For Grace Wilson there was always something very special about when winter turns into spring in New England, always slowly and late, kind of like that meandering George Winston album.　 Winter was kind this year, 2020, neither too cold nor too snowy, just blustery.　 "Oh, yeah, that's the spot" had been moaned or gasped nearly 250 times, give or take a few, as the two women, Grace and her lover, had braced against the winter wind that pounded their small beach house on Black Point Lane in Milford, Connecticut.

This was the first day of spring and Grace was spending the morning going through boxes of old books and clothes that had been stacked up in her spare room for well over six years. They needed more room. They, she thought to herself. That word used to scare her, make her act very stupid sometimes, but now she embraced it, and it seemed to embrace her back while it grew to maturity - like those beautiful gorilla babies that were once raised in homes and then slowly and carefully released into the Bronx Zoo gorilla habitat.　 She had considered buying a larger, more expensive place - she could afford it now, they could afford it - but shorefront property was expensive again, even out of her high-income range, and hard to find, and she wanted to stay near the ocean. Plus, less space meant less to clean, and that was a big incentive to stay put.

She was going through a box of old Calvin and Hobbes comic books and ancient, dusty beanie babies that had been transported from home to dorm to apartment to beach house over the years, when she heard the strangely loud rumble of a combustion engine and the sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway.　 Dana Papadopolis had been missing in action since nine am, having crawled out of bed while an exhausted and naked Grace was snoozing soundly in the fetal position.　 Grace had no idea where the tall one had gone but figured it was not far, considering that the green Wrangler was still parked in the driveway.

It was now ten of one on this day in April, and the east coast, with its high income-per-capita, was pretty much wide-awake, having survived its martini and whiskey hangovers.　 She grabbed a handful of stale Cheetos from the coffee table in the living room, popped them into her mouth, and climbed on the couch to look out the bay window at the front yard.　 To her astonishment, a large, 1980's Chevy Suburban engulfed her driveway, and a trail of black smoke lingered above Black Point Lane. From inside the brown, rust-mottled monstrosity bounced her temporarily lost girlfriend.

Grace slipped into her Saucony running shoes and slowly approached the metal beast.　 She thought carefully and then finally greeted her lover with, "What the hell is that?"

Dana turned and smiled a full, toothy smile of pride.　 "She's my new ride.　 Like her?"

Grace stood with her arms folded, visually assessing the vehicle as if it were a sick patient in the ER.　 No, she thought.　 "Uh, it's big," she said.　 Stinky black diesel smoke billowed from the tailpipe and made Grace cough. "And that is so illegal," she said covering her nose and mouth.

"Yeah," Dana replied, as if the size and exhaust were its essence and beauty. "I’ve been trying to find one just like her for so long."

"It's a boat."

"No, Grace, boats don't have wheels," Dana corrected.　 "You don't like her?"

"I don't have to, do I?"

"No, I guess not."　 Dana was disappointed and pouted for a beat before deciding that Grace was being a snob and was going to be punished for her arrogance.　 "You know, we don't all want to drive the Barbie Jeep our daddy bought us when we were five."　 She slammed the steel door closed and walked around to the front to open the hood.

"I was sixteen," Grace corrected and started a slow circle of the truck. She stopped next to Dana and standing on tip-toe, looked under the hood. It was oily and noisy.

"Probably bought it at Wal-Mart!" Dana yelled into the rumbling engine.　 "Anyway, if you don't like my truck, you don't have to ride in her."

Grace had completed her rounds and touched her girlfriend briefly in an effort to slow the deflation rate of Dana's ego.　 "Thank you!" she yelled.

"It's okay, baby, I still love you," the taller woman said - to her truck, not the blonde - and slammed the hood closed.

"So, what are you going to name it?　 The 'Helios' or maybe the 'Argo'?" Grace asked as she kicked one enormous front tire.

"'Her,'　cars are 'hers.'" Dana was walking towards Grace with a paper bag from which she pulled a container of ArmorAll. "And I was thinking of calling her 'Puff.’ And don’t kick her." She said, squirting Grace’s foot.

"Puff?"

"Yeah, Puff the Tragic Wagon." Dana squatted down and wiped away three decades of filth from the tire.

Grace laughed.　 "Now that's appropriate."

"I wrote a song about her on the way home." Dana crabbed over to the back tire and looked up at Grace. "Want to hear it?"

"Not really."

"And here I was, offering to sing for you."

"Oh, for God's sake," Grace replied. "Okay, let's hear it."

"No, not if you’re going to ask that way."

Grace rolled her eyes and went into reparation mode.　 "Please?"

"Well, okay."　 Dana paused and rising to a standing position, gathered herself, then sang,"Puff the Tragic Wagon, lived by the sea, along with little blondie blonde and a big bad chick named D.　 Blondie blonde had great big breasts and a hot and juicy sna--"

"Stop!　 Enough!"

"Enough?　 There's more."

"I'll bet there is."

"Rip likes it, right, girl?" she said to the black, waggling, bird-dog mutt. The dog sniffed Dana's feet and then sniffed the ground from Dana’s black Chuck Taylor’s to the rear of the truck.　 Grace followed the hound in an effort to appraise the truck once more and find at least one redeeming quality.　 She noticed the bumper sticker Dana had spontaneously bought a week earlier on Venice Street in Jersey City.　 It read "My girlfriend keeps complaining I never listen to her...or something like that."　 The purchase no longer seemed impetuous as Grace began to wonder when Dana had decided to buy the vehicle and why she had not discussed it with her at all.

The tall brunette, having reconditioned the two tires on the other side of the truck, appeared at her side. "Want to go for the maiden voyage?"

"Honey, this baby is no maiden." The engine seemed to burp on cue and Grace found herself choking on an extra thick stream of exhaust.　 "Plus, you said I wouldn't have to ride in her."

Dana chuckled and grabbed the doctor’s hips, turning her so that they were close and facing each other.　 "Come on. I'll grab a sleeping bag and my fishing pole. We'll pick up some food at the market and be in the hills in no time."

Grace’s thoughts about the boxes she had to finish going through disappeared as Dana kissed her deeply, and finally she agreed that a voyage could be a very good thing.
　

"How did you get this thing registered?" Grace asked as the engine popped loudly.　 They were driving down the Boston Post Road, otherwise known as US Route 1, towards the Stop-n-Shop to buy the two foods essential for any camping trip - beer and grinders.　 The truck, floating slightly, was taking up more than its fair share on the two lane road. "I didn't think Connecticut would allow you to register a diesel."

"Who says she's registered?" Dana said with a mischievous smile curling her lips.

"Dana."

"I have to work on her a little bit before I do.　 For one, I need to convert her.　 But I'll do it eventually."

"Good."　 A few moments passed.　 "Under your own name though, right?"

"I haven't decided yet." Dana wiggled her eyebrows.

They pulled into the parking lot, which was crammed with practically every non-petrol vehicle derivative that existed.　 "I'm going to park Puff over there where there aren't any other cars." She then proceeded to park as far away from the store as possible. "Crack your window a little for Rip, would you?"

Grace looked at the door.　 "Where's the button?"

