When You Think You're Alone

A post-Season-8 Carby romantic thrill ride.

CHAPTER FOUR (Final Chapter): A LITTLE LONGER

Rating: PG-13 with strong cautioning for romantic situations.

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, but the story and dialogue . . . you know.

Summary: Just when many mysteries are unfolding, Carter and Abby encounter a whole new set of challenges and learn that love can be the most terrifying emotion of all.

Author's Note: Well, this is the last chapter of this piece—and it is by far the longest. I must apologize for that, but in exchange, I hope you'll find some solid, non-stop storytelling. Thanks so much for coming along on the journey, which I hope you found sometimes fun, often frightening, frequently emotional, but always romantic.

Please go ahead and communicate with me via the review button, my e-mail, or through message boards we may share. I've gotten to know some of you through your comments, and I can actually hear your words in my mind as I craft the pieces.

CHAPTER FOUR (Final Chapter): A LITTLE LONGER

"Abby! Abby, open up!" Carter shouted. He twisted the knob and pressed his body against the locked door to Exam 3 as if his will alone would force it open. He had just arrived back from the lab when he heard the door slam. Before he left, he made Abby lock herself in. Carter knew that only trouble would make her open the door, and now he was panicked.

"Abby!" he slammed his palm against it hard, desperate to get to her.

Inside, Abby watched as the hand of a small child came out from beneath the curtain and feebly felt the cold linoleum floor for the dropped weapon—the knife stolen from last night's picnic at the Admit Desk. Only Abby already had the knife in her hand. She reached up and swung the curtain out of the way. Startled, the owner of the tiny hand scurried back up on the bed, and suddenly she was face to face with a wide-eyed, terrified little boy.

He was very young, not long out of babyhood—four years old at the most. He had medium brown hair with warm copper highlights surrounding smooth, fair baby skin. His warm brown eyes were round and curious, and his small light eyebrows gave him an inquisitive look. His little denim pants and red T-shirt were lightly soiled, and all the Velcro clasps of his sneakers lay open.

Carter's desperate attempts to enter the room were frightening the already-scared child, so Abby went to the door and slowly unlocked it. And when she did, the boy stood up on the mattress in anticipation of danger.

Carter stepped back when he heard the lock's tumblers. Abby opened the door just wide enough to show her face. She reached out and touched his chest to warn him to calm down.

"We have company," she said.

"You pulled out your I.V.?" He could see blood droplets on her shirt from when she wiped her arm.

"Take it easy and just look, okay? Don't make any sudden moves."

She opened the door wider. Carter was confused, and his body language screamed that he was ready for a fight. But he brought his fist down slowly as the opening door revealed the tiny child standing on the bed.

"A kid?" he said, staring at the boy.

She nodded her head. "He must have been hiding the whole time." She turned her attention to the child. "Hi there," she said softly to him. "I'm Abby. What's your name?"

The wide-eyed boy just watched her.

"This is Dr. Car—. This is John." She changed her introduction so as not to frighten him more. "Can you tell us your name? Don't be afraid."

"I don't think he can," Carter said without taking his eyes off the boy. "I think this is Deb's little John Doe. He came in aphonic. She thought it could be PTSD, autism, hearing impairment. But I don't think she ever found out before everything happened."

"They left him in here during the evacuation? Oh my God," Abby whispered. "Somebody must be looking for him."

"Is anyone here with you, Little Guy?" Carter asked.

The boy shook his head no.

"Well, he heard you . . ." Abby observed.

"How'd he get in here?"

"I thought I heard you calling. I went out in the hall to look for you. I don't remember much after that."

"You don't remember?"

She tried to concentrate: "The doors—I remember seeing the doors swing open all the way from Trauma 1 to Sutures. Only, I couldn't see anyone. But now I understand. He's so tiny—"

"What do you mean you 'don't remember'?"

"I don't know. I woke up on the floor."

"Abby, you lost consciousness? Come here." He looked in her eyes and touched her scalp. "Your head is bleeding."

The moment Carter turned his attention to Abby, the little boy jumped from the bed, crawled between their legs, and fled from the room.

"Don't let him run away!" Abby shouted and pushed Carter's hand away.

Carter went after him. "Come back, it's okay."

The scared little child ran down the hall as fast as he could, all the time looking back to see how close Carter was. Carter ran faster as he saw the child heading for the elevator where he knew the open door led only to an empty shaft.

"No! Stop! Stay away from the elevator!!"

"What is it?" Abby screamed.

