responsible for 
so much tragedy during the day had finally bargained down to a 
drizzling rain. CJ associated the intermittent showers battering the 
windowpane with the sound of fingers tapping skillfully over a 
keyboard. She drifted towards it and consciousness in a desolate 
search for something safe and familiar, but there was only darkness 
when she finally opened her eyes. There was an oxygen mask covering 
her nose and mouth, dotted over the top with a series of holes and 
strange vapors were wafting through these openings. She swatted at it 
in a panic to brush it aside, as if she had unknowingly walked into a 
spider's web, and was desperately trying to separate herself from the 
sticky strands. She shuddered involuntarily and took a deep steadying 
breath in an effort to slow her rapidly beating heart. Her vision was 
starting to adjust itself to the gloom and she was able to discern 
the end of the bed she was lying on. Her toes were pressed right up 
against the imitation wood grain footer. Next to the bed was a metal 
nightstand along with a couple of utility chairs and on the wall over 
the door hung a clock. Strangely the whole thing was locked inside a 
wire basket protector, as if the theft of dime store timepieces had 
suddenly become a high profile crime statistic. The numbers were 
illuminated by the weak glow of an amber night-light, but it was too 
far away for her to read without the aid of contacts. The cloying 
silence and stuffiness of the tiny room that wasn't home was 
encompassing, and too much like the misleading calm before the storm. 
The innocent correlation was all that was necessary to trigger her 
remembrance of the plane crash and all that she had suffered after it 
in the Potomac. 
The rain was a further hindrance simply because it was water; it 
notched her fear up another level by banging against the glass like 
it wanted to get in, like it wanted to get at her. She ran her tongue 
over cracked dried lips and reached over intending to press the call 
button for the nurse's station, but it wasn't there. Or rather the 
button was there, it was her arm that wasn't. It had been encased 
inside a bulky sling, folded snugly over her stomach and held in 
place by Velcro. Her other arm was about as useless, having become a 
human pincushion for any number of clear and colored concoctions that 
were slowly being trickled into her bloodstream, without permission. 
She tried to sit up and couldn't, the trappings of hospital care saw 
to that. Added into the equation was an overall grogginess from 
medication, which was wrecking havoc with her senses, and 
sensibility. She couldn't breathe. She was drowning in air. Which was
of course, about as ridiculous as the absurdity of a land shark from 
the Saturday Night Live skit, but knowing the improbabilities didn't 
make it any less real.
"Please," she called out, making a formal address to the darkness 
because it was all she owned anymore. She wasn't exactly sure what 
she was asking for, but she needed it now. Serving a life sentence 
behind penitentiary bars, the minute hand heralded the passing of 
12:37 a.m. into 12:38 a.m. and that was the extent of the room's 
interest in her tale of woe. In the meantime the rain had made nice 
with the wind and together they were pounding the window, hard enough 
to make the frame rattle and shake. The heavy sheets of water sleeted 
sideways at a nearly horizontal angle, and it was pointed directly at 
her like a dagger. The door swooshed open unexpectedly and a 
silhouette stood frozen in the entrance like a firing range target, 
framed by a play of shadow and artificial light spilling over from the 
hallway. 
"Josh," she whispered, but only in her head. It actually came out as 
another "Please." As if the scope of her vocabulary had been reduced 
to a single word, and comprehension rested on the correct inflection. 
She was doubly frustrated by the word itself because if it had to be 
used at all, she preferred to be on the receiving end. The scarecrow 
man without a face was apparently fluent in gibberish and showed his 
understanding of her predicament by rushing forward, and she was both 
grateful and ashamed for his expediency. Grateful because she was 
just one second away from a bloodcurdling scream and ashamed because 
she had never before in her life been quite this needy. She dimly 
registered the shift of weight as he gingerly sat down on the bed, 
leaning over to wrap his arms around her body. She wanted to 
reciprocate but one arm was out of commission, and the other was 
entangled in a nest of rubber tubing and wires, and the whole mess 
was laced through the rails of the bed. As a result she was only 
able to raise her arm halfway, so she settled on compromise by 
grabbing a fistful of his warm cotton shirt from around the waistline, 
bunching it up and then holding on for dear life. She exhaled a 
breath she'd known for sure that she'd been holding, because she 
really wanted it out, and then went slack against his neck from 
the unbelievable relief. 