Dana leaned over and began to crank the window open.

"Ah. not only is she not a maiden, but I think she's old enough to have gone through menopause, Dana."

"You're spoiled."

"No, I'm technologically evolved."

"'Challenged' is the PC term." Dana pulled the door-lock button up for her as well, and Grace forced the heavy steel door open with both feet and jumped down to the pavement.

"Sure does ride high, doesn't she?" Dana teased.

"You're just full of wit today, aren’t ya, Gumby," Grace snapped as they began the long trek across the asphalt. "Could you have possibly parked farther away?"

Dana looked back at the truck. "Nope."

Eventually they reached the entrance to the market. "Whoa, look! Girl Scout cookies!" Dana exclaimed excitedly.　 "Let me buy them this time while you go grab the groceries."

Grace hesitated. "You sure you can handle it?"

"Oh, yeah.　 I'm ready this time."

Grace patted her back for encouragement and then went directly to the deli where she ordered two grinders - one tuna and one turkey-and-cheddar.　 She grabbed four bananas and two Granny Smith apples that looked edible.　 A trip to the mini cheese shop lasted three minutes before she found the perfect hunk of smoked cheddar and some stone oven-baked crackers.　 Finally she cruised the beer aisle before zipping through the express lane with her debit tag.　 She bagged her items and with her satchel in hand and a twelve-pack of Corona under her arm, she paused next to the animatronic ride 'em toys and candy machines and bought herself a massive blue gumball.　　 She began the chore of breaking through the stale, thick, sugar coating while scanning the vicinity of the Girl Scout table for Dana.　 She wasn’t hard to see, a thirty-year-old bombshell, towering over a seven-year-old, bartering for Thin Mints and - by the puffed-up, defensive stance of the little blue-eyed girl in the brown, patch-covered vest - Dana was losing the battle to the tiny over-achiever.

A blast of humid air that felt like the breeze from a sneeze blew through the small crowd on the sidewalk.　 Grace looked over towards the hard plastic dog that a black-haired three-year-old rode while his grandfather watched.　 The small boy was wiping his eyes and nose with one tiny hand and holding on to the reigns for dear life with the other.　 His grandfather pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and was leaning towards the boy to wipe the small runny nose.　 Grace rubbed her own eyes and nose with the back of her hand.　 Her sinuses burned, and she wondered whether it was too early for hay fever or pine pollen to be afflicting her.　 But a moment passed and the burning was gone.

"Hey!"　 Grace turned towards Dana's voice and blinked away residual tears.　 "This kid says she'll sell me ten boxes of Thin Mints if I buy three boxes of DoSiDos and five of the Samoas for twenty-five bucks."

"We need that many Thin Mints?" Grace asked.

"They're your favorite."

"No, they aren't." She gently grabbed Dana's arm and pulled her closer. "Here's what you do. Tell her to up the DoSiDos to seven boxes and drop the Thin Mints to five, but only offer her twenty."

Dana blinked as she tried to follow the logic but quickly gave up and decided to trust Grace’s instinct.　 She approached the table again ready for the next round.　 After a brief exchange with the pint-sized yet formidable Brownie and the transfer of goods for currency, Dana returned with a white garbage bag full of cookie boxes.

"How'd you know what would break her?"

"I keep telling you, Dana, you have to have been a Brownie to know how their minds work.　 Now let's go, because we have a long walk ahead of us and I'm beginning to get a headache."

Where Grace had found her bearing and course over the past year by putting her energy into nesting and love-making, Dana was still tacking and trying to find her heading.　 For months she had been adrift, anchorless in post-program success.　 She didn’t use the term "empty" with her therapist to describe how she felt because it wasn’t quite correct.　 Nor would she say she was "lost," because Grace was always there, signaling to her and showing the way to where she wanted to be.　 Dana had somewhat come to terms with her past and now she could look forward to a whole lifetime ahead of her.　And based on new life expectancy rates sans doomsday, three-fifths of it remained.　 The problem was she had no idea what to do with that time.　 Maybe it was the newness of having love, success, and domestic comfort all at the same time that left her unsettled, but whatever the cause, it was driving her slowly insane.

"What are you thinking so hard about?" Grace asked as she sat down on the log that Dana was resting against.　 Dana relaxed on a sleeping bag with a full belly and a beer, watching the small creatures in the shadows of the towering pines of the cool Northern New England woodlands.

Dana shrugged.　 At this particular point in time the forest isolated them from the rest of the world and in doing so, momentarily comforted her.　 "Stuff."

"I see."　 Grace popped a generic clone of Motrin into her mouth and washed it down with a cranberry Snapple.　 She had been secretly fighting a migraine, determined not to let it ruin the day by constantly reminding herself it could be worse because she could have diarrhea instead.

"You okay?" Dana reached up and gently stroked her lover's slightly pale cheek.

"Yeah. Just my allergies kicking in."

"Can I do anything for you?" the darker woman asked with concern.

"You can tell me what's going on with you."

Dana retracted her hand and folded her arms across her chest.　 "Nothing's going on with me." Grace gave her that, "Yeah right, Dana," look. Dana recognized her own defensive posture and consciously uncrossed her arms.

Grace leaned back over the log and picked up a stick which she used to poke at a large burning hunk of wood that had escaped from the flames.　 She tried to force the wood back into the fire but the stick was too small for the task and snapped halfway up its length.　 There was something about non-surgical tools, even chimpanzee-grade, that Grace just didn't understand.　 Torque would never be her friend.

Dana knew she had to open up or there would be no love connection tonight amidst the tranquility.　 She knew if Grace had asked, then Grace had sensed something, and if she sensed something there would be no peace until she was proven right.　 Dana took a deep breath and began to broach her feelings, "Are you satisfied?"

Grace brushed bark and splinters from her hands.　 "You mean in an 'I just ate' kind of way, a sex way, or a 'does my life have meaning' sort of way?"

The brunette's long legs were stretched out in front of her while her hands sifted blindly through the dirt for stones or sticks to fiddle with.　 Red and gold firelight danced around the two women, casting playful shadows across their faces.　 "I mean with your life, accomplishments, and things like that."

Grace gave her broken stick up to the flames, stood up, and kicked the offending log with her sneaker so that it landed in the center of the fire pit.　 Orange-hot ash jumped into the air and then settled back down into the flames.　 "There," she said with real satisfaction, wiped her hands on her jeans and sat back down on the ground next to her friend.　 She leaned very close to her lover and spoke quietly as if she knew that the surrounding woodland contained little squirrel paparazzi dying for a scandal.　 "In the sack, the answer would have to be a very large font 'yes.'　 As for my life, well, I'm only thirty and I would hate to think I've hit my peak and there's nothing more for me to achieve.　 But I certainly don't feel like a failure in any way.　 In fact, I have never felt luckier and relationship wise, happier."

"You don't feel some sort of letdown after last year?"

"No." The blonde shook her head. "Not at all, because that was mostly you. I was along for the ride, and it was a really great ride to be on."

Dana thought about that a moment.　 "That's not true.　 We never would have succeeded without you. Nothing would have come together."