"There's no car," Carter yelled, his heart pumping wildly. "There's no CAR!"

But the boy kept running while looking back at Carter. As he approached the elevator shaft, Carter's face went white, and his heart rose up to his throat.

"Nooooooo!!!!" Carter lunged for him and slid on his belly, but the boy was just out of reach. Abby screamed as the tiny boy disappeared into the darkness of the shaft.

Carter looked down into the hole, but Abby froze and couldn't bring herself to get any closer.

"I can't see anything! I need light! Get me a flashlight!"

Abby ran to the Admit Desk and fetched a flashlight from behind it. When she returned, Carter still lay on his stomach desperately trying to see the boy. He reached up and grabbed the light from her and held onto her arm for an extra moment.

"Do you feel okay? Can you help me?"

"Yes! Yes! Just find him, Carter!" She covered her mouth with her hand and squeezed back the tears.

He aimed the flashlight down into the shaft and searched wildly before spotting something.

"Abby! Abby, it's okay—it's just a few feet!" He sounded jubilant. "Hey, are you all right, Little Guy?" he said into the hole.

Abby gathered the courage to look down into the shaft and saw the top of an elevator car that failed to reach the ER by 5 feet or so—maybe 6.

Carter handed Abby the flashlight and jumped down into the shaft onto the top of the car.

"I got you. Don't move, okay?" he said to the scared boy.

"Carter, don't touch him. If we touch him, he'll be contaminated, and we won't be able to get him out of here."

Abby was right.

"Get me a mask and gloves," he said. She did and brought back paper gowns as well—for both of them.

"Hold still so I can take a look at you, okay?" Carter spoke calmly to the child, who lay flat on his back on the top of the elevator car, his little arms and legs sprawled around him.

Abby watched as Carter kneeled down next to him. She could see the tiny boy's chest rise and fall anxiously.

"Abby, bring me a neck brace and a backboard please," he said to her quietly so as not to upset the little child more. While he waited, Carter rested his hand on the boy's head.

Abby returned with the materials and passed them down into the shaft. And just as Carter stood to grab them, the elevator car suddenly gave way beneath him and dropped another foot or two, sending Carter to his knees and causing the little boy to fidget wildly in fear.

"John!" Abby yelled and kneeled over the hole.

"I'm okay. I'm okay," Carter responded once the car settled. "Abby, we've got to get him out of here."

Carter struggled to stabilize the boy's neck and secure him to the board, but the scared little child was thrashing too hard.

"Hey, you've got to stay still for me!" Carter was nervous and impatient and sounded fierce.

Abby swung her legs over the hole and looked down at them: "Ssssshhhh. It's okay," she said to the boy.

The child looked up at her. She smiled back at him sweetly.

"Everything's going to be okay. You're going to be fine. John's trying to help you."

He began to calm down.

"That's a good boy," she said.

He stared up at her, and his face became tranquil.

Once the child was secured, Carter stood up slowly and then gingerly lifted the board over his head with all his strength. Abby grabbed it and guided it to the opening, and they slid the child out of the elevator shaft. She reached her hand down to help Carter out.

"No, I can do it," he said. "Hurry and get a gurney."

Abby ran to get one, while Carter climbed out. They wheeled the boy into Exam 3 and made room for him in the space between their beds. Fully masked, gloved, and gowned, they removed the stiff backboard from behind the boy. But before Carter examined him, he turned his attention once again to Abby.

"Let me see your head. Are you okay?"

"You tell me."

He gently parted her hair with his fingers to examine her head while he presented the results of his lab findings: "Salmonellosis."

"You saw salmonella? I have food poisoning?" Abby asked, surprised.

"I'm thinking it must have been the—"

"—chicken salad," she sang with him in unison.

"It could have been bad mayonnaise or undercooked chicken," he theorized as he pressed the area around her scraped head. "More likely, it was under-refrigerated for hours—that useless emergency generator."

He looked at her eyes, pulled down her lower lids, and continued his diagnosis: "You had a fairly high concentration in your blood. That means your digestive tract must have been overwhelmed with the bacteria, but I can only confirm that with a stool sample . . ."

"Never mind, I'll take your word for it. But could food poisoning make me so sick?"

He moved his hands down to her jaw and neck and felt some more. "Salmonella gives you fever, headache, abdominal cramps. So your body tries to get rid of it—that's the vomiting and diarrhea. In a bad case—bloody stool. It's all part of it."

"Bleccchhh. OK, I get it."

He grabbed his stethoscope, pulled her toward him, and placed it against her back this time. She leaned comfortably against his chest and almost forgot about the little boy in the room.

