In a strangled voice, Tim said, "Kevin, help."

"Not a chance," came the voice from the doorway. "You got yourself into this mess, and you can get yourself out."

Pinned to the floor, the red-haired man gasped, "You two are evil! You're-you're she-demons from hell..." This only provoked Jaylynn and Sara, and they tickled him mercilessly. "This is what I get for-ugh-sticking up for my friends..."

"No," Sara said. "This is what you get for being bossy and uppity."

They wrestled with him for a few more moments, and then finally let him up. With his dignity badly bruised, he left the room, swearing revenge, which everyone knew would probably come in the form of some sort of fattening cake or pie.

The two women sat on the floor, catching their breath while leaning back against the couch. Sara poked Jaylynn in the leg. "You want to go out for something to eat and to a late movie?"

"What about Bill?"

"He's beat. He wants to watch a little TV and hit the hay early, so it's just you 'n' me, kid. What do ya say?"

Jaylynn nodded. "I'd like that. Thanks." She sprang to her feet and reached down with her good hand to pull Sara to hers. "Give me a few minutes, and I'll be ready."

Sara left the room and Jaylynn lowered herself to the edge of the couch. I'm really lucky to have such good friends. I don't know what I would do without them. She got up and went to the other side of the room, picked up the St. Patrick's sweatshirt and folded it carefully, set it on the stack at the end of the sofa, and went into the walk-in closet to find a pair of warm, high-top boots.

* * *

The dark-haired woman sat on a weight bench and alternately lifted dumbbells, first with her left hand, then right, until she had done eight heavy repetitions on each arm. She set the weights on the floor and stood up to move around, stretching her biceps and triceps as she paced. Her t-shirt felt bunched up, so she retucked it into her shorts, glad that she didn't feel as blocky and heavy as she had a couple weeks earlier.

She looked around the workout center. At nine a.m. there were only two women walking on treadmills and a retired gentleman doing lat pulldowns on the other side of the gym. Quiet. Just how she liked it.

She looked at the clock. Today her counseling appointment was scheduled for two p.m., and keeping to the speed limit, it took her about three hours and some odd minutes to get down to the Cities, so she had plenty of time to do a few more exercises, shower, and then pick up something to eat on the way. She did another set of bicep curls, then put those dumbbells away and moved down the rack to heavier weights for doing shrugs. She picked up two sixty-pound weights, held them at her sides, and drew her shoulders up, until her neck and traps screamed. She imagined that they screamed anyway - that was how it felt. After four sets of shrugs and four rear delt lifts to finish off her shoulders, she called it quits for the day, her body feeling pleasantly fatigued. In just a couple hours, she would feel more energetic, even though some muscles might be a little sore later.

It had been eight days since she had gotten drunk, and she felt like it had taken half that time for the alcohol to get out of her system. After that little fiasco, she vowed to be more active, take better care of her body. For the last week she had driven into Duluth in the early morning and come to this gym to lift weights, then driven down to her counseling appointments, or, if it wasn't a counseling day, she'd gone hiking or chopped wood in the afternoon. She still didn't feel she was getting enough sleep, but at least today she felt somewhat rested.

Gathering up her towel and nearly empty bottle of water, she headed to the locker room. In thirty minutes, she was ready to head out. She stopped at a café just outside Duluth and got pancakes and mixed fruit. As she sat eating, she examined the display of wooden boards painted with country scenes in Grandma Moses style. What did they remind her of? She thought for a moment as she poured some maple syrup on a pancake. She remembered seeing something like this up north in Grand Marais over Labor Day when she and Jaylynn had been together. She remembered the odd little café and how upset she had been that day about the relationship her mother and her mentor, Mac, appeared to be having. It seemed like so long ago, and yet, it was a mere three and a half months back.

She pushed the plate away, crossed her arms, and waited to catch the waitress's eye to get her bill. It was going on four months. So in a little over three months, so much had changed. She had no idea what to expect of the future - or if Jaylynn would even want to work things out with her. That filled her with fear and anxiety. She had gone over and over all that had happened in the last couple of months, and despite turning the scenes every which way, she could not figure out a way to change what had occurred.

The waitress left her the ticket, and she checked it, then threw a ten on the table and left. In the truck, she plugged Shawn Colvin music into the CD player and settled back for an easy drive to St. Paul. One thing she liked about driving was that she was able to think of positive, happy things most of the time. Maybe it was because she was partly occupied with having to attend to the road and partly focused on the CD's she played. She was just glad that bizarre movie projector went on hiatus, and she didn't have to deal with its terrors.