"This from the woman who said, and I quote, 'any bean counter' could have done my job."

"I never said that."

"Yes, you did."

"Well, if I did I was mostly wrong."

"Mostly?"

"Okay, I was wrong."

Grace smiled and they shared one of those long, gooey moments where they gazed into each other's eyes and were deeply in love.　 "Mushy," Dana observed as she finally looked away and stretched. Grace, slightly embarrassed, sighed at the ground and nodded confirmation. They both chuckled and sighed quietly for a few minutes.

"Why did you ask me if I'm satisfied?" Grace asked.

"I don’t know."

"There must be some reason. I don’t act unhappy, do I?"

"No. It’s nothing like that."

"Are you happy, Dana?" the blonde dared to ask.

"No, not really," Dana answered bluntly.

"Oh."

Dana suddenly realized Grace had not expected to hear something like that and was bound to take it personally.

"You mean with us?"

"No," Dana quickly reassured her.　 "With meaning of life stuff."

"Oh." Grace paused and pondered that.　 "Do you think you want to do something else?　 Something not related to nanotechnology, like fish or something?"

Dana shrugged.　 "I don't know.　 I don't know what I want to do.　 But I feel like I've peaked, and it just seems like anything that I do now at Yale will be boring or sophomoric."

"Dana, Dana, Dana. You’re the nanoqueen, for heaven's sake.　 You can't touch a molecule without generating excitement all over the world.　 And you are way too young and brilliant to have peaked."

"I know.　 That’s exactly what I mean." Dana’s eyes were large and pleading, displaying how unsure she was as she offered up her concerns to her lover. She looked away and picked up her own fire stick to poke at blazing wood. A tongue of flames licked around her stick and then darted back.　

Grace spoke. "Do you know who Rene Jules Dubos was?"

"A Franciscan monk," Dana replied in a disinterested tone.

Grace smiled and climbing onto her knees, faced her friend. "No."

Dana prodded a log hard and then looked up. Grace was getting that glow she got whenever she was either taking care of patients in the ER, working Dana into a frenzy in the bedroom, or about to tell a meaningful story.　 "I give. Who was he?"

"He was a scientist. And his story kind of reminds me of yours." Dana’ eyebrows arched in slight interest. "He discovered the enzyme which was used to cure pneumococcal infection. His work…"

"Wait!" Dana held up her hands in front of her. "Is this going to be another enzyme story?　 Because honestly, I don't get those."

"No." Grace grabbed the hands playfully and set them back down into Dana’s lap. "Now shut up." Holding the strong hands, she leaned forward and kissed Dana quickly on the mouth. "Now as I was saying, Dubos laid the groundwork for the development of antibiotics…."

Dana shifted in the dry dirt of the forest floor.　 The heat of the fire and Grace's voice talking about medicine and pharmaceuticals formed the perfect combination to make her mind drift off.　

"Gramicidin was his first and most notable discovery, because it was the first antibiotic used commercially and clinically.　 He also discovered ribonuclease, which was the enzyme used later in the discovery of DNA.　 Anyway, his work with antibiotics and his methods spurred the chain of antibiotics in the penicillin and streptomycin families.　 His biggest gift though, was the ability to start experiments or theories and then to pass them unselfishly to someone else to finish. "

"Sounds more like he had ADD."

"No, smartass, he could have finished the projects himself, but found it more exciting to foster the imaginations of others and move on to bigger things, like you do. What was most amazing however, was how he followed an ecological approach to science, which you and I know is way too rare, and that provided him incredible foresight.　 Even before other antibiotics became available, he predicted bacteria would adapt themselves to the drugs and produce more resistant strains.　 And even when the medical society didn’t want to hear it, he insisted that the cowboy attitude of drugs could never solve the condition which had caused the illness in the first place. Now how dead on is that?" Grace asked rhetorically.　 At this point in the story, and their relationship, Dana knew better than to answer. "You know what else he said?" Dana shook her head from side to side. "He said our environment is constantly in flux and we can’t eradicate disease, no matter what we create." Grace was practically bouncing on her knees. "Is that fucking prodigious, or what?"

"Yes, very prodigious," Dana answered on cue.　 "But what did he do after finding Felicity?"

"Gramacidin," Grace corrected. And I told you, he kept his focus on the big picture and kept those around him thinking that way too.　 He taught them that a microbe was necessary but not sufficient to cause disease.　 By teaching this, he reformed the theory of what causes disease by implicating the total environment in any illness.　　 And as his influence grew, he focused on teaching that people themselves were like microbes and that, with given conditions, they would have several potentials within their environments."

"Okay, but given that's really what he was doing, do you think he ever felt satisfied?"

"Totally, because as he grew, his focus grew, and his influence grew from local to global, and he affected the world.　 He went from being the first person to create an antibiotic to being one of the most influential proponents of defining humanity's active duty in creating and maintaining a healthy environment, not just within medicine but as an environmentalist too." Grace was so excited now Dana thought she almost looked euphoric.

"That was totally an enzyme story, Grace, and I didn't get it." Dana returned to poking the fire.

Grace smiled patiently and grabbed Dana’s right thigh to get her undivided attention. They were eye to eye. "The point is that a good life is made up of realizing our potential and our identity through moments of triumph.　 The rest of the time is deciding what our triumphs will be and trying to reach them.　 Our first achievement may be what we are most remembered for, but it doesn't have to limit what is ahead of us. There is always something else out there for you to do.　 I think you need to define what that goal is."

Dana ruminated for a long time about what Grace had said.　 "So are you are saying I should find the unified theory of physics or something?"

Grace stared at Dana, dumbfounded.　 Dana had been acting squirrelly lately; she had to admit that, which was why Grace had asked her what was going on in the first place.　 It started with Dana collecting recipes from newspapers and magazines, ten or eleven a day, then taking up knitting sweaters and socks, and finally buying the truck. They were all telltale signs that something was amiss in the nanophysicist’s brain. But Grace had not known the depth of the situation until just this minute.　 True, the nano cancer cure project was past the clinical trials stage and no longer required her constant attention. Their successes within the medical and nano technological worlds were colossal, but Dana kept busy by running around the northeast, helping new collegiate nano centers establish themselves, and older stalled ones jumpstart their programs. Sharing her knowledge with any non-warfare affiliated agency that asked seemed to please her.　 At least she thought Dana was enjoying that.　 However, it was now obvious that she was not happy.　 Perhaps she was too used to battling to enjoy her success, too used to fighting for everything, so that if she wasn't in the midst of action or on some nano-front breaking new ground and expanding her knowledge, she was not going to be happy. Some people need to be challenged.

But Grace was pretty sure she had not said, let alone thought, that Dana should seek a unified theory of physics.　 Sometimes Dana extrapolated a lot more from what Grace was saying than what she meant, but heck if this one didn't make Grace sound insightful.　 Dana was now asking her if she should travel the same path that Einstein had for the last half of his life, unsuccessful in his work, trying to tie quarks to relativity and find common ground between two seemingly and fundamentally opposing theories.　 It would certainly keep Dana busy for a while

"Yeah, Dana, that's exactly what I’m saying."