"You probably purged most of it from your body. That's why you're feeling a little better. We should continue to replace your fluids. You'll feel like yourself again in a couple of days—maybe even a couple of hours, depending upon how much you got out of your system."

Satisfied with his quick exam, Carter stood her up straight again, put his hand under her chin, and looked deep in her eyes. "You're going to be okay."

"Thanks," she said, gazing back at him.

"You had me worried." He ran the knuckle of his index finger tenderly up and down her masked cheek and then turned his attention to the child.

Abby stopped to steady herself. She was relieved that he did not find the smallpox virus in her blood. As usual, his tenderness made her stomach tingle, but she quickly pulled herself together to help him with the boy.

Carter checked him from head to toe, while Abby found some animal stickers in a drawer. She placed a zebra on the back of the child's hand and stuck a giraffe on his nose. He smiled. She tickled him under his chin, and he squirmed with delight and tickled her back when she leaned down to him. And when Carter was just about finished, she ran her fingers through the little boy's hair, kissed him on the forehead through her mask, and said, "You're a brave boy." And with that, he put his thumb in his mouth, began to suck contentedly, and fell asleep.

Carter and Abby lifted the bars on the narrow bed and walked to the Admit Desk together.

"He's fine," Carter said.

"How did he get here? And how are we going to get him out of here?" Abby picked up the telephone by the Admit Desk and shook her head. "Still nothing," she reported. She flipped through the rack of charts and pulled one out. "Hey, here's his chart. Maybe they'll be something . . ."

Carter took it from her and began to read: "Unattended John Doe, approx. 4 years, aphonic, no sign of trauma, afebrile, normal vitals—That's it. That's as far as Deb got when all hell broke loose. I pulled her outside to meet the ambulances from that bus accident." He sighed and shook his head, blaming himself once again for his unfortunate judgment.

Abby touched his arm to reassure him, but he wasn't in the mood for sympathy. Action made him feel better.

"Now, as for you . . . Back in bed," he ordered her.

Abby didn't argue with him. She let him reinsert her I.V. and wash the cut on her head, which was superficial and didn't require sutures. And while Abby and their little guest rested, Carter went to scrounge for supplies.

He returned a little while later just as dusk fell. He brought back canned fruit, juices, and soups that they could use in the microwave in the lounge. Coffee and tea, too. He found the smallest scrub shirt he could in the linen supply closet—and noticed that their little guest had taken up residence in a rather carefully constructed pile of pillowcases on the bottom shelf.

Abby was feeling much better, and Carter removed her I.V. Together, they woke the sleepy little boy and bathed him in the deep sink in Trauma 1. In truth, Abby bathed him while Carter blew up surgical gloves into fancy balloons, much to the child's delight. Each time Carter tossed him a glove balloon, the little boy would splash and bounce, and water would overflow the sink.

"Carter! I'm getting soaked here! Cut it out!"

But in an unchivalrous conspiracy, the boys continued their game until there was as much water on Abby as there was on the child—and on the floor for that matter.

The roommates dined at the table in the lounge on chicken noodle soup and crackers with a side order of crayons and paper—just to keep the tiny boy settled, since Carter and Abby could not sit too close to him once they removed their masks to eat. Abby didn't get more than a few spoonfuls down, but it was enough to make her feel better.

Carter cleaned up the dining area, while Abby and the boy went to wash out his clothes. The little boy sat on the counter in his oversized green scrub "gown" and handed her one piece of his tiny wardrobe at a time until they all lay drip-drying on a makeshift clothesline of catheter tubing.

They met Carter back in their suite in Exam 3 and prepared to retire. Carter and Abby laid the boy on the middle of the three beds in the room. But as with any four-year-old, bedtime made him disagreeable, and he fought them.

"Okay, okay." Abby picked him up.

"Don't forget your mask," Carter reminded.

She sat with the child on a chair near Carter's bed. The tiny boy lay against her with one leg on each side of her. He rested his head on her chest and lifted his thumb to his mouth. Carter sat on his bed and watched Abby kiss the boy on the head through her masked lips and run her gloved hand over his back. Their eyes met. She couldn't read the expression on Carter's face, but it was so intense that she needed to look away.

Carter relaxed on his bed and became engrossed in the New England Journal of Medicine. When Abby was sure he wasn't looking, she took off one glove and caressed the soft baby skin on the sole of the little boy's foot. The child in her arms looked up at her, broke the suction of his suck, and a big smile appeared around his wet thumb.

