He enters his apartment, and finds a light on in the kitchen. He tosses his mail on the table, and draws his weapon. He knows he hasn't left his light on, and senior is out of town for the week for some misguided business opportunity. He instantly gets the sensation that he is not alone. He stops at the end of the couch, seeing a figure sitting on his couch. He creeps forward, slowly. Before he can react he feels a hand wrap around his wrist. The party sitting on his couch disarms him.

"Turn on the light," she insists, barely audible. He takes a few steps backwards, and flips on the light. He quickly reaches down, and pulls his backup from his ankle. As his eyes adjust to the light the situation becomes clearer, and yet more confusing at the same time. He stares at the woman sitting on his couch with strawberry blonde hair. His mind races, and he can't seem to sort out the details. No matter how hard he tries he can't make sense of the scenario in front of him.

"Lower your weapon," she instructs. He complies placing it on the coffee table in front of her. She does the same. She points at the empty seat next to her, "Sit."

He slowly moves toward the other end of the couch. He lowers himself into the seat, never taking his eyes off of her. As he waits for her to break the silence he tries to discern what to feel. He feels conflicted, wondering if he should feel relieved or betrayed.

"I need your help."

He shakes his head, "This isn't real. This can't be real. You're dead. I…"

She cuts him off, "I can't give you details."

"You shouldn't be here. You can't be here."

"Tony, I'm sorry."

"Ten years," he reminds her.

"The length of time will only add insult to what I need to tell you."

"This isn't possible," he argues.

"I need you to focus."

He nods in agreement, "You can't tell anyone about me being here."

"I don't want them to think that I'm crazy," he admits.

"I need your help."

"Are you in trouble?"

"It's not me. It's my daughter."

He swallows hard, "Oh." He realizes that she has moved on.

"I am married, and I have a son, and a daughter," she adds.

"Good for you," he struggles to find the right words to respond.

"My daughter is sick."

"What is wrong with her?"

"She has leukemia, and my husband and I aren't a match, neither is my son. He is five, so I wouldn't dream of using his bone marrow even if he was a match."

"Why do you think that I can help?"

"I happen to know that you're the same blood type. I don't expect an answer today. I know that it is a lot of information to take in, and I can't tell you much more than that right now," she pulls a paper out of her pocket, "That is my phone number. If you decide that you would be willing to be tested call, and let me know," she rises, vacating her seat. He watches her as she walks away. He has a hard time sorting his thoughts as the door closes. His eyes shift to the piece of paper he's holding. It lists a phone number, and then underneath it says, Ava, 2014. He turns the paper over, and realizes that it is a wallet sized photo. He stares at the picture of a little girl with a smile that he recognizes.