She realized almost immediately that she had made a major mistake by 
letting her guard down in this fashion. Her heart was incorrectly 
interpreting it as a signal to go ahead and release the dam that was 
holding back all her emotional baggage and pain. She wasn't ready. It 
was too soon. She squeezed her eyes shut until spots danced 
dizzyingly in front of them, trying anything she could think of to 
stop the inevitability of what was coming. She didn't want this. 
She was stronger than this. Only she wasn't really, few people could 
claim to be and those that did were probably lying. The poor man's 
justification did nothing except increase her misery tenfold. CJ was 
the sole occupant of a roller coaster cresting the top of a mountain, 
with a spectacular view of the impending drop. And in case there was 
any doubt, the safety bar was disengaged.
*****
Chapter Twelve:
The interior of the darkened hospital room disappeared and CJ found 
herself strapped once again into her assigned seat on the doomed 
plane. Only this time around she was clued into everything that was 
going to happen in advance. All these innocent unknowing people, men, 
women and children, were going to die in the next few minutes. The 
huge blue and white 737 was lumbering to embark on an ill-fated taxi, 
when suddenly Melissa popped up over the seat in front of CJ, in 
direct violation of the lit 'Fasten Your Seatbelt' signs. She was 
still dressed in that Big Bird, bright yellow, kissing cousin of 
neon jumpsuit, but if you looked closely there were some obvious 
differences. The child's bouncing blond braids sparkled dazzlingly 
like diamonds in the rough, as if stardust had been sprinkled 
throughout the fine golden strands. There were also icicles sitting 
upon her shoulders and over the crown of her head, which melted 
slowly when confronted by the warmed air of the passenger cabin. 
The water slid off its host like reluctant tears, as if her whole 
body was engaged in the lost art of silent mourning. 
"Hi!" she said cheerfully in greeting and mischief danced in her eyes. 
"You lied to me CJ," she continued, going right for the jugular, 
letting the abrupt words belay a carefree demeanor. "That's not 
nice," she added, displaying a plastered-on grin that never faltered 
around the tug of adorable Shirley Temple dimples. The curl of her 
childish lisp postponed the delivery of the final word with an 
exaggerated hiss. She held up one tiny finger and pressed it daintily 
to her lips, sealing them forever with an unknown secret, as she 
produced a water-soaked and red-faced Elmo. She perched his ravaged 
wet body atop the seat, allowing it to drip over sloppily onto the 
other side as she used her hands to manipulate the toy like a puppet. 
She raised his furry paw so that he appeared to be pointing 
accusingly at CJ. "You!" Melissa bellowed sharply, startling CJ by 
applying the practiced skill of a ventriloquist and using a voice 
that was deep and ominous in mocking imitation. The Elmo doll jabbed 
at the air authoritatively, punctuating each and every word of the 
child's declaration in perfect concerto.
"You." Jab. "Promised." Jab. "Me." Jab. "Everything." Jab. "Was." 
Jab. "Okay." Jab. Jab.
Melissa jumped up at the conclusion clapping merrily, and her face 
was flushed with barely contained excitement from the make-believe 
game. Meanwhile forgotten, Elmo slumped over and tumbled from the 
seat top to land on the floor at CJ's feet, with a wet sounding 
smack. The force of the hard cushion landing caused the excess water 
to spray out, like a dog shaking itself dry after a bath, and it 
splashed all over the front of CJ's legs. She shivered from the
odd sensation, which stung like needles and was ice-cold wherever it 
touched. 
"Whenever I lied," Melissa announced, leaning over to stare CJ 
straight in the eyes, "Mommy and Daddy punished me with a time-out." 