"John?" she said quietly a little while later. She tried to get Carter's attention as she tilted her head toward the little boy's face, which was now hidden from her view. Carter nodded, indicating the boy was indeed asleep. He got up and lifted him from her arms and placed him on the bed between theirs. They leaned over him from opposite sides of the railing.

"Poor little guy," Carter said and pulled a blanket over him. They said good-night to each other and retired to their beds.

Abby awoke about 3 a.m. to check on the boy. She panicked for a moment when she saw his bedrail down and the mattress empty, until she looked over at Carter and saw the two men lying side by side, each on their back, each with their head tilted to the left, each with their arms folded over their tummies—left hand over right. The sight of them made her smile.

She tiptoed over and ran her fingers affectionately through the little boy's hair. Then she moved around to Carter's side and watched him sleep for several minutes, all the while thinking about what he'd said about them loving each other. She moved his hair off his forehead and kissed him in the empty space she made. In the quiet of the night, Abby admitted to herself that she was indeed falling in love with him. And in the safety of the darkness, she allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to be his girlfriend, go home with him after work, spend lazy weekends with him on her sofa, and make love with him.

She didn't mean to wake him, but his eyes fluttered open. And when he saw her there, his hand instinctively reached for her forehead.

"Are you okay?" Carter asked.

"I'm better, but you have company," she said nodding toward the sleeping child at his side.

Carter slid off the bed and picked him up.

"He got up about one o'clock. I didn't want him to wake you."

He laid the child once more on the center bed and raised the rails. When he turned to go back to bed, Abby was right behind him, and they were face to face.

"Listen," she said, "I wanted to thank you."

"For what?"

"For taking care of me. For risking yourself to find out what was wrong with me."

He smiled modestly.

"Well, I just wanted you to know that I appreciate it," she said.

Abby moved back toward her bed, but before she could get past him, Carter reached down and took her hand and pulled her back in front of him. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do; he just knew he didn't want the moment to end. She stared at the floor until he lifted her face toward him and said, "You're welcome."

Without thinking, she reached up on her tiptoes, pulled away his mask, and kissed him on the mouth. Before she could break away, he had his hand in her hair and his other arm around her. They kissed for several minutes and finally broke from their embrace just as the tiny boy stirred restlessly.

Though deep in sleep, a fearsome dream had overtaken him, and the little boy's arms and legs stiffened and he pounded his fists on the mattress. Carter reached over and placed his flat hand soothingly on the boy's belly.

"It's okay, Little Guy."

The child woke up suddenly, his little chest heaving, as if he'd been running hard and fast. Abby grabbed her mask and gloves and leaned close to him.

"Sssshhhh, it's too late for you to be awake. Go back to sleep." The sight of her mesmerized the tiny boy, and he gazed at her with a hypnotic stare. His breathing slowed, his thumb went to his mouth, and with his other hand he stroked her hair and her face over and over again until his eyelids got heavy, his little thumb fell from his mouth, and he went back to sleep.

Carter was a little envious at how tenderly the little boy touched Abby and how affectionately she responded. He couldn't describe the feeling he had watching her comfort the child, but it was powerful.

Carter awoke before either of them that morning. As he swung his legs over the side of his bed, the Little Guy sat up suddenly. He put his tiny index finger to his lips, commanding Carter to be silent so as not to wake Abby. He raised both his arms in the air as a signal for Carter to pick him up. Carter put on his mask and gloves and carried him into the lounge.

He sat the boy at the table with crayons and paper and heated some water. With it, Carter prepared some coffee for himself and some instant oatmeal for both of them. And when they finished, he prepared breakfast in bed for Abby.

He made her oatmeal and a fruit cup and some tea and set them on a tray. And as he prepared to lift it and bring it to her, the Little Guy held out his crayon masterpiece to Carter.

"Is that for me?"

The boy snatched it away, shook his head emphatically, and held the paper behind his back.

"No?"

The Little Guy pointed instead down the hall toward Exam 3.

"It's for Abby? It's a present for Abby?"

He nodded.

"How come?"

The boy pointed to the spot on his arm where he saw Abby's I.V. tubes the day before. He made a pained face.

"Because she was sick?"

He nodded yes, and then he pointed to his own face and batted his eyelashes femininely, which made Carter laugh out loud.

". . . and she's pretty, huh?"

He nodded again and looked down to put some last-minute touches on his drawing.

"She sure is," Carter agreed. "Okay. Put it on the tray, and let's go."