Dana's foot slid across the ground, closer to the circle of rocks around the fire where, if the smell of burning rubber was a sign, it was a little too hot.　 She looked as if she was brooding, but Grace knew this as her look of deep concentration.　 She appeared childish, yet Grace knew the thoughts were anything but. It endeared her even more to Grace, if that was possible, and Grace knew what she felt was real and special, and that she was very lucky.　 Dana was all hers and she could not think of anything different she could want. Some days she would look at Dana across the room and think wow, she’s all mine, and it warmed her throughout the whole day. She thought of their future, the two of them and the dog in their small house on the coast, and maybe even someday, if she could get Dana to agree, and donate, children - brilliant, beautiful ones, just like Dana.　 It was then that Grace officially acknowledged that the biological tug of her uterus had become more of a hard yank.

"What are you thinking about?"

Grace startled from her domestic pipedream.　 "Huh?"　 Embarrassment and a hint of guilt consumed her.　 Kids had never been a subject up for debate between them, but she was beginning to think about them more and how they might fit into their lives.　 "Um...seeds."

"Seeds?" Dana asked skeptically.

"Yes, seeds, planting, stuff like that."　 She began to get up.　 "Want an apple?"

Grace was aware that Dana knew she was not interested in gardening, especially after she had fatally neglected all of her greenhouse tropical plants that were hearty and healthy when they first met. She knew Dana was suspicious.　

"No, thank you.　 And make sure you don't eat the seeds."

"I don't usually." Grace said as she dug an apple from the grocery sack.

"I don't want you getting sick or anything."

Grace walked back to the sleeping bag.　 She pulled a pocketknife out of her back pocket and sat back down beside Dana.　 Dana was watching the fire, warm and content, and cognitively excited.　 With surgical precision Grace began to peel one long, twisted strand of waxy, green skin.　 She was just about done when a slow-moving wave of pain in her head finally broke into one tumultuous riptide, and then numbness, as if submerged under water, taking with it her senses and then her consciousness.　 Within a nanosecond the knife slipped from her hand and her body collapsed.　 The skinless, fleshy apple rolled away, dirty and wasted, into the fire.

A moment of shock passed before Dana caught Grace, just before she landed facedown in the edge of the fire. Grace's body had become lifeless and pliant in her hands.　 "Grace!" she screamed, and slapped the face as the blood drained from it.　 When she could not wake her with shaking or shouts, she put her ear to Grace's lips to hear or feel if she was breathing.　 She seemed to be, she thought, she hoped, she wasn’t sure.　 She felt for a pulse and found a faint one.　 Hefting Grace onto her shoulder with strength borne of pure panic, she ran to the truck and placed Grace across the backseat and then climbed in.　 Rip barked repeatedly until Dana opened the passenger door for her.　 Seconds later they were bounding recklessly down the mountain on old shocks and over-inflated, but very clean tires.

"Come on, Grace," she repeated over and over.　 She reached one hand back, desperate to touch Grace, while grasping the wheel with the other.　 She knew that if she let go she would lose her.

After many long minutes on winding dark roads through dark pines she pulled into the parking lot of the nearest town's fire station.　 There the volunteers, two young men in their late teens and early twenties with nothing productive to do, loaded Grace into their ambulance, climbed on I-91, and sped her to the emergency room of Farmington Medical Center.　 It was by far the longest, and worst, fifteen minutes of Dana's life.

Part 3: Reflection--the image of somebody or something that appears in a mirror or other reflecting surface

It was two years earlier that Dana had first sat in that leather chair, first started seeing Cassandra.　 And now two years later, Dana was staring through a glass partition in the emergency room door at the UCONN Medical Center, watching masked men and women stripping Grace of her clothes and dignity, and forcing a breathing tube down her throat. She was so far away from that safe space of Cassandra’s office.　 As the doctors and nurses moved, circling Grace’s body time and again, they spoke in loud excited voices to each other - 'doctor-speak' was what Grace called it - and Dana understood very little of what was being said.　 They hooked up machine after machine to the small body lying helpless on the gurney before them.　 And as Dana watched, she wondered sadly if those two years of therapy mattered at all if she was going to lose Grace anyway.

They pumped Grace's stomach and sent the contents, what was left in her normally hyperactive belly, to the lab for immediate testing.　 Dana tried to remember what she had eaten. A tuna grinder, cheese and crackers, juice, aspirin or something. Beer? She couldn’t remember. They scanned her body and scanned her brain; they yelled at Grace and pinched her.　 Stuck her with things. No response.　 It seemed like hours of this and then, suddenly, the movement ceased.　 The doctors stood around Grace's cloth-draped form and watched as her chest rose and fell with the rhythm of the machine attached to her.　 Up and down, in and out, the machine was breathing for her, feeding her, and they simply watched, then eventually dispersed. Some of the doctors tried desperately to convince Dana that Grace was gone and that the machines were now living for her.　 But Dana refused to hear them.　 She was furious with them for stopping and cursed them for not knowing what was wrong.

Meanwhile, fifty miles south by way of Interstate I-91 at the Yale research facility, Rachel Jones was on a hunt.　 She had been tracking for over twenty minutes. The thrill of being super predator was invoking an unconscious memory of her basal and ancient calling, the huntress.

Armed with only her wits and Size 9 Adidas runners,　she cornered her prey between the cinderblock wall and the garbage can.　 Slowly she moved in for the kill.　 It would be swift and just. She held her breath and just as she began her strike… her assistant walked into the computer room.

"Stop!" screamed the co-ed with the mousy brown hair.　 "That's a silverfish, not a roach."　 Quickly she positioned her body between the huntress and the prey.　 The small creature lay frozen in the shade.　 The undergraduate looked down at the bug. "And, by the size and color, it’s a very old one.　 Don't kill it," she demanded.

Rachel regarded her assistant with astonishment as her breathing slowed and the heat and fury of the chase slowly left her.　 Tasha was an environmental science major who happened to be a hell of a computer geek.　 Her thesis involved trying to use supercomputers to predict the ocean currents and warming trends of the climate and then model mechanical attempts to affectively reverse the trends.　 But Rachel could have cared less about that and just wished she could make a better pot of coffee; however, she knew better than to ever say that aloud in this environment.　 "You gonna take it home and feed it?" Rachel asked.

"No.　 But it's not hurting anything, and it has just as much right to be here as you do.　 You can't kill it."

"Bullshit.　 It’s Saturday, this is my niche and I can kill it if I want to.　 Now step aside."

"I cannot," the co-ed said defiantly, chin held high.

Rachel's teeth gnashed.　 "Don’t you have a Solstice gathering or something to go to."

"No."

This young and idealistic insectophile would not deny her this moment.　 "You should appreciate this. This is the great circle of life in action.　 Now MOVE!"

Sensing her own life suddenly in danger, the young woman reluctantly stepped away.　 SPLAT!　 The sneaker came down and the deed was done. The silverfish was now an unrecognizable smear on the floor.

Tasha raged silently at her boss, and with a look of disgust stomped away down the hallway in her Birkenstocks, forgetting why she had gone to the computer room in the first place.