Whether her sudden lapse into past-tense usage was deliberate or not 
was anyone's guess, but the message was clear to CJ. There would be 
no further opportunities for Melissa to misbehave and she would never 
be set free from this last penalty. "What do you suppose would be a 
suitable punishment for you?" Melissa asked this largely rhetorical
question while scrunching up her face, and drumming baby fingers 
against the backdrop of rosy apple-dumpling cheeks. "It has to be 
real bad I'm afraid, because you're a grown-up CJ, and you should've 
known better." Some inner part of CJ understood that this was 
fantasy, just from the silly notion of five-year-olds making threats, 
issued in full sentences and complete thoughts. However that part of 
her brain was being overruled by the one that judged her guilty of 
the unforgivable sin of having survived, while so many others had 
perished, including this little girl being represented here. The eyes 
of blind justice had come unmasked like the Lone Ranger; her scales 
tipped out of balance and things just escalated from there. 
The scenery outside the windows had changed, resembling a picture 
postcard of mist and falling snow, an indication that the plane was 
already airborne; there was no turning back now. Right on cue, the 
entire structure began to shudder and quake, and all the people 
screamed in response to the confirmed sighting of death in the 
building. All the while Melissa continued to watch CJ with a serene 
calm, her hands folded neatly beneath her chin like an innocent 
cherub.
"I didn't mean..." CJ began apologetically. She was trembling, and her
tears mixed in with the guilt to become anguish.
"You didn't mean what, CJ?" Melissa interrupted, meaning to cut her 
no slack. She was speaking in her mother's voice now, in Penny's 
voice, and it was angry and vengeful. "You didn't mean to live? 
Or you didn't mean to let my daughter die?" 
A flight attendant zipped by just then, dutifully returning all the 
tray tables to their proper and upright position before taking a 
place behind a podium up front. She covered her eyes with a dramatic 
flair and reached a manicured hand inside a dapper hat, similar to 
Frosty the Snowman's magical topper. She pulled out a lone bingo ball 
with a number boldly emblazoned on its side. She called this number 
out over a megaphone, endeavoring to project, being clear and 
concise; she was competing with the loud noise of the plane breaking 
apart and the unrestrained terror of its human cargo. Next to her 
just off to the side stood another flight attendant, wearing an 
inflated orange life vest and looking bored, demonstrating the 
procedures to follow in the highly unlikely event of a crash.
"That's your number, you know," Melissa informed CJ dryly, and it did 
indeed match up with her seat assignment. "You should probably go 
now." She had adopted a jaded resignation that couldn't possibly 
belong to one so young. She sat down and lowered her head to lay on 
top of the airline pillow in her lap. Obediently bracing for impact, 
just as CJ had instructed once upon a time, so very long ago. The 
bizarre lottery bargaining with life and death had progressed, with 
or without expressed consent, as more balls had been drawn and their 
numbers revealed. Max, Arlan, Robert and Penny had all made their way 
to stand at the head of the plane, and they were motioning for CJ to 
come join them. CJ wrestled madly with her seatbelt before finally 
getting it unbuckled. She came around the seat and went down on bent 
knees by Melissa's side. "Here, take it," CJ begged, trying to push 
the bingo ball that had miraculously appeared in her grasp into 
Melissa's hand. But she wouldn't open, and she was stronger than she 
looked. "Go...live," she pleaded desperately with the uncooperative 
child, crying hard now and unconsciously repeating the exact words 
that Arlan had used with her. Or would use later. She wasn't sure 
anymore. 
"CJ, it doesn't work that way. Haven't you figured that out yet?" the 
child reproached. "There's nothing more that you can do here." And 
with this she closed her eyes and brought her hands together in 
prayer. "Now I lay me down to sleep..." she began to speak the verse. 
Someone tapped CJ lightly on the shoulder and she swiveled round 
awkwardly on her heels in surprise, still kneeling on the floor. 
It was President Bartlet of all people; wearing a tuxedo, and 
seeming as much at home in the middle of the plane's aisle as he 
was in the Oval Office.
"What's doing Claudia Jean?" he teased amicably. His hands were 
held behind his back and he was smiling, as his eyebrows raised high 
in genuine interest. Right behind him was Sam and Toby jostling 
papers and scribbling on index cards as they argued and fretted over 
correct syntax and the proper placement of punctuation. All this of 
course, thoroughly confused CJ; it was as if she'd fallen into a 
rabbit's hole much like Alice in Wonderland. She stood up and was 
immediately overwhelmed by a wave of nausea. She had to find 
something to hold on to in order to maintain her balance. Something 
was definitely wrong.