As they entered the room where Abby lay sleeping, the tiny boy tugged on Carter's pant leg to get his attention. He pulled his wet thumb from his mouth and used it to point to himself.

"You want to wake her?"

He nodded.

"Okay, go ahead."

He jumped up on the bed and caressed her face with his hand—damp thumb and all.

She opened her eyes.

"Surprise!" Carter said.

The boy clapped his hands enthusiastically.

"What's this?" she said, grabbing her mask.

"Breakfast in bed."

Carter put the tray on a cart next to her bed, and the Little Guy snatched the crayon drawing and forced it toward her face.

"Is this for me?"

He nodded and pointed to himself.

"You made this? It's beautiful, thank you."

The sweet little thing was bursting with pride.

Carter picked him up from her bed, sat down himself, and put the little boy on his lap. If she didn't know any better, she'd say Carter seemed a bit jealous.

"Somebody here has a really big crush on you," he said. And with that, he leaned over, slipped her mask down, and kissed her good morning—a little longer and a little more sensually than she'd expect with a child in his lap.

"And the kid likes you, too," he joked when he pulled his lips away from her.

She was feeling better and was charmed by the both of them. She sipped the tea and nibbled at the food until the Little Guy suddenly wriggled out of Carter's lap and ran over to the door. He reached up with his tiny hands and grabbed the knob, tugging at it with all his might. He looked to Carter for help and pointed outside.

"Okay, calm down. What is it?" Carter opened the door.

The child stepped out into the hall and pointed to his ear.

"I hear it. It's the phone!"

Carter ran down the hall, and as he got closer to the Admit Desk, the ringing grew louder. Abby got out of bed, took the little boy's hand, and followed Carter.

"Kerry!" they heard Carter say. He was never so happy to hear Weaver's voice. Abby kept the little boy quiet while she listened to Carter's side of the conversation.

"Yes, it's been out since the first night . . . Uh, huh . . . We're okay now, but we had a couple of close calls . . . Well, Abby's been sick, for one . . . Febrile, nauseated times six or seven . . . Nope, no pustules—it's salmonella . . . How do I know for sure? Long story . . . Yeah . . . Listen, Kerry, you won't believe this—they left a kid in here with us . . . No, I'm not . . . About four . . . Pretty sure he's Chen's John Doe . . . Aphonic, but I don't see any abnormality of the larynx . . . Look, Kerry, you have to help us get him out of here. Somebody must be looking for him . . . Nope, we're masked and gloved . . . Okay, thanks."

"She's going to get to the bottom of it and call us back," he reported. "In the meantime, I think it's time we dress this young man and teach him the finer points of skateboarding."

"How about I dress him, and you can handle the skateboarding, Brian Boitano." She picked him up and started walking down the hall.

"Fine, except Brian Boitano is an ice skater," he called after her.

"Whatever."

Abby dressed the boy in the now-clean clothes he was wearing when they found him. When she and the child emerged from the room for his skateboarding lesson, Carter was already back on the phone with Dr. Weaver. Abby picked the boy up and rubbed his back as she listened to Carter speak. The Little Guy rested his head against her shoulder, and his thumb went to his mouth.

"Carter, you're not going to believe this, but there is no missing persons out on a four-year-old, and Children's Services says they're not missing one."

"What . . . ?" Carter was dumbfounded, but he spoke softly so as not to alarm the child—or Abby.

"It looks like he's just fallen through the cracks somehow. But they've got a plan to take him off your hands . . ."

"Who? Uhhhh . . . " He turned his back to them, and that caught Abby's attention. "Where will they take him?"

"Department of Children's Services. They'll start with a County facility and get him into a foster home by evening—tomorrow the latest. That's all I can tell you right now."

"How?"

"They gave me specific instructions. Listen carefully and do exactly as I say, okay? A social worker will arrive accompanied by the police at the main waiting area of the ER. Only the police are allowed to remove the quarantine tape. Don't go near the doors. You are to leave the child within 15 feet of the entrance—the social worker cannot penetrate beyond that. You and Abby are to stay at least 20 feet away from the spot. After they retrieve him, the police will tape up the doors for the rest of your quarantine period."

"When?"

"Thirty minutes."

"Thir—!" He stopped when he realized Abby and the boy were right behind him. He turned, and his eyes met hers. Abby felt a brick in her stomach.

"Okay, Kerry. Thanks."

When the Little Guy saw Carter hang up the phone, he lifted his head from Abby's shoulder and arched his body toward him with outstretched arms in anticipation of his skateboarding lesson. Carter pulled his mask over his face, took him from her, and headed toward the lounge.