"You'd think it was a panda or something!" Rachel yelled after her.　 She was determined not to let the bug-rights woman diminish her glory.　 Tasha was brilliant but it was hard to take her seriously when she was dressed like a druid all the time. Despite the interruption, the kill sparked small fires throughout her body. If Rachel had a bonfire she would have stripped herself naked and gyrated in victory around it. But this was a space with built-in fire extinguishing halon equipment, so she settled for a Snickers bar.　 She had eaten off the chocolate coating and was beginning to nibble away the peanutty nougat from the caramel when the phone chirped.　 She could tell instantly from the ID that it was Barbara Buchler, director of the Research Center.　　 She very seriously thought of ignoring it, but then she wondered why Barbara was in on a Saturday, and her curiosity beat out her better judgment.

She hit the speakerphone button. "Jones,"　she greeted, but what she really wanted to say was, "Rachel the Great Silverfish Huntress."

"Dr. Jones," Dr. Buchler said swiftly and to the point, "I need to find Dana Papadopolis immediately."

"She's not here."　 Rachel scraped the bottom of her sneaker on the edge of the garbage can and put it back on her foot.

"Do you know where she is?"

Rachel sensed extreme alarm in the normally emotionless voice.

"This is an emergency."　 She sounded panicked.

On most days Rachel would have lied even if she did know, but she sensed from the lapse of Barbara's cool façade that something was very wrong. Even when Dana and the director were at odds, Barbara never lost her cool.

"I have no idea where she is."　 And she could not believe what she said next. "But maybe I can help.　 What's going on?"

Cassandra asked Dana question after question at each session during those early days.　 The nanotech knew she was trying to diagnose her, determine if she was paranoid and delusional. The therapist subjected her to a series of questions meant to dissect her feelings and her actions to get to the base cause of her behaviors - her problems. Dana also knew it was her choice to either mislead or tell the truth.　 But the truth was dangerous to everyone.

Dana made a choice. Whether it was the right choice or the wrong choice, she cautiously began to disclose her past and her feelings.　 She told Cassandra about her decision to work for Reichert in exchange for her freedom from York prison.　 She acknowledged the guilt over what she had created for Reichert and what had happened in Los Angeles.　 They spoke about how crowds made Dana feel uneasy, always aware that someone could be watching or might be waiting around the next corner, about how she always felt like an outsider, and about how that isolation made her feel different but safe.　 They touched on what Dana thought people thought of her, and what she thought of herself, which wasn’t much.

After a few months, they delved into the violence - the cycle of raging and unrestrained behavior that had begun with the stabbing of her foster father – her first murder. It had become her way of solving problems because to Dana, it seemed the only way to numb the anxiety and calm down.　 Physical force sublimated her feelings to the point where she could function somewhat on a personal level.　 This brutality became the very cause of her problems.　

By the end of the third month of sessions, Cassandra had waded as best she could through the wild stories and cryptic answers to offer her conclusions.

Dana’s diagnosis had seemed so overwhelming at the time, so indicative of the insurmountable odds she always seemed to be up against, but it was nothing compared to what lay before her now.

While Grace was being moved to ICU, Dana found the public phones, charged with the morbid duty of notifying Grace's Kentucky-based kinfolk of the tragedy.　 Dick, Grace's asinine brother, was at his parents' home - no surprise to Dana who knew he was a first class moocher.　 He answered the phone and yelled, "Hey, Maaaah, it's Grace’s L-O-V-E-R!" before handing the receiver off to Faith Wilson.

"Dana, what's wrong?"　 Faith Wilson reminded Dana too much of an iron fisted prison warden for Dana to ever feel comfortable around her. She was judgmental and she bullied Grace. Faith knew that Dana would never call her unless something had gone wrong and Grace was not able to call herself.

"It's Grace.　 She's in the hospital."

"Richard!" Mrs. Wilson commanded her husband shrilly.　 "How is she?" she demanded.

Dana found herself unable to respond immediately, but finally she did, not sounding much more hopeful than the doctors whom she had railed against moments earlier.　 "They don't know what's wrong yet.　 But she's not breathing or awake anymore."

Dana could hear the voice of Faith Wilson fading from the phone and beginning to pray. "Richard!" She yelled again.

"What's going on, Dana?"　 Richard Wilson's worried but firm voice came over the line.

"Grace is in the hospital. It's some sort of cerebral incident.　 They think it's poisoning but can't confirm a toxin, so they have no treatment for her yet."　 Dana didn’t want to go over everything the doctors had told her. She felt weak, as if she needed to burst out in tears, and that made her want to hit something. So she reined in her soul as tightly as she could.

"Is she conscious?"

"No!　 She's on machines and they say they can't do anything!"　 Dana was going to be sick.

"Okay, okay, Dana.　 Calm down," he said with the smooth drawl of a Southern gentleman, but his voice cracked slightly.　 "You have to be calm so you can be there for her. She needs you right now."

"I can't do anything."

"Yes, yes you can.　 Sit with her.　 Hold her hand.　 Speak to her.　 We'll be there as soon as we can, but until then you're all she has, and you have to be there."

Silence.　 She didn't want to sit by and wait. She wanted to tear something apart.

"Dana?"

"Yes."　 Her voice revealed the strain of control.

"Have Grace’s physician give me a call."

"Okay."

"Remember, sit with her and talk to her."

"Okay."

"Don't leave her alone."

"I never will," Dana replied, and hung up the phone.

　Part 4: Huygens’s Principle: Geometric method for finding from a known wave shape what the shape will be at some other instance in time.

Rachel Jones jogged through the building and across the gerbil tube to the Yale Medical Facility's administrative offices. Sipping on a Dunkin Donuts coffee, she thought about how much she hated this side of the complex. When she arrived outside the "Big Cheese’s" office, as she disrespectfully referred to it, Rachel knocked on the wooden door that separated her from Barbara’s big secret. Immediately, but cautiously, the door opened just wide enough for Barbara Buchler to appear. When the doctor saw it was Rachel Jones, the door opened slightly more, enough for the hacker to enter. It was promptly closed and guarded by Barbara. Rachel then realized that she was in the company of the five most powerful people at Yale.

"Dr. Jones." She was being addressed by the head of the hospital, Paul Yerky, who spoke to her from across the room. Yerky was in his late fifties, less than six feet tall, and appeared to Rachel to be somewhat fit. His hair was very gray with touches of dark over his ears and in front, where it was slicked back with Dippity Doo or some other such product. He had gray eyes, matching his hair, shaded by drooping eyelids and thick eyebrows. Rachel had never been this close to him before, and now noticed the craggy lines from age and too much sun on his sailboat. Perspiration beaded his temples and the light blue polo shirt with the words "Cape Cod" embroidered over the left breast was dark with sweat. Rachel could smell the anxiety in the room. "Sit," he commanded.

Rachel took a seat at the small conference table, alongside the others. Barbara left the door and sat as well. She looked old, worried, and frazzled.

