Sara suppressed a "Great" as she took plates out of the cabinet. She was halving the sandwiches when the music came on. It was an old Robert Palmer CD she had not heard in ages.

"Great sound system," Jeb said. "Is that surround sound?"

"Yeah," Sara answered. The speaker system was something Jeffrey had installed so that music could be heard throughout the house. There was even a speaker in the bathroom. They had taken baths at night sometimes, candles around the tub, something soft playing on the stereo.

"Sara?"

"Sorry," she said, realizing she had zoned out.

Sara put down the plates on the kitchen table, setting them across from each other. She waited for Jeb to come back, then sat down, her leg tucked underneath her. "I haven't heard this in a long time."

"It's pretty old," he said, taking a bite of his sandwich. "My sister used to listen to this all the time." He smiled. "Sneakin' Sally Through the Alley. That was her name, Sally."

Sara licked some mayonnaise off her finger, hoping the taste would mask the wine. "I didn't know you had a sister."

He sat up in his chair, taking his wallet out of his back pocket. "She died a while ago," he said, thumbing through the pictures in the front. He slid a photo from one of the plastic sleeves, holding it out to Sara. "Just one of those things."

Sara thought that was an odd thing to say about the death of his sister. Still, she took the picture, which showed a young girl in a cheerleading outfit. She held her pom-poms out from her sides. A smile was on her face. The girl looked just like Jeb. "She was very pretty," Sara said, handing him back the photograph. "How old was she?"

"She had just turned thirteen," he answered, looking at the picture for a few beats. He slipped it into its plastic sleeve, then tucked the wallet in his back pocket. "She was a surprise baby for my parents. I was fifteen when she was born. My father had just gotten his first church."

"He was a minister?" Sara asked, wondering how she could have dated Jeb before and not known this. She could have sworn he had once told her that his father was an electrician.

"He was a Baptist preacher," Jeb clarified. "He was a firm believer in the power of the Lord to heal what ails you. I'm glad he had his faith to get him through, but…" Jeb shrugged. "Some things you just can't let go of. Some things you can't forget."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Sara answered, knowing what he meant about not being able to let go. She looked down at her sandwich, thinking it was probably not appropriate to take a bite at this moment. Her stomach growled to spur her on, but she ignored it.

"It was a long time ago," Jeb finally answered. "I was just thinking about her today, with all that's been going on."

Sara did not know what to say. She was tired of death. She did not want to comfort him. This date had been made to take her mind off what had been happening lately, not remind her of it.

She stood from the table, offering, "Did you want something else to drink?" Sara walked over to the refrigerator as she talked. "I've got Cokes, some Kool-Aid, orange juice." She opened the door and the sucking sound reminded her of something. She just could not put her finger on it. Suddenly it hit her. Rubber stripping on the doors to the ER at Grady had made the exact same sucking noise when they opened. She had never made the connection before, but there it was.

Jeb said, "Coke's fine."

Sara reached into the fridge, shuffling around for the sodas. She stopped, her hand resting on the trademark red can. She felt a light-headedness, as if she had too much air in her lungs. She closed her eyes, trying to keep her sense of balance. Sara was back in the ER. The doors opened with that sucking sound. A young girl was wheeled in on a gurney. Stats were called out by the EMT, IVs were started, the girl was intubated. She was in shock, her pupils blown, her body warm to the touch. Her temperature was called out, one hundred three. Her blood pressure was through the roof. She was bleeding profusely from between her legs.

Sara ran the case, trying to stop the bleeding. The girl started to convulse, jerking out the IVs, kicking over the supply tray at her feet. Sara leaned over her, trying to stop the girl from doing any further damage. The seizing stopped abruptly, and Sara thought she might have died. Her pulse was strong. Her reflexes were weak but registering.

A pelvic examination revealed the girl had recently had an abortion, though not one that had been given by a qualified physician. Her uterus was a mess, the walls of her vagina scraped and shredded. Sara repaired what she could, but the damage was done. Whatever healing she would do was left up to the girl.

Sara went to her car to change her shirt before talking to the girl's parents. She found them in the waiting area and told them the prognosis. She used the right phrases, like "guarded optimism" and "critical, but stable." Only the girl did not make it through the next three hours. She had another seizure effectively frying her brain.

At that point in her career, the thirteen-year-old girl was the youngest patient Sara had ever lost. The other patients who had died under Sara's care had been older, or sicker, and it was sad to lose them, but their deaths had not been so unexpected. Sara was shocked by the tragedy as she made her way toward the waiting area. The girl's parents seemed just as shocked. They had no idea their daughter had been pregnant. To their knowledge, she had never had a boyfriend. They couldn't understand how their daughter could be pregnant, let alone dead.

"My baby," the lather whispered. He repeated the phrase over and over, his voice quiet with grief. "She was my baby."

"You must be wrong," the mother said. Rummaging around in her purse, she pulled out a wallet. Before Sara could stop her, a photograph was found-a school picture of the young girl in a cheerleading uniform Sara did not want to look at the picture, but there was no consoling the woman until she did. Sara glanced down quickly, then looked a second, more careful time. The photograph showed a young girl in a cheerleading outfit. She held her pom-poms out from her sides. A smile was on her face. The expression was a sharp contrast to the one on the lifeless girl lying on the gurney, waiting to be moved to the morgue.

The father had reached out, taking Sara's hands. He bent his head down and mumbled a prayer that seemed to last a long time, asking for forgiveness, restating his belief in Cod. Sara was by no means a religious person, but there was something about his prayer that moved her. To be able to find such comfort in the face of such a horrible loss was amazing to her.

After the prayer, Sara had gone to her car to collect her thoughts, to maybe take a drive around the block and work her mind around this tragic, unnecessary death. That was when she had found the damage done to her car. That was when she had gone back into the bathroom. That was when Jack Allen Wright had raped her.

The picture Jeb had just shown her was the same picture she had seen twelve years ago in the waiting room.

"Sara?"

The song changed on the stereo. Sara felt her stomach drop as the words "Hey, hey, Julia" came from the speakers.

"Something wrong?" Jeb asked, then quoted the words from the song. " 'You're acting so peculiar.' "

Sara stood, holding up a can as she closed the refrigerator. "This is the last Coke," she said, edging toward the garage door. "I've got some outside."

"That's okay." He shrugged. "I'm fine with just water." He had put his sandwich down and was staring at her.

Sara popped the top on the Coke. Her hands were shaking slightly, but she didn't think Jeb noticed. She brought the can to her mouth, sipping enough to let some of the Coke spill onto her sweater.