Warmth and pain.

Those were the first things she was aware of. First, warmth. There was the pleasant feeling of warmth inside dry clothes, and blankets covering her. She could feel the smooth cloth of a sheet pulled over her, and on her torso was a thick sweatshirt. That much was very nice.

But there was also pain. Pain in her hands, pain in her chest, and especially in her neck. She felt very tired, even though she had slept for some time. More than tired: bone weary. Her arms felt heavy and did not want to move. She wanted very badly to roll over and go back to sleep.

But there was more than that. As much as she might want to go back to sleep, she couldn't. Claire opened her eyes and surveyed her surroundings. She was in a bed. In a bedroom of some kind, with the great blank glass eye of a television staring at her from an armoire. Not a hospital room or a prison cell...but where was this? The last thing she remembered was staggering through the snow. How had she ended up here?

The bedroom she was in was tucked into the corner of a larger room, separated by double doors which were currently thrown open. In the larger room was a couch, a coffee table, a fireplace, and a small writing desk. A telephone sat atop it. Looking to her side revealed a nightstand with another phone. Claire blinked at that for a few moments, wondering if she ought to call for help. She withdrew her hands from under the sheet and paused. Call for help? Who, exactly? The police? Not too likely. She withdrew her hand.

Claire drew her legs up and slid them over the edge of the bed. Her clothes, backpack, and purse were nowhere to be seen. The clothes she wore were unfamiliar, as was the room. Addled with disorientation, she tried to stand. Her knees wobbled and she sat down hard on the bed.

From just outside the double doors came a ceramic clink.

Claire's eyes widened and her heart began to larrup in her chest. She forced her legs to support her and grabbed the wall hard. Her eyes ranged back and forth. What was there to defend herself with? She reached for the drawer of the nightstand, which revealed a Gideon's Bible, a pad of paper, and a cheap ballpoint pen. She seized the pen and clenched it in her fist like a dagger.

A man entered the room.

He was not very tall, wearing a simple crisp white shirt and sharply creased dress pants. In his hands was a tray containing a white carafe and two mugs. He looked at her calmly, as if he understood perfectly what was going on.

"Good morning," he said courteously. His voice was sophisticated and had a slight British accent; not quite the good mawning she was used to hearing, but close, and certainly not like a Yankee said it. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

Claire took a step back and eyed him. She reached up to her neck, her fingers touching gauze and tape. It ached a great deal and hurt worse when she touched it, and she pulled her fingers away. Her other hand clutched the pen.

The man observed her for a few moments, nothing her silence. "I assure you I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "Please. Why don't you sit down? I'm sure you have many questions."

She did. Who are you? Where's my stuff? Where am I? What do you want with me? What did you do to me? What's going to happen to me?

Her voice came weak and faltering. "Where...where is this place?"

He nodded. His voice was gentle. "You're in Magog. Magog, Quebec, where I expect you were trying to reach last night. You collapsed outside along the road. I found you, and brought you here. It's all right. You're perfectly safe."

"What...?" she trailed off.

"You're still recovering," the man said. "Not surprising. You'd almost frozen to death. Here. Sit down on the bed, if you like, or we can go into the other room. I'll explain everything over coffee."

Claire did not want to get on the bed, not in front of a strange man. Certainly not. Thinking of that made her realize that if she wasn't wearing her own clothes, maybe he'd already done...God knows what. She took a faltering step back.

"Come along," he said, impatience growing in his tone. He watched her for a moment and gestured at her shaking fist. "If you like that pen, you may have it."

"What are you going to do with me?" she asked, hearing the shakiness in her voice and more afraid for it.

"Let's start with a cup of coffee," he said. "This way, please."

She wavered a moment more, calculating. He was larger than she, but most people were, and he seemed friendly, and she felt awful. If she fought him, she wasn't sure she could get away. Part of her screamed that she was being an idiot, but she had the pen, and if he tried anything, well...she'd just try her damndest to jam it into his eye.