"My chest...hurts," she explained, answering the President's question 
at the same time. "And..." She paused to catch her breath, bringing 
her hand up to protect her heart as the pain grew in intensity. 
"And...the plane is going to crash."
"You don't say," Toby interjected, peering up from his notes and
clucking his tongue sympathetically upon hearing the sad news. CJ 
needed to sit down, right now; the pain was becoming too much for 
her to bear. The President acknowledged the state of her discomfort 
by obligingly offering his arm in assistance and helping to guide her 
into one of the nearby chairs.
"I pray the Lord my soul to keep..." Melissa continued, seemingly 
oblivious of the others.
"CJ, I'm so sorry to hear that you're not feeling well," he said, 
patting her hand. "That goes for the plane crash too," he added, 
while nimbly sidestepping a raging rush of icy water that was slowly 
filling the interior, as the plane began to sink into the frozen 
depths of the Potomac River. "I do believe you might have a bit of a 
fever here, CJ," Bartlet said in a confessional whisper, laying his 
hand over her forehead. "I'm not a doctor though," he promptly 
clarified. "Abby's the doctor."
"If I should die before I wake..." Melissa prayed, and for the first 
time there was a real undertone of fear present in the recitation.
"Sam!" Bartlet yelled, making CJ jump at the unexpected intrusion, and 
cover her ears. "Get over here and tell me if you think she has a 
fever." When she glanced over at Sam he was now sitting inside a 
rowboat and wearing his sailor's yellow stormy weather gear. "I'm 
not a doctor, you know," Sam stated emphatically, while steadfastly 
rowing a path over the tipped seats and floating carry-on luggage. 
"Yes," Bartlet answered calmly, turning back to CJ. "We know. Abby's 
the doctor." 
He struck out of the blue, viciously grabbing hold of her upper arms, 
hard enough to leave marks. "Leave me alone!" CJ screamed, unable to 
handle things anymore. "Let go!" She tried to jerk free of his hold, 
but he wouldn't release her. She was terribly afraid of these people. 
People she trusted. People she knew to be her friends. But she didn't 
understand what was going on. Nothing was making sense.
"I pray the Lord my soul to take," Melissa finished. "Amen." 
And then mercifully, everything went black.
*****
When CJ awoke the next time, another twenty-four hours had passed and 
it was midnight again. The symbolic witching hour when something 
wicked this way comes and already had, the only thing missing was a 
black cat and a full moon. She was pleased to note that the 
precautionary theft measures had deemed fruitful and the clock was 
still safely ensconced behind its protective barrier. On the other 
hand, the rain hadn't dissipated any and a fresh downpour was 
currently attacking the windowpanes with relish. The hospital 
room was exactly as she remembered, with a notable exception and 
that one of its chairs was now occupied. It was Josh she could tell, 
and he looked mighty uncomfortable. His wrist was bent back into a 
contortionist's pretzel underneath his chin, being used to prop up 
the weight of his drooling napping head. He looked disheveled and 
was unshaven; both his legs were cast half-hazard over the side of 
the chair, like sticks of driftwood washed ashore. He had seen better 
days. Hadn't they all?
"Josh," she called weakly. He sprung to immediate attention, as if 
the Andrew Sisters had personally enlisted the talents of the 
Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy from Company C at morning reveille.
"What?" he queried, standing there swaying, bleary-eyed and wiping 
at his face like a little boy, letting the blanket that had been 
draped over him slip to the floor. He appeared unsure exactly of 
what was being asked of him, as if her summons was a quiz that he 
hadn't studied for, but would count for fifty percent of his 
semester grade.
"Over here," she directed him slowly, which was a nifty coincidence 
because it was her only available speed. Josh turned to stare at her, 
blinking his eyes in rapid succession and saying nothing, like he did 
sometimes when he was really considering the importance of something, 
and taking the matter to heart and soul.