"How about you sit and play with the crayons for few minutes while I talk to Abby, okay? And then I'll take you for a ride on the skateboard."

The Little Guy watched as Carter took Abby's hand and walked over by the coffee maker. He filled her in on the plan, rubbing her hand the whole time he spoke. She fought the impulse to show any emotion on her face, knowing the child was watching them. And when he finished, they lifted their masks and walked over to the table to tell him.

"Guess what, Little Guy?" Carter began. "After your skateboard lesson, some nice people are going to come here and take you to a place where you can play with other kids."

The boy looked at them blankly and then continued coloring.

Abby added: "And after that, they're going to bring you to a family that's going to take care of you for a while, okay?"

The tiny boy crawled off the chair, took Carter's hand, and tugged at him.

"I guess it's skateboard time," Carter said. The boy looked back at Abby, and with his free hand, he waved at her to come watch them.

"He didn't even react," Abby said when she got close enough to Carter.

"He doesn't know enough to react. He so little. He's probably been dragged from foster home to foster home all his life."

For several minutes, Carter held the boy on the skateboard and escorted him up and down the corridor. Abby removed her gloves, gown, and mask and sat down on the floor to watch them. Her mood grew more somber with each passing minute, but she clapped her hands and yelled "hurray!" every time they passed her.

On their last pass, they went as far as the waiting room, and that's when Carter saw the social worker pulling up with the police.

"I guess it's time to go, Little Guy," he said.

The tiny boy jumped off the skateboard, ran down the hall past Abby and over to where she put her mask, gloves, and gown. He grabbed them and pushed them at her. He wanted Abby to hold him at that moment, and he had learned in their short time together that she couldn't unless she was covered.

The bittersweet gesture moved her, and she slipped the garments on, grateful that the mask would cover her quivering lower lip.

A police officer cut the tape on the outer doors of the hospital and opened them for the social worker. Carter signaled to the tall woman in her fifties to wait until the boy was in position. He headed over to Abby, who was kneeling in front of the child.

"Bye-bye, my big boy," Abby said to him. The Little Guy pulled down her mask and kissed her on the cheek. It was that "little boy" kiss—just wet lips against face. He didn't know enough yet to purse his lips.

"Abby, careful," Carter said. He meant to warn her about her mask, but somehow he was more worried about her heart.

She put her arms around the boy and bit her lower lip hard to keep from crying.

The social worker cleared her throat and pointed to her wristwatch to signal she was on a schedule.

"Come on, Little Guy," Carter picked him up and set him down approximately 15 feet from the door. "You know, you're one of the best skateboarders I've ever seen."

The child smiled proudly. Carter reached down and rubbed his hair. "It'll be okay."

The Little Guy watched as Carter stepped back the obligatory 20 feet. The social worker entered and picked up the child. He instinctively put his thumb in his mouth and began sucking furiously. But just before the double doors opened to the outside, the Little Guy began wriggling forcefully until he broke loose from the woman's arms. He ran back into the ER. Carter tried to catch him and lost his balance, but Abby saw he was heading right for her and kneeled down.

She tried to stay stone-faced, but the lump in her throat was now painful. She expected him to hug her, and she opened her arms to accept him. Instead, the child stopped in front of her, took her now-unmasked face in his tiny hands, and pressed her cheeks hard until her lips made a funny face.

And then he spoke two words: "Abby. Mine."

It was too much for Abby. Now it was she who couldn't speak. She put her hands on his round baby belly and kissed his forehead just as Carter walked over.

Still fully gloved and masked, he picked up the boy, signaled the social worker to step back, and gently put him again on the retrieval spot. This time, he kneeled down to him.

"Don't worry, Little Guy. I'll take care of Abby, and you can visit her here anytime, okay?"

Their Gentleman's Agreement sealed, the boy gripped Carter around the neck and clung there, until Carter felt a searing pain in his gut that he couldn't describe.

The Little Guy left in the arms of the social worker, his thumb securely in his mouth. He didn't cry, and in fact, he looked back and smiled at them.

As the police taped up the doors again, Carter walked over to Abby and helped her up. She slipped her arms around his waist, and he kissed the top of her head.

"Carter, he—"

"I heard him."

"I don't understand. If he can speak, why doesn't he?"

"Do you remember in med school reading about a condition called 'selective mutism' or 'elective mutism'—something like that?"

She shook her head "no," but it felt surprisingly good that he acknowledged her stint in medical school.

