She let out a cry, reached toward it, then restrained herself.

More waves of pain jackknifed her into the fetal position again, and the periphery of her vision grew dark.

Head reeling, she uncoiled enough to reach the phone and tried to punch in 911. Her fingers slid off the keys from all the blood.

Michael Popovitch stepped outside the ER's exit door and loosened his mask. The cool night, still moist from rain an hour earlier, s me I led sweet. He stayed near the changing area-"limbo," as the residents called it, the zone between the safety of the outside world and the infected realm of the hospital. He always figured that this was where the battle would be won or lost. Sooner or later, despite all the precautions, someone would carry the virus into the street, take it home, spread it to family, to friends, to everyone.

He drew a deep breath and, freed from the stuffy confines of his mask, enjoyed the heady freshness of inhaling air unencumbered as much as he'd once savored the rush of nicotine from his smoking days. A faint sound like a wheeze rose and fell in the distance, then repeated itself, rising and falling as regular as breathing.

An ambulance on its way in.

Five minutes out, he judged, sound carrying far through the city when it slept.

He leaned against the wall and looked up at the stars. Patches of twinkling silver had opened amidst traces of clouds that still lingered overhead. Probably would be clear tomorrow. Rather than sleep off his shift, he'd take Terry and Donna to the beach.

It might be a good break for the three of them.

The quarrels between himself and Donna couldn't be good for the kid. They didn't throw things or physically hurt each other, but tension filled the house, thick and as smothering as a pillow to the face.

He remembered those kinds of times between his own parents. Hadn't scarred him, he figured. But they'd made him unhappy. The big difference was that his mom and dad had known how to end them. Unless he quit ER, the trouble between him and Donna would go on for as long as SARS lasted, which could be forever.

Sometimes she wouldn't even sleep with him. She cringed every time he picked up Terry, and found every excuse she could to take the kid to her mother's. And each time news broke of another nurse or doctor coming down with it, she looked at him as if he were a murderer.

He could leave St. Paul's, go to a place that hadn't been infected yet. But it wouldn't be that simple. SARS could pop up anywhere. Probably would. And besides, if whoever replaced him here got involved with his files, they'd see what he'd been doing-

The door bashed open, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Dr. Popovitch!" Thomas Biggs said, breathless as he leaned out the opening. "We just got a heads-up from an ambulance. They're bringing us a woman in shock, big time, from a miscarriage."

Michael pushed off from the wall. The wail sounded much louder now, approaching faster than he estimated. They must be really gunning it. "You got everything ready inside?"

Thomas nodded.

Michael felt his heart quicken, the way it did from the first day he stepped into ER and the sirens drew closer. The only thing that had changed was that he'd learned to channel the adrenaline, stream it through his head to clear his thoughts and sharpen his reflexes. He entered a zone where he would react without doubts, second-guessing, or hesitation, a purity of moment he found only in the pit. As that telltale wail swelled louder, the stiller he grew.

Thomas, like all rookies, fidgeted with increasing restlessness but stayed outside.

As they stood waiting, a familiar dark Mercedes pulled into the doctors' parking lot, and Stewart Deloram got out.

"What's he doing here?" Thomas muttered. "Anyone who took the pasting he did should be at home hiding under his bed."

"Then you don't know Stewart," Michael replied, and waved at him.

Stewart saw them, then looked over his shoulder in the direction of the howling siren, so close now the shriek had set up a slight vibration in Michael's ear.

"Waiting for something special?" Stewart called, heading toward the other side of the ambulance bay and the door designated for people entering the hospital.

"Woman in shock," Michael said, "from a possible miscarriage."

Stewart used his card to open the lock. "Mind if I help?" He reached inside the entranceway and pulled a clean gown off a cart stacked with protective wear.

"It's an OB case," Thomas said, fixing his eyes on the oil-stained asphalt that separated them. His tone of voice hinted that Stewart should mind his own business.

Needless to say, the resident had already passed judgment on the man.

"Posse justice, Thomas?" Michael murmured. "Nobody innocent until proven guilty anymore?"

At first Thomas said nothing. Then he murmured, "I want him to be just what he's always seemed. But I don't know if I can trust that anymore."

"Understandable," Michael said in as low a voice as possible without it becoming a whisper, "but you learned a lot from him. Doesn't he at least deserve the benefit of a doubt?"

"You think he's innocent?"

"I think he's worked too many years at my side saving lives for me to turn on him now." Besides, Michael thought, he'd have at least one friend at St. Paul's when his own moment of reckoning arrived. "Glad to have you, Stewart," he called out loudly, all the while looking directly at Thomas. "After all, shock is shock, right?" he added in a loud voice.

The young resident lifted his eyebrows in a show of disapproval but kept silent as the ambulance roared into the hospital driveway, its siren dying to a deep-throated growl.

Jane lay shivering on the stretcher while faces bobbed above her like windblown balloons.

"Femorals in!"

"Type and cross six units- no, ten!"

"Two units, type O, up and running."

The voices came at her from the other end of a long tunnel. They sounded frantic. Always did, when one of their own came in, she thought.

"Still pouring blood."

"Systolic's down to eighty."

"Where's OB?"

Cold flowed through her.

The IV lines they'd jabbed into her arms, legs, and neck stung.

The catheter someone had rammed up her bladder filled her with a phantom urge to pee that she couldn't relieve.

And the pain in her belly pummeled her with the brute force of fists.

Not even Popovitch and Deloram had a moment to comfort her as they yelled orders and spoke excitedly to one another. That really made her afraid.

It also pissed her off. How dare they reduce her to a slew of pressure readings, blood counts, and chemistry parameters? And why should Deloram be here anyway? "Looking for a few words from the near-dead, Stewart?" she murmured, feeling strangely uninhibited and defiant enough to use his first name.

He started, his dark brows curling in amazement.

"Just kidding," she said. "At least now you noticed me."

"You sure you want me working on you?"

"Damn right, but don't you be thinking of your own problems. And quit staring at me as if I were already a ghost."

A muffled chuckle came from behind his mask. "You're something, Jane."

"How bad?"

"Hey, don't worry. I'm not about to let one of the few people around here who's still talking to me slip away."

Michael Popovitch appeared above her, a lab report in his hand. "You sure you don't take aspirin or blood thinners?" he asked.

"No." Her reply sounded like a moan.

"Bleeding problems?"

"None."

The pain returned. All at once she wanted Dr. G.

And Thomas. He continued to dart here and there, anxiety blazing out of his eyes. "Hang on, Jane," he whispered each time he came close enough to say anything. She thought of how they'd made love only hours earlier, and suddenly she'd never felt more naked.