Paul Yerky spoke again. His voice was loud and authoritative. "To bring you up to speed, we have thirteen patients in our emergency room, all admitted between three this afternoon and eight this evening. They are currently showing minimal, if any, brain function and all are on life support. Based on the social range of the patients, we suspected some sort of biochemical agent." Rachel was following, but not sure yet why she was here. "We’ve run extensive testing, fluids, MRIs, and have been unable to identify any known catalogued toxins in their systems. In short, there are no biochemical agents causing these cerebral incidents in these patients."

Rachel looked to Barbara for an explanation as to why this concerned her, or more specifically, Dana Papadopolis, although she had a horrible suspicion.

Yerky continued, "We have, however, discovered something in the spinal fluid of all thirteen patients."

"Nano." Rachel heard herself say rather than ask.

"Yes. ‘Nanobots’ I believe is what you refer to them as."

To Rachel, Yerky’s tone verged on disapproval, and she sensed that he was holding her and Dana personally responsible, as though she had lit a stink bomb in the executive bathroom and he knew it was her. She looked at Barbara Buchler and discerned that she had probably already been through Yerky’s grist mill, which was why she appeared so defeated.

Rachel swallowed hard. "Are they cancer patients?"

"From the information we have gathered, none are on any of the protocol lists we maintain. They are all local citizens. One of the patients was associated with the clinical trials, a patient’s wife. So, it does not appear to be associated with any particular treatments, but we have not ruled out the possibility that the treatments are tied to this in some way. You are here to do that, Dr. Jones," Yerky responded.

Tom Sanspine, the head of the public relations department, spoke next. "Right now we have only determined that there are nanobots present. We were hoping Ms. Papadopolis could tell us how they got there."

"Why would she know?" Rachel defended Dana. Rachel did not know much about Sanspine. But he seemed smarmy, his skin too tanned, eyes too green, hair too perfect, and ties too damn red. Who wears a tie on a Saturday?

Barbara Buchler spoke up. "Tom, I don’t think we should be jumping to any conclusions about how these nanobots came about. Yale and Ms. Papadopolis are not the only facilities developing products using this technology, and we certainly have not been developing anything that would even remotely resemble these effects. W are hoping, Dr. Jones, that you can show they aren’t Yale nanobots."

"Have you asked the government if they’re field testing?" Rachel shot.

Yerky turned to the chief of medicine, Todd Bigg, who was pressing a button to end a call on his cell phone. The doctor was still dressed in his golf attire, green bloomers and a yellow Izod shirt covered with a white lab coat. Not even clowns should dress like that, Rachel thought.

"That was Farmington. I have a call in to their Chief of Medicine."

"We need to get as many people as possible on the phones and contact all hospitals in the area immediately. I want to know of any patients with similar symptoms. They may not have any insight into the nano presence."

"I’m already on it. And I have people contacting the city hospitals and all facilities as far north as Boston." Bigg replied. His phone rang again and he was pulled into a conversation about levels and counts.

Sanspine broke in. "We need to be as discreet as possible, Paul. I want names of anyone talking to anyone else about this, as well as who has been contacted. We want to keep this under control until we can determine the extent of what has happened. Last thing the center needs is hysteria and accusations."

"We must notify the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta," demanded the Head of the Epidemiology Department for the University and Hospital, Mary Jane Fuzer.

"I think that it’s premature for that," Sanspine quickly responded.

"I strongly disagree. Who knows where else this may be happening. Your thinking is insular. The information we…" Mary Jane was interrupted.

"You’re being an alarmist! And nanobots are not under the jurisdiction of the CDC," Sanspine stated.

"It’s better than the Contagion Agency division of the Homeland Security Organization here." Her voice grew deeper, "I believe this is nanoviral and should be treated as a viral outbreak! We should be quarantining all the victims and anyone who worked on them until we know what we are dealing with," Mary Jane argued.

Sanspine puffed up. "You call CDC and tell them it’s a nanovirus, Mary Jane, and you’ll have the Homeland Security Organization and the Contagion Agency in here within the hour looking up your skirt and digging in your panties before you have a chance to even cross your legs. We’ll lose all control of this facility, and the situation, and our ability to do anything. Do you want them involved? I don’t think so."

Rachel watched the frustration and confusion around the room grow with the small arguments that were erupting between the parties. Finally Yerky commanded their attention. "We will do a survey immediately of the other local facilities. Depending upon the results, we will decide whether to contact the CDC."

Sanspine concurred with an assured chime of agreement and victory.

"I want my recommendation on the record," Mary Jane protested angrily.

"Yes, Mary Jane," Yerky responded. He was sweating profusely now. "We’ll quarantine until we know the contagion of these nanobots, but Tom is right. I am not sure this falls under the CDC umbrella, and I am very reluctant to bring in other agencies until we have more information about whether this is isolated or not." He turned to Rachel. "Dr. Jones."

Rachel was busy playing voyeur, so she did not hear him when he spoke.

"Dr. Jones," Yerky repeated tersely.

Rachel blinked once and then realized everyone was looking her way.

"Do you have any idea where Ms. Papadopolis is or how we can contact her?"

"Did you try Dr. Wilson’s cell phone?" Rachel replied, thinking Barbara must have.

Yerky looked to Barbara Buchler.

"Yes, I called several times," she answered. "We even sent someone to the house. Dr. Wilson’s car is there but there appears to be no one home."

Rachel knew that Dana carried a cell phone, but it was primarily a leash for Grace. Very few people had the number due to Dana’s paranoia and refusal to give the number out. Despite the gravity of the situation Rachel thought better of giving the number to Barbara Buchler and company. She wanted to get out of the room and start trying to find the nanotech herself, so she lied. "I may have an emergency number on my computer."

"You can use mine and log in from here," Yerky stated.

Rachel thought quickly. "Actually, it’s on my PDA. I’ll go back to the office and get it." She began to stand.

"Sit," Yerky commanded, just as he had when she first walked into the room.

Rachel hesitated, then slowly sat, feeling the pressure of Yerky’s and the others’ intense gazes.

"I didn’t call you here for a phone number. Since you are the only one here, you are going to assemble the rest of your team immediately. I don’t care where they are or what they are doing. I expect you and your people to figure out where these nano robots came from and what they are doing to our patients. Until Papadopolis gets here, you will be in charge of this with Dr. Buchler’s oversight. Do you understand?"

Rachel’s auto response to him and his "you’s" and "your’s" was the bristling of her hackles and evil thoughts of hacking into his stock portfolio, and switching his shares of Pfizer stock to Dildos R Us. But that would have to wait. She began to think; Question: What would Dana do? Answer: She’d knock his lights out, that’s what she’d do. Instead, Rachel stood up and did the next best thing. She began to give orders and make demands. "You want this done right, you and your team better get on my team. Capiche? First off, we need samples of all the spinal taps in the lab immediately. We’ll be able to determine right away whether they’re ours. And FYI, our nano bots aren’t viral, and if they were to somehow go rogue, which is extremely doubtful, we created a failsafe chemical power switch to turn them off just in case something like this happened."

"We’ll have a sample sent up," answered Todd Bigg.