He led her from the bedroom into a larger room, with a fireplace and a couch and a coffee table. He sat down on the couch, waving her to an overstuffed chair sitting at a right angle to it. Claire sank into it shakily, still feeling utterly exhausted.

He poured two cups of coffee from the carafe and gestured for her to sit on the couch. Claire did, putting the pen down where she could grab it again if she had to. She took the cup and put it down, studying it to see if there was any sort of residue on it. Roofies, or something. Then again, she'd just been out cold for God knew how long in front of this man.

For his own part, the man took a healthy swig from his own mug and smiled at her, as if to assure her it wasn't poisoned.

"Now, then," he said pleasantly. "We haven't been introduced. My name is Graham. Dr. Will Graham."

"I'm Claire," she said, hedgingly. Then, automatically, "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine. Do you take milk or sugar in your coffee?"

"Yes, please," she said, and closed her eyes. This whole thing seemed so damned weird to her. Months of prison, the desperate flight of the past few days, her freezing cold welcome to her new country...and now here she was in a fancy hotel drinking coffee with some guy she'd never met before. Part of her was busy trying to figure out if she was going to have to fight this guy for her life, and yet here she was, cranking out the etiquette that had been drilled into her.

He added milk and sugar to her cup, and smiled gently. Then he reached down, grabbed something, and placed it in front of her. Claire looked down at it for a beat before recognizing her poor old battered cheap purse.

"I'm sure you're wondering what happened to your things," Dr. Graham said pleasantly. "Here is your purse. As for your clothing, your dress is in the closet. Your shirt and jeans are in the hotel laundry. I expect them back at any time now. I assure you, you're not in danger. My intent is to help."

Claire paused for another moment, stared down into her mug, and took a cautious sip of the coffee. It tasted quite pleasant, light and sweet. It was hot and good, and she took a bigger sip. Dr. Graham smiled. She took a moment to study him. He was not a large man, not physically imposing. He was well dressed – the dress pants and shirt looked expensive. His hair was black and shiny, with a bit of a widow's peak.. His features were sharply defined and quite sleek. A handsome guy.

Was he a cop? It didn't seem so. Cops were blocky and muscular, and most of them opted for the simple buzz cut. This man had introduced himself as a doctor, and while cops could pretend to be other things, hardly any of them would claim to be a doctor. And cops probably wouldn't wear expensive clothes like that. Cops wouldn't offer her coffee or treat her this nicely, either.

Was he a bounty hunter? A private investigator? That might be possible. Be nice to her so that she'd go quietly, then bam.

"You...you found me?" She was vaguely aware that she probably sounded like a total idiot, but there wasn't much to be done for it. She felt sludgy and slow and even moving hurt.

"Yes. You'd collapsed by the side of the road. Walking outside for hours in this type of weather can be dangerous. I couldn't help but notice you didn't have a coat."

Claire took a sip of her coffee and thought for a moment. Now he would want to know why she didn't have a coat, for which there could only be two reasons. One was the truth: that she was on the run from a place where it never got this cold and she'd never thought about it until it was too late. The other was that she was a colossal dumbass. Why oh why didn't I swipe one at that college? I'd have made it just fine.

"I, uh, I lost mine," she began lamely.

"Oh, I know why you didn't have one," " he said offhandedly. "You aren't from around here, and you hadn't counted on the cold snap. There's no need to tiptoe. I know who you are. You're Claire Hansen, lately of Coltsburg, Virginia. Recently released from prison. Making your way up here, the better to evade your estranged family."

Claire pulled away. Fear bolted through her. Her fingers scrabbled for the pen, which slipped away and fell to the floor. She stood up and felt her legs lose strength, her spirit afraid but her flesh weak. "How did you know that?" she spat. "Are you working for my father?"

Dr. Graham chuckled. "Working for him? Absolutely not. There's no need to be alarmed. Sit down, please."

"I want to know what the hell is going on here," she panted.

