Disclaimer: These characters belong to so and so, and I don't know a thing and yada yada yada yada.

THANK YOU to the wonderful people that reviewed "A perfect body". I never thought I'd get one review, let alone 7. And let me tell you, this thing I wrote below? It's yours and it's because of you. It's small and imperfect and...sigh

And Nicole? Hey, I know you volunteered to beta (and I truly appreciate that) but…what can I say, I was just too impatient and couldn't wait to put this here and get it over with.

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"Shit, her skin is boiling ".

The commotion inside the helicopter had long since evaporated from your mind. You can sense the men around her, you can: their voices, the IV, the radio, the ice on her forehead…but you're too enthralled on her. The stillness yet the warmth of her hand; the bruises, the cuts, the grime, the dry mud, the bandana, the arm…all that now blatantly spell out a definition of the Sara you always knew she was. Survivor, fighter, head-strong, warrior, rebel.

"C'mon Sara, open your eyes. Give me something". It's not a difficult task, blinking. Opening your eyes, closing them. Moving the eyelids involuntarily. The tiny little muscles that do all the heavy work, all the time. Every animal's first fight, rational or irrational, when coming to the world. It's a sign of being alive. Of being born. Your first introduction to the world. "Hello, I'm so and so." And then you blink. It's the body's own Morse code. Its hand-shake, its way of saying hello.

But it is not her lids you want to see moving although that is a fairly good sign. It's her eyes. It's the soul and the essence behind that impermeable paper that you call skin. Let it drop, pour, drench me, you tell her. Show me you're still there, you silently pray.

And it happens. Slowly at first, with a single move of the eyebrow. Then tentative, small blinks, the slow dance of the irises, focusing on the surroundings and finally setting on you.

And there it is.

The Rain Forest, the birth of a nation, Shakespeare, coffee, books, lands, seas and oceans; love, tears, laughter, sex. It's Mozart, Thoreau, architecture, souls, your own misery. Moby Dick and ghosts and islands and butterflies and diamonds on words and Latin and old maps. It's peace and saffron and India and leather and white fresh cotton. The staccato notes of a ticking clock, a rock, dandelions, the cosmos, Autumn leaves, home-made bread, dogs, DNA, Italian arias, crosswords, caramel and cinnamon. Tunnels, passageways, stairs, roller coasters, baseball, statistics, swings, symphonies, bats, caps, vacant hotel rooms, sparrows, candles, windows, Hamlet, taste, touch, smell, hearing…sight. Breasts, legs, mouths, food, sweaters, days and nights, dark holes in space, sunsets, hearts, snow, Paris, gorillas, stars. Rivers, pebbles, trees. Apples, earthquakes, towers, sonnets, blood, bubbles, boats. Gardens, arms, eternity, Life.

It's the permeability of her eyes that only you can feel.

And you glance around to see if anyone else noticed that.