"CJ," he finally answered quietly, his face breaking into a brilliant 
smile that lit up the dark like fireworks. There was so much relief 
and happiness wrapped around the way he spoke her name, that she had 
to wonder what she had ever done so right in her life, to deserve 
this kind of devotion. He stumbled forward suddenly, like he had been 
kept from her too long and couldn't stand it another minute. He 
leaned over the bed to take her in his arms, and despite the tricky 
obstacle of hospital mechanisms, which seemed to take a firm stance 
against just this sort of intimacy, they managed to fit together 
quite nicely. She could sense that he was holding back though, like 
he was concerned she might shatter if he squeezed too hard. She was 
having none of that and told him so. Josh was nothing if not open to 
suggestion and in the next instance he had hold of her properly, 
like she was used to, like he would do after they'd made love.
"I've missed you," she informed him in a soft and sleepy voice, as if 
he had been the one to go away.
"Well, I'll call your missed, and raise you an I've been worried out 
of my mind," he challenged playfully. But his voice shook, letting her 
know that the statement was truer than he would like to have her 
believe.
"You win," she conceded, and then shook her head regretfully at the 
poor choice of words. There were no winners in this round.
Chapter Thirteen:
They were no longer touching each other and although CJ had been the 
first to pull away, she was already feeling empty and bereft from the 
loss of contact. Shifting gingerly onto her side and purposely facing 
the wall, she silently hoped that Josh would take the subtle hint and 
go away. She didn't want to hurt him, but she really wanted to be 
alone. She should have known better; he'd just gotten her back, and 
he had no intention of going anywhere. His normally boyish features 
had aged considerably over the past few days, from a combination of 
bone-weary exhaustion, and reemerging worry over her behavior. A 
demeanor that was amplified by the addition of the rainstorm raging 
just outside the window and mirrored back into the small, darkened 
room; creating the illusion that he had inadvertently stumbled in 
front of a movie screen. Shadow plumes of smoky-white water beaded and 
bled, crawling along his face like a slowly unwinding scroll of paper 
music on a player piano. Whispering a melancholy tune that was in a 
constant state of interpretation, as he forged a determined path from 
one side of her hospital bed to the other. She closed her eyes 
tiredly, waiting, sensing the direction of his movements and knowing 
that she was at best, only postponing the inevitable. 'Don't ask. 
Please Josh, don't ask me how I'm feeling.' She silently prayed. 
The control she maintained over her emotions was so tenuous she was 
certain that if he did, she would start crying and never be able to 
stop. For the span of several awkward minutes he stood immobile, 
mere inches away and still, the equivalent of a world apart. Until 
finally unwillingly, compelled by something more than she understood 
and something less than she desired, she looked up and met his gaze. 
And yes, there it was; the confrontation she had been dreading, but 
at least for now, it was without the intrusion of words she had 
feared. In his eyes and from his heart, with everything that made 
him a good and decent man, he simply offered her the strength of his 
love and concern. Somehow inexplicably, it only made her feel worse. 
So with nowhere else to run she turned away, again.
She wanted to tell him that she didn't have any of the answers he was 
seeking. She wanted to tell him that she was petrified of never 
getting past this. She wanted to tell him that now she too could hear 
the music, and she was so sorry that she hadn't known the depths of 
his pain before. Instead and for a long time she said nothing at all. 
And neither did he. At some point, she started to tremble, and she 
was almost relieved for the distraction it provided. Reflexively, she 
lifted long thin arms to cross protectively over her chest, but with 
only one in functional form, it ended up looking more like she was 
attempting to pledge her allegiance to a make-believe realm. The 
snarl of I.V. tubes resembled a ball of yarn after the cat had got at 
it, and mimicked her every action like the unwanted presence of a 
chaperone on a first date. She sought to draw her legs up, only to 
discover that her left foot had packed on a few pounds of ugly white 
plaster during her most recent absence, by virtue of a thick cast 
climbing all the way to her calf. Frustrated by what she perceived as 
her own inadequacies, she ultimately abandoned the leg by the end 
of the bed and with the other in tow, was forced to settle for a 
less than satisfactory fetal position throw-off. She never did 
do compromise well, along with 'Sharing' on her Kindergarten report 
card, it rated an F. Every second of awareness was fraught with 
strange and unwelcome surprises, and in that moment she craved a 
return to the easy oblivion of unconsciousness. She wrestled with an 
irrational urge to just throw back the covers and get it all over 
with at once, by taking inventory of her body parts to ensure that 
everything was more or less where it was supposed to be.