Dr. Graham got up and walked over to her, completely calm. He took hold of her upper arms gently. There was plenty of strength in his grip. It felt like he could rip her arms right off like turkey legs if he wanted to, and Claire realized there wasn't a hell of a lot she could do to stop him.

"Please lower your voice," he said archly. "There's no need to disturb the other guests. I'm sure you don't want the police here. What you need to understand is that neither do I."

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded.

"I told you. I'm Dr. Will Graham."

"What are you going to do with me?" she asked.

"I'm going to help you," Dr. Graham said. "Now please. I understand you're frightened, and no doubt you think I was hired by your father to deprive you of your sanctuary and return you to his bailiwick. I assure you that's not the case. I'm going to help you stay out of his hands, and whatever minions he sends to pursue you. I'll explain everything. But first you must sit down."

Claire sat down, trembling, reminded sourly of the powerlessness of prison. She bit her lip and looked away, determined not to let herself think about that. Dr. Graham sat down on the couch, smiled, and was calm as could be again, just like that.

"I'm sorry," Claire said shakily.

"That's all right. I can imagine how you would be distrustful," Dr. Graham said. "You've had quite a difficult time of it. You fear suffering at the hands of those who have already made you suffer. Rightly so. Anyone would, in your position. Let me ask you something, though."

"All right," Claire said, trying not to tremble. She could feel control sliding out of her grip. Part of her wanted to simply break down in tears, and she fought it back grimly.

"Do you think you're the only one who's suffered at their hands?"

Claire stopped. "They...they won't ever lay off me. It's not like everyone else. It's...it's personal with them."

"To an extent, yes. The esteemed judge does have a personal grudge. But let me tell you what happened to me, and I think you'll understand."

"It's true that I did track you here. However, I'm not a police officer, or a bounty hunter, or anything like that. I am a psychiatrist. I practiced in New York City for many years. I had a life much like anyone: I had my practice, and I had a daughter. I've been divorced for many years. My daughter was a few years older than you." He paused. "Molly. My lovely Molly." He swallowed once, and Claire suddenly had a sinking feeling. "My daughter was much like you. She was twenty, and in college. And like you, she had the bad luck to fall on the wrong side of the Hopewell County court."

"It was the spring break of her sophomore year. She was traveling down to Florida, and got off the highway. I don't know exactly how or why she ended up there. Perhaps she got off the highway; she always wanted to see America. At any rate...," Dr. Graham stopped and visibly composed himself. "She was driving at night, along a rural highway. She struck a deputy sheriff with her car. It was one of those dark country roads, and the damned fool was outside of his car with no lights on."

"It was an accident. A tragic accident, to be sure. She meant no harm. But they wanted blood, and blood they got. They charged her with murder." He shook his head. "Preposterous," he said.

"Murder? For hitting someone with her car?"

Dr. Graham nodded. "It didn't make any sense to me, either. Certainly, sue the insurance. Give her tickets. Take her license away. But murder....absolutely not. There was no crime. It was an accident. But they didn't see it that way. They had a yankee – someone different – in their clutches, and they strove to take full advantage. They charged her with murder and jailed her."

Claire tilted her head.

"The judge assigned to the case...was your father. Gordon Hansen." The contempt in his voice was palpable. "He refused to grant her bail. He claimed she was a flight risk. It was...utterly ridiculous. I would have posted whatever amount was necessary. At least, at first."

"Weeks went by...then a few months. They dragged their feet. I obtained an attorney. I strove to come to a reasonable solution. Still, everything remained maddeningly slow, and the judge continued to maintain the charge of murder even when it was clearly unwarranted. I believe they simply wanted to keep her in jail."

Claire nodded slowly. Her father had refused to help her in any way after her stepmother's death. They had denied her bail, too. She'd known he would have been part of that. He had judged her guilty, and after that the legal trial was largely a formality. Fortunately, her lawyer had been excellent for a public defender. He had objected to everything he could, and it was the speedy trial violation that had been reversible.