"No, I need samples from all of the patients. And I don’t just want test results and papers. I want the nanobots, so bring the actual fluid samples. And I want to know everything that’s going on inside these people, physically. That means I need your most knowledgeable physician in the lab at our disposal. I want someone who can tell me everything that’s going on at the cellular level. Ions, electrons, if it’s happening, we need to know. And if you don’t know, start figuring out how to find out. I want copies of all tests that have been run, any more that are run, and when the team physiologist arrives, I guarantee we will be running more. I want full histories on every patient, where they have been all day, all week, all year." Rachel stated. "And no one enters the lab except Dr. Buchler or other identified personnel. She’ll give you updates. We don’t have time for anyone snooping around, getting in the way, or bothering us with politics." She looked at Mary Jane Fuzer and Tom Sanspine. "And you better make damn sure no Feds come near the lab. You keep them out and we’ll find the answers to your questions."

The group stared at Rachel as if she had a three hundred pound head and lightning shooting out of her ass.

Rachel stared back. "Did you get that?"

"Someone will be in your office with the data in 10 minutes." Yerky looked to Todd Bigg for confirmation.

"Within the hour," Bigg replied stubbornly.

"I’ll be back in my office in five, so you’ll be wasting 55 minutes trying to get your act together. I suggest you get on the phone and start making calls, Doctor. We have thirteen people to save, if you can work it in before your tee-time?" Rachel replied and left the room. As soon as the door closed, she broke into a run, adrenaline fueling her body, sneakers squealing on the shiny, tile floor. She was past the gerbil tube and halfway back to her office before she pulled out her cell phone and took a breath.

What Dana loved most about lying with Grace was her smell - the smell of her skin to be precise. It was intoxicating. While Grace slept, Dana would bury her face in the nape of the doctor's neck, breathing in her scent, her warmth. During those hours of closeness, Grace was her lullaby, and sometimes in the middle of the night, that same soothing essence would gently nudge Dana awake, bringing her pleasure and urging her to make love. And in the mornings, their togetherness was the sunrise, welcoming Dana to a new day.

In the sterile, spartan room, with the beeping of monitors measuring Grace’s heart rate and blood pressure, and the hissing of the artificial respiratory devices surrounding them, Dana pulled up a chair next to Grace’s bed and placed her head on the mattress. Her face was as close to Grace's cool, pale cheek as she could reach, and she breathed in the comfort and memories of happier times. She clasped Grace’s limp hand, warm and soft, but the bones felt fragile and small like a child’s. Dana scanned the face and saw the frailty there as well. The doctors had offered no answers, no hope. Helplessness crept into her chest. She closed her eyes and gripped the hand tighter, willing another time, another memory into her thoughts. She inhaled deeply. Grace still smelled of camp fire smoke and a hint of the day’s activities. "You’re still here, no matter what they say, I believe it," Dana whispered to her. "And I’m still here too. So don’t give up."

She closed her eyes and fell asleep, next to the soft, sweet-smelling skin. Hours later, she was awakened by the gathering doctors around the doorway. Finally one broke away from the huddle and approached the silent pair.

"Ms. Papadopolis," he spoke softly. "We need to speak with you." He was the doctor in charge of the ER, a very tall man, who appeared to be in his sixties but was actually only forty-two. He was touching Dana’s shoulder. He had soft brown eyes.

Dana lifted her head and reluctantly placed Grace's hand on the bed sheet before following him out.

She stood in the hallway with two of the doctors she recognized and another she did not, and a woman in a grey suit. The woman in the suit began to speak. "I just spoke with the head of Yale Medicine."

Dana did not respond. She knew Todd Bigg. Grace said he was okay, but Dana found him arrogant. "What does this have to do with us?"

She continued. "They have over a dozen patients who they believe may be in the same medical condition as your partner."

"Do they know what it is?" Dana asked without trying to sound too hopeful. Maybe if there were others, it was more common and definable. Maybe it was something that Yale knew how to handle that these doctors didn’t. But why weren’t they taking action if there was a remedy? Why were they just talking?

"They seem to believe that what has caused your friend’s condition is a nanorobotic infestation of the brain."

A heavy weight slammed into Dana’s chest and her ears began to buzz. A vaguely familiar wave of fear mingled with disbelief and fury spread through her. "What?" A sour taste filled her mouth. Words began to run through her head over and over again. "This is just like Los Angeles. Just like it."

"Nanorobotic infestation," the doctor repeated. "It’s based on a somewhat new technology that’s been around since the nineties, but only recently actualized as a biomedical treatment, especially down in the New Haven area, but in this case, it could be some sort of viral agent. Extremely small robots are used to …."

"I know what it is!" Dana snapped. Her vision was growing dark around the edges. "But how did she get it? How many people so far? What are they doing about it?" she managed to ask through her increasingly louder, subconscious chant, "Remember Los Angeles."

"We don’t know how she contracted it or exactly what it’s doing to her. Ms. Papadopolis? Are you all right?"

"Do you remember Los Angeles?" It was her own voice reminding her. The world was disappearing. She felt cold and saw only darkness.

"Breathe, Dana." She heard a familiar southern drawl and felt a hand on her back. "Help me get her to that chair," the same kind voice commanded. Dana felt herself being led across the hard floor and lowered into a sitting position.

"Maybe she’s been exposed too," she heard someone say.

"Dana, take a deep breath and open your eyes." It was the voice of Grace’s father, Richard Wilson.

She inhaled through her mouth and held the stale antiseptic air of the ICU in her lungs for a moment before releasing it. She opened her eyes and was rewarded with a friendly face. "Grace has his eyes," she thought for a moment before the terror crept back into her body and she tried to stand. His hand was on her shoulder tethering her to him. He wasn’t much taller than Grace, and since his heart attack a few years ago, he hadn’t regained all the weight he bore in the millions of pictures in Grace’s endless photo albums. He glanced over to the bed and she watched while he assessed his daughter’s condition, reading the monitors and understanding their meaning. The color drained from his refined face. He removed his hand from Dana and reached for his daughter’s.

"Oh sweetie," he spoke sadly as he bowed his head and kissed his daughter’s hand. He held it to his face and broke down and sobbed. He was too late.

Suddenly Dana was flooded with anger, and the anxiety was flushed away. She stood. "She’s going to be okay, Dr. Wilson." She said quietly, and she meant it. "I can fix this."

"Dana," Richard Wilson said through his tears, in his quiet fatherly way, "this is well beyond you and me." He looked to the doctors surrounding them.

"No! I can fix this." She pleaded to him to believe in her. She turned to the doctors and demanded answers. "What are they doing at Yale about this?"

The doctors who had watched from a respectful distance were stunned by her words and did not reply.

"Who did you speak with? Did you speak with Todd Bigg?" she insisted impatiently. She wanted her phone but it was in the parking lot of a fire station twenty miles north. "How are they treating it?"

The doctor with the brown eyes was gentle, "I don’t think you fully comprehend the situation. This is possibly a nano viral infection that has, as we described, knocked out all of your partner’s neural activity except the most basic functions. In essence, she is brain dead. There’s no way to fix this."

"Comprehend this," Dana spoke evenly, trying desperately to keep her fury in check. "If she’s this way because of nanobots, then I can do something about it."