"It's when children can't talk for psychological reasons—usually anxiety. I think that kid's been alone for a long time. He probably never had anybody to listen to him."

They both felt sad, but neither knew if it was because they pitied the boy—or felt a little like him.

"You were great with him," Carter said and let her go. "You should think about having kids." And he started walking down the hall.

He didn't know it, but his comment touched a raw nerve in her, and she whispered to herself: "Some people aren't meant to be mothers."

From halfway down the hall, he called to her. "Come on, let's raid the cafeteria and see if we can find something to eat that won't kill us."

"Sorry, I'll pass," she said and watched him walk away. Once again, she was aware of how deeply she was falling in love with him. She knew Carter deserved someone who could give him everything he wanted—and that probably included children, she thought. But Abby was too frightened to do that, and so her heart started to ache.

Carter returned a while later and didn't know how to interpret the unexplained distance he suddenly felt from Abby, and so he grew cautious and withdrew from her. They were both prisoners all right—but not of the hospital. He was of prisoner of his insecurities, she of her fears. And so instead of sharing their concerns for the little boy, instead of celebrating her health, instead of continuing to get to know each other's minds—and bodies—they retreated into their own cells, and the closeness faded away.

For the rest of the afternoon, they kept each other company like polite strangers. Carter read mostly, and Abby took the opportunity to restock the supply shelves.

Night had fallen when she moved over to sit in chairs—it was the only place in the ER where she could peek at the outside world. She sat sideways with one leg spread across several chairs and gazed through the glass criss-crossed with yellow police tape. He came up behind her.

"You look like you're about to make a break for it."

She half smiled and moved her leg so he could sit next to her. Actually, she had no real desire to leave—nowhere in particular to go—nowhere she'd rather be.

"I was looking for you before," he said.

"I was working."

"How are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks."

"Worried about him?" Carter asked, assuming her melancholy mood was about the Little Guy.

"Sad for him."

"He sort of fell in love with you." He looked away and mumbled sadly, "Can't say I blame him."

"I wouldn't call it 'falling in love.'"

"I would—not in a grown-up way, but in a four-year-old way, he did. I've seen that look before."

She didn't know how to respond.

"Do you ever think about having kids?" he asked her.

Do I think about having kids? She thought about it all the time, but she worried about bringing another Maggie into the world. She wondered why she never knew her ex-husband Richard wanted children. She questioned every day the decision to end her own pregnancy years before. She feared she'd never be able to conceive again, and if she did, she wondered if terror would force her to end it once more. Do I think about having kids?

"Not much," she answered.

And so their dance continued.

"I thought you might want to see this." He handed her a drawing.

"Hey, for a doctor, you're pretty good with a crayon."

"Ha. Ha. Very funny. No, I found it in the lounge."

She stared at it for a long time until the lump in her throat grew again, and only whispers could squeeze by it.

"Carter, how could that sweet baby not have a fam—"

He put his arm around her. She rested her head on his shoulder until she could speak without choking. And when she could, she summoned the courage to say something that had been on her mind.

"Remember what you said yesterday?" she asked.

"About what?"

"You know. That thing about . . . us."

"About us?"

"About us being—"

He decided to help her out.

"—in love?" he finished.

"Yeah, that."

"What about it?" he asked.

"What if there were things that you didn't know about me?"

"There are probably plenty of things we don't about each other." He looked down at her. "I just want the chance to find out, you know?"

"Me, too," she said nervously and nestled her head against his neck. "Me, too."

And, thankfully, the walls came tumbling down once more.

Dirty and uncomfortable from heat and stress, they went upstairs separately to the in-patient area and each scouted their own room where they could remove their clothes, hand-wash them, and take a long, hot shower. Carter dried himself with a towel and came downstairs with it wrapped around his waist, intending to get new scrubs.

Abby, having forgotten to bring a towel, wrapped herself in a sheet from a patient bed and slowly walked downstairs leaving puddles on the hard floor.

He turned around and she was there. Her hair was sleek and wet, and her soaking body quickly saturated the thin cotton sheet, turning it transparent and making it cling to her every curve. His eyes widened at the sight of her.

"I forgot a towel. I'm dripping a little bit—don't slip," she cautioned.

Slip? He couldn't breathe.

Like a magnet, Carter was drawn to her, and he reached out his hand. Abby turned out the light on the wall and slowly wound her fingers in his. He pulled her to him and leaned down to kiss her. Just his towel and her sheet separated them, and in an instant they were gone. He leaned down to place his lips on the most tender spot on her neck. Her wet, naked body trembled against him.