She'd always wondered if they'd done that on purpose. Mr. Jenkins had explained it to her: Virginia took speedy trial seriously. You could be guilty as sin, and a speedy trial violation could get you off the hook entirely, as she was now. Prosecutors screamed about it all the time. They got to save face; they could loudly pound their chests and say they'd done their jobs, but that mean ol' court of appeals had ruled against them. It had made a certain sort of sense to her.

What had happened to Christine had been an accident. A sad accident, yes, but an accident. Her boyfriend hadn't meant to push her down the stairs; he'd done so in a moment's anger when her stepmother had slapped her. She, herself, had no idea he was going to do it. So it was pretty simple. Rather than run the risk of realizing that they'd sent her to prison over a freaking accident, they left open a way to save face. If the appellate courts didn't agree with her, she'd have stayed in prison. If they had and the supreme court had reinstated her conviction – which it often did – they were still good. Even now, when the worst had happened for them, they got to save face. The meat of the appellate decision that had set her free had also focused only on that point: "Because we agree with Petitioner that she did not receive a speedy trial, it is unnecessary to address her other points of appeal." Boom. Those other facts, like the fact that it had been a goddam accident and her stepmother would have been alive if she'd kept her hands to herself, no longer mattered.

"I was meeting with her attorney, and was intending to revisit the subject of bail," Dr. Graham said. "It must have been just when your conviction was first overturned. The judge was in a rage. I remember sitting outside with my attorney. You could hear him yelling in his chambers. 'Find a way to reinstate the conviction', he said. 'Get it in front of the Supreme Court. Put her away forever. I want her to rot for what she did.' He was insane."

Hearing that hurt, although she'd never expected anything different. Tears welled behind her eyes and she forced them back down.

"I remember that hearing," he said, and his eyes grew distant. "I remember the despair in my daughter's eyes, and I remember how cavalier the judge was, simply dismissing the bail request out of hand. All he said was that nothing had changed; the charges stood and she was a flight risk. I remember how resigned my daughter was. By that time, she had known full well what a mockery of justice this would be. We had a few moments before they dragged her back to the cell. She looked me in the eye and said that everything was going to be all right." He swallowed. "She had reached her limit. She could no longer tolerate this mockery, or the pain of being in jail.." He paused a beat, and somehow Claire knew before he said anything. "She...she hanged herself that night."

Claire nodded slowly. Jailhouse suicides happened. She'd seen one.

"I could not understand it. I loved my daughter, and I would have done anything to spare her pain. He, on the other hand, seemed to hate you and wanted only to craft your doom. I would have paid the family compensation. I would have served her sentence in her place I would have done anything. Afterwards, I was sick with rage. I wanted to kill him. I'm sorry if that offends you."

Claire shook her head. "I understand," she said.

"I thought about it. But if I had, then all that would happen would be that I would be in a cell, perhaps facing the death sentence. He would be lionized as a hero. No, there had to be another way. I had loved my daughter and he took her from me. That was a game at which two could play."

Claire did not like the sound of that. She scanned the room, looking for a way to bolt.

"No, no. I can see you're afraid. Not like he had done to me. No, I would cheat him of his prey. I had made plans to spirit my daughter away, if only I could get her bail. Now, my revenge will take a different form." He smiled at her in an odd way, half tender and half angry. Claire shivered.

"Don't be afraid," Dr. Graham said. "I do not intend to harm you, even so much as a single hair on your head. Quite the opposite. I can help you."

"Help me?" Claire said, and sipped her coffee. It didn't taste like there was anything in it, but you never knew. All the same, the story had drawn her in. And if this man had intended to drug her, well, he had already had ample opportunity to do that.

"Indeed," Dr. Graham said. "I said that I would have played by the rules. That was true...at first. Once it became obvious that there would be no justice for her, I simply wanted to get her out. I had made plans to flee with my daughter. On bail would have been easiest. Anything, really. I would have bribed a guard, if that would do the trick. I needed only enough time to get her out and to an airport. We would then travel to another country, obtain new identities, and live out our lives in peace, far from that...court." Venom dripped from the last word. "I had some cash at hand already, sold my practice, and made a few...interesting connections." He let out a sigh, and gave her a pained smile.

