eased her upper body off the floor and leaned against her front door. She
wondered if she'd had a stroke, but there had been no cognitive interruptions or visual
disturbances. Just one hell of a quick-onset headache.
Must be remnants of the flu she'd had all weekend. That virus that had been around the hospital
for weeks had taken her out like a dead rosebush. Which made sense. She hadn't been sick in a
long time, so she'd been overdue.
Speaking of overdue… Shit, had she even called to reschedule her interview at Columbia? She
had no clue… which meant she probably hadn't. Hell, she didn't even remember leaving the
hospital on Thursday night.
She wasn't sure how long she made like a doorstop, but at some point the clock on the mantel
started to chime. It was the one that had been in her father's study in Greenwich, an old-
fashioned Hamilton made of solid brass that she'd always sworn rang the hours in with a British
accent. She'd always hated the damn thing, but it kept good time.
Six o'clock in the morning. Time to go to work.
Good plan, but when she stood up, she knew without a doubt she wasn't going into the hospital.
She was lightheaded, weak, exhausted. There was no way she could administer care in her
condition; she was still sick as a dog.
Damn it… she had to call in. Where were her pager and her phone… ?
She frowned. Her coat and the bag she'd packed to go down to Manhattan were sitting next to the
front hall closet.
No cell, though. No pager.
She dragged her sorry ass upstairs and checked by her bed, but the pair weren't there. Back down
on the first floor she went through the kitchen. Nothing. And her shoulder bag, the one she
always took to work, was missing, too. Could she have left the thing in the car all weekend?
She opened the door into the garage and the automatic light came on.
Weird. Her car was parked headfirst. Usually she backed it in.
Which just proved how out-of-it she'd been.
Sure enough her bag was in the front seat, and she cursed herself as she went back into the condo
while dialing. How could she have gone for so long without calling in? Even though she was
covered by other attendings, she was never out of touch for more than five hours.
Her service had a number of messages, but luckily none of them were urgent. The important
ones concerning patient care had been turfed to whoever was on call, so the rest of it was stuff
she could handle later.
She was heading out of the kitchen, making a beeline for her bedroom, when she looked at the
mug of chocolate. She didn't have to touch it to know it had gone cold, so she might as well ditch
the thing. She went and picked it up, but paused over the sink. For some reason she couldn't bear
to throw it out. She left it right where it was on the counter, though she did return the milk to the
refrigerator.
Upstairs in her bedroom she ditched her clothes, letting them land where they did, pulled on a T-
shirt, and got in bed.
She was settling between her sheets when she realized her body was stiff, especially her inner
thighs and lower back. Under different circumstances she would have said she'd had a lot of
terrific sex… either that or climbed a mountain. But instead it was just the flu.
Shit. Columbia. The interview.
She'd call Ken Falcheck later this morning, apologize for what she hoped was the second time,
and reschedule. They were hungry for her to come onboard, but not showing for an interview
with the chairman of the department was insulting as hell. Even if you were sick.
Rearranging herself against her pillows, she couldn't get comfortable. Her neck was tight, and
she reached up to massage it, only to frown. There was a sore spot on the right side in front, a
real… What the hell? She had a pattern there, some raised bumps.
Whatever. Rashes were not unheard-of with the flu. Or maybe a spider had done her in.
She closed her eyes and told herself to rest. Resting was good. Resting would get rid of this bug
faster. Resting would bring her back to normal, a reboot for her body.
Just as she drifted off, an image came to mind, an image of a man with a goatee and diamond
eyes. His mouth was moving as he looked at her, framing the words… I love you.
Jane struggled to hold on to what she saw, but she was sliding fast into sleep's dark arms. She
fought to stay with the image
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