"Are you cold?" he asked her.

"A little," she answered, though she shivered as much from excitement and nervousness.

"Come here."

He sat on one of the beds in the room, slid over to make room for her, and she slipped in, too. He covered them both with a sheet and then covered her body with his. As he kissed her, she molded herself to him, paying particular attention to all the parts of him that craved her the most. She let his fingertips explore every inch of her—even the parts that made her gasp. And when his fingers knew her better, he let his lips take over. For her, it was soothing, and soon her nerves turned into relaxation, and her relaxation turned into rapture, and her rapture into peace, and her peace turned into . . . sleep.

"Abby," he whispered. "Hey," he nudged her nose with his. But she turned away from him and drifted even deeper. Though Abby won the war with the bacteria inside her, she was clearly battle-weary. Desire made him want to nudge her awake; the urgent need for her tempted him. But he didn't. He kissed her neck and cocooned her naked body in his arms and legs.

"Abby, you're killing me, you know that?" he teased while stroking her hair. But he knew from her deep, rhythmic breathing that she couldn't hear him. Nevertheless, his warm breath in her ear stirred her. She woke briefly, turned toward him, and snuggled under his chin.

"I'm sorry. I'm just so tired," she said, her eyes still closed.

He kissed the bridge of her nose and reached around and ran his fingers gently up and down her spine. "It's okay. I've waited two years, I can wait a little longer." He stared down at her for a long moment, and though she couldn't hear him, he whispered, "By the way . . . I love you." And he closed his eyes as well.

They slept in each other's arms that night with a peace that they hadn't known since . . . well, that they'd never known before.

Carter woke up before Abby and was sitting in the chair finishing the New England Journal when her eyes opened.

"What do you want to do today?" he asked.

"What's there to do?" she yawned. "Count foley catheters?'

"Nope."

"Fold bandages?"

"Nope."

"Then what?"

"Follow me."

She threw a sheet around herself, and he took her hand.

"I thought we'd go to the beach," he suggested.

"Oh, no. This isn't where you set up a pretend beach because we can't go outside, is it?"

"Pretend?" he feigned insult.

"Oh brother, it is." She covered her eyes, mocking him, and followed him reluctantly.

"Where are your clothes?" she asked.

"We're going to the beach."

"You're in your underwear."

"These are my swim trunks."

"Underweeeear," she sang.

"Truuuuunks," he sang back, mimicking her.

When they arrived at the "beach" near the Admit Desk, he sat on one of two towels he had positioned on the floor.

"You look like you need someone to rub sunscreen on you." He held up a plastic bottle.

"That's calamine lotion," she pointed out.

"When I rub it on, you won't notice."

"Except that I'll be pink."

"Yeah, but you won't itch," he joked.

"What's that?" She pointed to a bucket of water.

"That's Lake Michigan."

"It's a bucket of water."

"It's the lake," he insisted.

He rested his sunglasses on the edge of his nose, flipped on a giant overhead surgical lamp, and lay back on the towel.

"Come on. Sit in the sun with me. You look like you need a tan."

"Oh yeah? Well, you look like you need a swim!"

And with that, Abby lifted Lake Michigan and tossed it over his head, soaking every inch of him.

"Are you crazy?" He jumped up and shouted at her. "That's not funny!"

"Yes it is!" Now Abby laughed until her side hurt.

Anyone watching them would have thought they were 12 years old . . .

Epilogue

After four more days—four days filled with the excitement of long-anticipated sex mixed with the apprehension of new love—an official from the CDC visited and declared John Carter and Abigail Lockhart free of disease. The smallpox or smallpox-like infection that took the lives of young Brie and Adam was filed as a medical anomaly and left as a test case for the future.

Once released from quarantine, Carter and Abby checked on the Little Guy and learned he was placed in a foster home—one of the best, as ensured by Carter's godfather, their congressman. The boy was with a young couple from Winnetka who had a sweet 7-year-old daughter with Down's Syndrome. The Little Guy grew to love and protect her. He began to speak and soon was helping his speech-challenged foster sister to communicate, too.

Once freed, Carter and Abby struggled to grow from best friends to boyfriend and girlfriend. For months after their imprisonment, Carter kept the Little Guy's crayon drawing—the one he found in the lounge—on the inside of his locker as a reminder of their challenges and their hopes. It showed stick figures of a man and woman, their faces masked from each other, their expressions invisible. But their hands were connected—as were their hearts—as only a child could see.

THE END