"It is too late for Molly," he said. "It isn't too late for you. I can help you. I understand why you came here. You believed you would be safe from your tormentors, did you not?"

Claire shivered again. Was he saying she wasn't? Had all this been for naught? "Well, yes sir," she said.

"That's true...to an extent. But if they know that you're up here, they can still make things difficult for you. The border is not an invulnerable shield. But imagine another way. Imagine if you simply....disappeared. Or perhaps better said, if Claire Hansen simply disappeared. Instead, somewhere else, another woman came into being. A woman with another name, and papers to back up that name. She would have been raised in America, but come to Canada for reasons of her own. Perhaps a bad run of luck, let's say, trying to put her life back together. But of course, as long as she stayed out of trouble, none of that would really matter." He smiled, his eyelids lowering like shutters. "She'd have a face somewhat different from yours. Different enough, so long as attention wasn't called to her. She would enroll in school, first high school. Then university, if her grades were good enough. Imagine that. Not just a new country, a new face, a new name, and new building blocks of a background. Why, such a young woman would have the world at her feet, wouldn't she?"

Claire swallowed. It sounded good, all right. It sounded great. Almost too good to be true. "And you...you would do all that for me?"

Dr. Graham nodded.

"What would you want for all that?" she asked.

Dr. Graham smiled, his eyes lidded and somehow frightening. "I would want you to make the most of the opportunity," he said.

"I guess I don't see what you get out of it," she said, wondering if she was being galactically stupid. Someone offers to help you and you're quizzing them on their motives? What are you, nuts?

Dr. Graham did not take offense. "I see," he said. "Let me explain. I am at heart a law-abiding man. I cannot strike back directly. I'd end up caught, and I'd go to prison. Not worth it. I wanted to see my daughter grow up and live a long, happy life. He took that away from me. He seemed to hate you and wish to destroy your life. So I will take that opportunity away from him. All the powers of his office, and those of his favored children will avail him of nothing. He'll issue warrants, detainers, whatever he likes – but for all his grasping, he'd never have more than empty air."

It fell into place with a dull thump. All this was about revenge on her father. Claire felt vaguely disappointed for a moment. Did anyone, anywhere, ever actually give a crap about her? Or were the only people who'd ever treated her decently were the few friends she'd made in prison?

All the same, it wasn't like anyone else was offering to help, and with a total of twelve dollars left in her pocket she didn't have a lot of other options.

Heedless of her reverie, Dr. Graham continued. "What I will do for you is this: first, we will arrange papers for you. That will actually be the hardest part. Once that is accomplished, the rest will fall into place quite neatly. We'll also need to change your appearance. Then, once we have papers, we'll get you into school. If you make the grades for university, you shall have that, too. I believe that you can, if you want it."

"What I want from you is for you to understand that this is a very serious matter. I can give you better cards than you were dealt, but you're the one who has to play them right. Play them right and you can have all the things that you might want – a career, a husband, children, a house, grandchildren on your knee. You can live out your life under an assumed name, and be buried an old woman mourned by your grandchildren who will never know about your prior life. If you make a mistake, the penalties can be dire and it can all be lost in very short order. So you'll need to remember some things."

He leaned forward then, and his eyes flared, making Claire suddenly very nervous. She could feel the gnawings and yammerings of a panic attack rising in her and forced herself to breathe.

"First rule. Know your backstory. Know it by heart, and keep it simple. You lived in the United States with your mother, say, you made some mistakes, and you came here to rebuild your life. It will be your life story from now on. You need to be able to reel it off flawlessly and believably. Second rule. Don't get too close to less people know about you, the better. Keep your personal business private. Don't ever think anyone can be trusted with the knowledge of who you really are. Not friends, not boyfriends, not co-workers, not your husband, not your children – no one. Today's best friend can become tomorrow's enemy. Third rule. Don't make any tracks you don't have to. Stay off the Internet, any of those social networking sites – at least not yet. If you must have one, keep it very vague. Fourth rule: change your old habits. They can be used to track you. I understand you practice a different religion – the newspapers were rather hysterical about it. "

"I'm a Wiccan," Claire said. "That's...well, that's about the earth. The natural order." He didn't seem the judgmental type, but it might not be the wisest thing to go too much into detail. People heard about spells and circles got entirely the wrong idea.