Richard Wilson had straightened up and turned towards them, still holding Grace’s hand.

"They say it’s a nano virus, Dr. Wilson." Dana stared at him, willing him to understand.

"Dana, this isn’t the same as a cancer tumor. If it’s neural, it’s very, very complicated, and at this stage, impossible."

"Biochemistry is biochemistry, it’s just a bigger problem, and every problem has a solution."

"Dana, look at her," he pleaded, tears covering his face. "As hard as it is to accept, she’s gone."

Dana looked at Grace, her chest rising and falling, the machine sucking in air. As far as Dana was concerned, she was still weighed down to this world by gravity and machines. Grace wasn’t going anywhere. "She’s not gone and she stays like that for as long as it takes."

"Dana, Grace is gone."

"I can do this, please believe me. Please give me a chance," she pleaded, choking on her own desperate tears.

"Dana, dear, Grace is gone."

"No! Godammit!"

One of the doctors closed in on Dana, believing she could help this woman understand. "Ms. Papadopolis," the woman spoke, "We’re still in the process of verifying if it is nano related. We’ve sent samples from the Lombard puncture to the Yale laboratory and they will confirm the results by morning possibly. Meanwhile I think you should let us give you something to help you relax, gain some perspective."

"Fine, verify it." There was no doubt in Dana’s mind now that it was nano. She walked over to Grace lying in the bed, and whispered her promise that she would fix this. "She stays just like this!" she told Grace’s father. She turned to the doctors. "Nobody touches her." And then she walked out of the room.

Thinking back as she rumbled down Interstate-91 to New Haven, Dana realized no one really knew who or where they’d be within five days, let alone five years, ten years, or fifty years. So much could happen. So much could get in the way, even in the most normal of lives. A car accident, a tidal wave. It could all happen in an instant. "Or Karl Reichart could happen," Dana said to her dog amongst the diesel rumble. "It has to be him, Rip. Has to be."

She had spoken to Rachel until her phone battery died; returning the many messages the computer geek had left her. Rachel was already hard at work, booting up the machines and loading the software. She was running carbon by carbon diagnostics of the nanorobotic architecture and analyzing its programming, and by the time Dana arrived, she was retracing replication and documenting mutations from patient to patient.

"Dana." Rachel jumped to her feet when the nanotech entered the office, relieved like never before, and awkwardly hugged her. "I’m so sorry about Grace."

Dana pushed her friend away, but took the time to explain. "I need to focus." Rachel stared at her for a moment. "Or I’ll completely lose it," Dana added with honesty. "And I can’t lose it now."

Rachel nodded, "Okay." She ran her hands through her crazy, curly hair, sat down in her spinny chair, and waited while Dana took off her sweatshirt and situated herself in the room. Finally Dana sat down at her desk, rubbed her face with both hands, and took a really deep, settling breath.

"Okay?"

Dana nodded. "Whatcha got?"

"It’s ours."

Dana’s jaw went slack. She couldn’t believe what she just heard.

"So, how was your session?" Grace was heating up water for tea in a metal kettle.

It did not take long after Dana arrived in New Haven for Barbara Buchler to descend on the super computer room. She scanned her finger and pushed open the door.

"Thank God!" she said when she saw Dana sitting next to Rachel, looking at the monitors hanging on the wall.

The two techs turned toward the interruption. Dana was not as happy to see Barbara as Barbara was to see her, but she was too tired and stressed to care about the administrator. Rachel had already filled Dana in on the powwow she had attended with Yerky and the rest of the hospital brass.

"Do we have anything yet?" she asked.

"We’re working on it!" Rachel told the administrator, for the forty millionth time.

Barbara looked to Dana, hoping for another answer.

"We’re working on it," Dana repeated.

"We’ll call you," Rachel mouthed as she held up her hand in the shape of a phone to her ear.

The techs stared at the administrator until Barbara realized that was all she was going to learn on this visit. "As soon as you know anything..." She headed for the door and then turned back. "Dana, I am very, very sorry about Grace. If there is anything I can do… I know this is a difficult time for you."

Dana looked down at her sneakers, using all of her energy to gather her composure. "There is something you can do for us, Barbara," she stated.

The administrator seemed surprised, but waited to hear the request.

"Have Grace moved down here to Yale."

"I don’t understand? Have her moved here?"

"Yes. It will be easier to treat her, and I can concentrate on things better while we’re working through a solution if she’s here."

"Solution? We‘re trying to identify the virus, to see if it’s ours."

Rachel remained very quiet.

"We’re going to do more than identify it." Dana stated.

"Dana, these people have no brain activity. They’re brain dead. Two of the families have already…" She looked at the brain biopsy on the screen. "You can’t possibly think...."

"I can, and I will." Dana said defiantly.

Barbara looked to Rachel for some insight. "I don’t think you understand what you’re up against, Da…"

"Barbara!" Rachel stood up suddenly, interrupting her. "I need a word with you," and led her out of the room.

Rachel returned a half hour later, with donuts and a box of Joe from Dunkin Donuts which she placed on Dana’s work desk. Dana was standing at Rachel’s workstation, tapping at the holographic buttons on the desk and dragging her finger around a touch pad, zipping through test results, video images, stopping for long moments and peering at the monitors.

"Jaaavaaa," Rachel said, grabbing a donut from the box and pouring a coffee. She sat down in her chair. "Barbara is going to have Grace moved down here, but she’s going to need you to fill out some paperwork."

Dana looked down at the hacker and nodded.

"Have a donut and some coffee," Rachel said, her mouth full of carbohydrates and sugar.

"I can’t eat," Dana said testily.

"Have something. You have to eat to think."

Dana placed her hand on her stomach, the thought of food unappetizing.

"Seriously, eat!" the older woman demanded.

Dana walked over to the donuts and picked a cruller from the box, poured a cup of coffee and took a seat next to the hacker.

After they had both eaten, Rachel brushed crumbs from her shirt and took a long swig of coffee. Dana chewed her food like it was made of cardboard. She put the remaining half of the cruller on the workstation.

"What do you think about these things?" Rachel asked, putting on her microphone.

"I’ve never seen anything like it."

"Yeah. They’re insane."

"So show me why you think this is ours, because it’s not evident to me."

Using voice commands and a series of movements on a holographic keypad, Rachel drilled down into an electronic snapshot of a Yale patient’s nanorobot captured on a digital electron microscope. She zeroed in on what appeared to be a tail.

"A tail? What does that have to do with our bots?"

"Not that there’s a tail." She zeroed in further. "This."

Dana stood and moved within inches of the monitor, a finger tracing the configuration of atoms.

"See it?"

"Yes." Mid point on the tail was a series of carbon and hydrogen atoms resembling a structure in the cancer nanobots that functioned as a receptor for the Viagra molecule, which then shorted the cancer nanobots in case something went wrong. "The kill switch. Does it work?"

"I don’t know. It doesn’t matter though."

Dana looked down at the hacker, lights reflecting off her spectacles. "Why?"

"Because they’ve already done their damage. These people are essentially dead."

Dana knew the hacker didn’t mean to sound heartless, but even if she did, Dana was already in emotional shutdown mode. "