Then every bit as strong, she was swept away by an intense wave of 
guilt and shame; her mind suddenly flooded with images of all those 
who had suffered and lost everything, including their lives, by 
boarding that plane. All the people who weren't as fortunate as 
she was to be awakening safe and sound inside a hospital room 
tonight. So why then wasn't she feeling lucky? So why then wasn't she 
feeling safe? It was unforgivable that she had the audacity to lay 
here ungrateful, quibbling over small unimportant things. She was 
savvy enough on press procedures to intuitively realize that her 
likeness was probably being televised into the homes of millions 
all over the world, and in her line of work there would certainly 
be no shortage of file photos to choose from. Again and again, the 
news telecasts would pigeonhole her as one of the fortunate and 
intrepid survivors of this country's latest disaster. She could 
also envision the resentment and contempt, which the mere sight 
of her face or mention of her name must be inflicting on the 
families of the dead. Why her anyway? Why not someone else? Why not 
Melissa? Oh God, why? How they must hate her for surviving in place 
of their father or mother, their son or daughter. How in truth, 
she hated...herself.
"Josh?" she called out, overloud in the encroaching quiet, hoping to 
silence the angry din of voices in her head. He was right there too, 
taking her cold hand and warming it within her own. She was thankful 
now that he hadn't let her push him away. It was as if he had been 
following the downward trajectory of her thoughts all along, and was 
expecting this. Her voice was yielding and not at all assured, caught 
somewhere between woman and child. It was the impending sacrifice of 
fine china, about to be destroyed from the pressure of some unnoticed 
imperfection. "Josh?" she repeated unnecessarily, perhaps concerned 
he might have disappeared while she struggled to gather herself 
together. "Why did I...live?" she finally managed, as she sought 
to quell a surging tide of panic. "Why...me?" He stared down at her 
with such sadness and empathy evident, opening his mouth and then 
closing it again as he simultaneously squeezed her hand like he was 
beseeching her for more prep time. She could almost see the gears 
turning, as he desperately searched for the appropriate response, 
in fervent belief that he had only the one chance to get it right. 
She immediately wanted to retract the question; take him off the 
hook. She wasn't even sure why she had asked in the first place. 
It wasn't fair to him. Only it was too late for that. It was too late 
for a lot of things. Meanwhile lost in the dark, under the falling 
rain, just outside the door that kept her separate from a world 
she no longer understood, all around there was evidence of life 
going on without them.
There was the tinny nasal intonation of a nameless, faceless 
switchboard operator forever paging people, even though it seemed 
they never bothered to respond. The messages were delivered in a 
derivative language once or twice removed from English, and made 
doubly undecipherable by background static. Underfoot were the 
cushioned steps of the nurses' rubber-soled sneakers, which 
apparently came equipped with the requisite pop and squeak, 
passing by in a show of interrupted lights underneath the door. 
Making appointed rounds and administering the sting of hypodermic 
needles or the iron-grip of blood pressure cuffs. And the much 
slower, less steady pace of family members and other visitors 
shuffling towards destinations they were in no real hurry to reach; 
too fearful of what they will or won't find upon arrival. Interwoven, 
like the expensive gold thread in a third-rate tapestry; holding it 
all together and possessing the ability to pull it all apart is the 
muted sob of unending grief, and the high-interest loan of borrowed 
time. Just when CJ thought she couldn't stand another minute of this 
unknown, of navigating limbo, she felt something being pressed 
urgently into her palm.
"CJ, this is for you," Josh said quietly, addressing both the open 
question in her sorrowful eyes, and the confusion in her soul. 
"You can't open it though."
She looked down at the sealed white envelope in her hand, a weak 
smile appearing on her face when she recognized it as the same one he 
had brought with him that night at her apartment. The night when he 
had first revealed he was in love with her. Of course, the envelope 
wasn't in quite the same pristine condition it had once been. 