"Fine," Dr. Graham said. "Do it privately. Don't go on the Internet seeking out Wiccan boards, don't go looking for Wiccan churches, or anything like that. You'd also be well advised to avoid the gothic subculture."

Covens, Claire thought, then dismissed it. It made sense. She would miss it, but if she had to give it up, she could. She could be a solitary practitioner. Lots of people did that.

"Fifth rule. Avoid trouble. Don't go out drinking with your friends. If you must, nurse a few drinks all night. Don't use drugs. All the things they tell you in school; it's doubly important for someone in hiding. Don't engage in petty crime. I don't know how you financed your trip up here, but--,"

"I lifted a few wallets, back in Richmond," Claire said, only realizing a second too late that she might not want to admit that.

"Fine. You did what you had to do. But not anymore. You won't need to worry about money; I will help you until you're in a position where you don't need my help. But you cannot afford to be arrested and fingerprinted, even for petty things like being drunk in public. I don't need to tell you what that will mean."

Acid bubbled in her throat and she tasted coppery fear on her tongue. Jeez, was he trying to make her have a panic attack? No, she scolded herself, he didn't know.

"Sixth rule, and most important. Never look back. Never. I can't stress it enough. That's how most fugitives are caught. Don't write anyone you knew in prison. Don't look up anyone you went to high school with. Don't try to get the newspapers or anything from home. You need to make a clean break from that, starting now. And never...never...entertain the idea of contacting your family, even to tell them you want nothing to do with them and not to look for you. They're looking for you now. They'll probably always be looking. They may hire investigators to find you. They may even come up with heart-wrenching tales about how they need to talk to you. Don't take the chance. It's assuredly a lie, and you'll pay a terrible price for it."

Claire nodded again, barely aware she was doing it.

"I can do that," she said.

Dr. Graham nodded and seemed pleased. Before he spoke, a knock came at the door. Claire gasped and jumped back, her eyes wide. Her heart began pounding again. What the hell was going on? Where was that pen? Was this all a cruel joke?

Dr. Graham walked to the door, opened it, and spoke briefly with whoever was outside. A few moments later, he returned with a plastic bag. He looked at her quizzically.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Claire rose and tottered, her knees giving way on her. She spilled to the floor, feeling her arms and legs thrum with useless adrenalin. He simply put the bag down and crouched beside her.

"It's all right," he said calmly. "That was just the hotel laundry delivering your clothes." He showed her the bag, which did indeed contain her clothes. They looked a lot better clean and pressed than they ever had.

"I'm sorry," Claire said, and felt about ready to just give into the hysterics and bawl like a little kid until her mind just dissolved. "I just..I...this whole thing...,"

Hunted, was the word that came to mind. I'm being hunted. But she didn't want to tell him that. He'd think she was crazy. After all, normal people didn't freak out the minute they saw a uniform or heard a knock at the door. But it wasn't anything she could control; it just happened all by itself.

"It's all right," Dr. Graham said in a comforting tone. "You've had quite a rough time of it. Here. Why don't you put on your jeans. You can keep that sweatshirt for now." He gestured at the bedroom and politely turned his back.

Claire stumbled into the bedroom. It took longer than normal to get her jeans on. Her hands were still trembling and she still felt exhausted.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked. "Magog social services?"

Dr. Graham smiled and shook his head. "Certainly not," he said. He took a long coat from the closet and handed it to her. "No need to aim that low. Here, take this. We ought to be going now."

"Where?" she asked again.

Dr. Graham paused. "You can't go very far, not now," he observed. "You need some rest, warmth, good food. Also, we'll have to begin the process of getting you papers. Tell me, do you speak French?"

"No, sir," Claire admitted. "My mom left before she taught me much. I took it in school, but I can't really speak it."

Dr. Graham cogitated for a moment and then dipped his head in a nod. "All right, then. For now, we'll head to Montreal. There are plenty of English speakers there, you won't draw attention." He took another coat from the closet for himself, a short leather jacket which fit him quite well. Then he reached down and took two bags, one over his shoulder and one held easily in his hand. The weight didn't seem to bother him. Claire took her own purse and backpack, which seemed to be filled with lead ingots.

"You mean right now?" she asked, feeling stupid and inadequate, like a schoolgirl unable to grasp a simple lesson.

"Oh yes," Dr. Graham said. "Checkout is in half an hour, and there's no need to spend more time here. There's much to do."

Claire walked outside behind him, whimpering a little when the cold air struck her. She pressed the coat around her, grateful for its thickness and warmth. He took her to an old van that seemed like an odd choice for a doctor to drive. Then again, she reflected, that might not be a bad thing.

He slid open the door, put his bags in, then took hers. Then he opened the passenger door for her, a courtesy she had not been extended in so long that she simply stared for a few seconds before realizing he meant for her to get in, not him.

Dr. Graham ignored it, simply walking around the van and getting in the driver's seat. He started the van and rummaged for a moment in his bag. He withdrew two pill vials, extracted one pill each, and handed them to her.

"There will be juice or coffee in the lobby to wash that down with, while I check out," he said calmly.

Claire stared dubiously at the pills. "What are they?"

"Vicodin and Ativan," Dr. Graham said. "Vicodin, for pain, and Ativan for nervousness."

"Nervousness?" she asked, a bit suspicious. Was this it? Take these two magic pills, wake up naked and hog-tied to a bed with a rubber ball stuffed in her mouth? But then, if Dr. Graham had wanted to do such things to her, he'd already had the chance to do exactly that. No need to charm her with coffee and laundry service.

"You don't have to take them, if you don't wish to," Dr. Graham said. Weird, how he seemed to know what she was thinking. "It's just that for the past few days – indeed, the past few years – you've had quite a bit of pain, fear, and stress. This would alleviate that."

Claire paused, thinking it over even while he pulled around to the front of the hotel. She followed him inside dutifully, swaying a little, still feeling punchy and exhausted. Should she take them? Should she not? Was Dr. Graham trustworthy? Was this too good to be true? Or was she going to end up with her throat slit in a snowbank?

She found herself at the continental breakfast counter without realizing she'd gone over there, staring blankly at the coffee thermos and the yellow and orange pitchers of juice, pills pressing into her palm. Decision time.

Or was it possible, just maybe, that one person on the earth didn't hate her? Actually wanted to make her lot in life easier instead of harder? That maybe, just maybe, someone out there might extend a helping hand instead of a backhand?

The pills felt smooth and hard on her tongue, and the orange juice she washed them down with was strong and sweet. Claire paused, waited for a moment, and then followed Dr. Graham back to the van. There was a feeling of resignation: her path was set now. Whatever happened, happened.

The van pulled out of the parking lot and headed for a highway. Dr. Graham didn't speak much as he drove, focusing on the road. That was okay with Claire; she was too weary to offer much conversation. After a while, she felt withdrawn from it all. The ache in her body eased off. She could also feel the panic fade to a distant memory. It was unlikely she would fall asleep, she thought, but she just felt calm and peaceful. Throughout this whole trip, she'd tried to convince herself that things would get better, but now she felt like they actually would.

Someone to help. Someone who had suffered as she had – perhaps not the same, but enough. Someone who had lost everything, like she had. Someone who might grease the skids a little for her, and spare her pain and suffering. Someone who would help. Someone who would make it possible for her to leave her past behind, and start a new and hopeful future. Someone who would stand with her rather than against her, and help her evade them. The thought was immensely comforting, and she didn't want to let it go.

As the van rumbled north, she leaned her head back and thought that things really would get better.