The overall color was darker now, in the neighborhood of beige, and 
its whole shape was warped, having been folded, spindled and mutilated 
over time and tussle. High on the top right hand corner was a smear of 
maple syrup from that Sunday morning when they had awoken early and 
tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to make pancakes from scratch; halfway 
through they had realized that they didn't have all the needed 
ingredients. The two of them had ended up dancing barefoot to slow 
music on the radio right there in the middle of her kitchen, 
covered from head to toe in flour. She absently rubbed her thumb 
lightly over the darkish stain now, not at all surprised to have her 
pad come away sticky. There were more memories like that one here as 
well, in other strategic places on the envelope, and all of them in 
the innocent guise of stains; toothpaste, ink, coffee, crazy glue, 
watermelon...Watermelon. She leveled a knowing gaze at him, quirking 
her eyebrow seductively as she remembered that particular experience 
in all its glory. He was blushing so she knew for sure that he was 
remembering it too.
"CJ, you wanted to know why you lived," Josh stated solemnly, out of 
the blue. "And I think...maybe...that I have an answer for you."
"You...do?" she answered hesitantly, feeling unsettled in the face 
of this abrupt return to cold reality. She was already missing the 
momentary lightness that the unscheduled appearance of the envelope 
had provided.
"Yes, but not so much in spoken words."
She released a sigh of tension at this, glancing down pointedly at 
the sealed envelope, having picked up that he was following their 
conversation from that first night. "Then I'm guessing that this 
letter here might help to explain it for you?" she supplied on cue.
"Yeah. I'm hoping so, but CJ that's not a letter."
"It's not?"
"No. It's a list."
"A list. I see. Then would this be a list of things that you've 
already done?"
"No," said Josh softly, and he lifted her hand to his lips and 
kissed the back of her palm lightly. "But it might be a list of 
things that I'm really hoping to do." She gasped in quiet surprise 
at his actions, but made no move to remove her hand from his.
"Josh, this list of things that you're really hoping to do," 
she paused, swallowing hard before continuing, "does it pertain 
to me in some way?"
"CJ," he nodded, "this list of things that I'm really hoping to 
do pertains to you in every way." Then he leaned in and kissed her 
on the lips. After a few moments she brought her arm around his neck, 
pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. When it was over, they 
briefly touched foreheads before separating. "Thank you," she 
mouthed, touching his cheek. '"I love you," he mouthed back.
"You know Josh, you've been teasing me with that envelope for a long 
time now. Do I finally get to open it?"
"No CJ, you don't. You want to know why?" She nodded. "Because the 
list isn't finished, and if we're truly lucky, it never will be."
"I don't understand."
"When I found those lists that my father had made I was under the 
delusion that there was supposed to be a beginning, middle and an 
end to it all. I told you how I was obsessed by the thought that 
he had left so much undone. But you've shown me that I was wrong. 
Since we've been together I keep discovering new and wonderful 
things that I want to add to my own list. Don't you see CJ? There 
will never be an end to the list because you keep making it new 
again, every moment of every day. I could spend eternity learning 
love from you. You asked me why you lived, and I say it's because 
my list would have been finished without you."
"Josh..." she began, moved, with tears shining in her eyes. He brought 
a finger to her lips and stopped her from whatever she was planning 
to say.
"That's just my answer, CJ. I'm hoping that maybe it will be enough 
to get you through this night, this darkness. But I know better than 
anyone that tomorrow you're going to have to start from scratch again. I won't lie to you. It's not going to be easy. But there are a lot of people outside that door who have been waiting a long time to see you; Toby, Sam, Leo and more. The President's been calling every hour on the hour. There are a lot of people who love you. If you give them a chance and listen to what they have to say, I think they'll all have their own answers to your question as well. And hopefully, those answers will get you through another day and another and then another, until the day comes when you'll find an answer of your own. One day at a time CJ, that's the most you can hope for in this world, and it's the best you can get."
"One day at a time," she repeated after a moment.
"Good. Are you ready for me to let your visitors in now?"
"No," she answered immediately.
"Okay," he said evenly, trying to hide his disappointment. "Maybe 
tomorrow then, we'll..."
"No," she said again, interrupting, putting her fingers over his 
lips this time. "They've been waiting for me long enough. How about 
you round up a wheelchair, and I go to them instead."
END OF STORY (Finished 05/17/2001)
(Thanks to everyone who has written me with encouragement along the 
way. Most especially to Lin, who has had faith in this story from day 
one. Thanks for reading.)