The closer she drew to St. Paul, the more tense she got, though. It was always like this, every time she went to see Marie. This would be her fifth appointment, and by the time she was in the waiting room, she felt the same dread. She knew that once she was settled in the low brown chair for a few minutes, it would ease, but for now, she was on edge.

And for this session, being on edge was where she stayed. In the previous four sessions, Marie had been warm and supportive. Today, however, the therapist was just a little bit different, and Dez felt like she was being scrutinized much more closely than before. After a series of pointed questions, the dark-haired woman finally lost her patience. "What the hell do you want from me, huh?"

"I want you to talk to me, Dez. I want you to tell me what happened on that night in June last year. I want details."

With exasperation, she said, "What more do you need to know? We went on a call. This nut case had shot someone in the restaurant. We gave chase, and as we exited the building, Ryan was shot. He went down, but said he was okay. I went after the suspect, collared him, and brought him back. Ryan was dead." She paused, giving Marie a scowl. "That's it. What else can I say that you don't already know from the reports?"

Marie gave a half-smile. "Once more with feeling, Dez. The reports don't tell me your feelings."

"What's the point? None of my feelings will change the fact that Ryan is dead."

"But you are haunted by it."

Dez glared at her. "Well, I wouldn't go that far, but it's not a pleasant memory."

"How often do you see it in your head - in your waking life and in nightmares?"

The tall cop looked away.

"Listen to me, Dez. When a person is exposed to trauma like this - especially when it touched on someone for whom you cared very much - you tend to experience symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder."

"What? I don't have that. That's crazy - it's like a - a mental disease."

"Do you think you're crazy?"

"No."

"But you have all the symptoms - the dreams, sleep difficulties, anxiety, hypervigilance. I'm trying to get you to understand that you do have PTSD. Many cops and firefighters and paramedics experience it in response to catastrophes."

Dez's eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward in the chair, ready to flee the room. "You're saying I'm crazy? Mentally ill?"

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean, 'Not exactly'? You think I'm crazy?"

"Do you think I'm crazy? After all, I have PTSD."

"What?" Dez was totally confused. Her legs suddenly felt weak, and she let herself lean back in the chair. "What are you talking about?"

Marie got up from her chair and walked over to a shelf. "I've been meaning to give this to you." She picked up a book and brought it with her back to her seat. She held it in her lap and met Dez's eyes. "You need to read a little bit about PTSD and deadly force encounters to take in some of the concepts. I'll be doing some workshops for your department throughout the year, too, so you'll be a step ahead of some of the others." She handed the book to the tall cop.

Dez didn't look at the book. She just set it on top of her coat next to the chair. "Now just wait a minute. Let's get back to the PTSD business. You're saying I have that?"

"Yes."

She crossed her arms. "How the hell can you know that?"

Marie looked at her, pursed her lips, and then looked up at the ceiling. She cleared her throat. "Okay, I'll make you a deal. Answer me one question, as honestly and fully as you can, Dez, and then I will tell you how I know that."

"Fine. What's the question?"

Marie met her gaze, and in a slow, measured voice said, "How did it feel to come back to that restaurant and find your best friend lying dead in the dark in a puddle of blood?"

The shock of the question, phrased so cruelly, hit Dez in the chest, sucking all the wind out of her. She couldn't have gotten up to leave if she had wanted to. She choked in some air, closed her eyes. And that little projector began to run inside her head. She saw the still figure, felt her dizziness and nausea, compounded by the aura of fuzzy darkness all around her. Lights flashed. She heard muffled sounds.

"Dez?"

She opened her eyes and realized she wanted to go across the table and choke the life out of Marie. She couldn't move. She could hardly breathe. Instead, she spoke in a soft voice. "It felt unreal."

"Unreal in what way?"

"Like it wasn't really happening. Like it was a bad dream. I didn't believe it - didn't believe them."

"Who?"

"The other cops and paramedics."

"Close your eyes, Dez, and talk me through what's happening in your head. How do you feel - what do you see and hear? What pictures are you seeing?"

Dez choked back tears. "Please don't make me do that."

"I can't make you do anything ... but if you can, please, will you try?"

The dark-haired woman closed her eyes. The projector was still running, and over the pounding of her heart, she tried to explain what she saw and felt. It was all a jumble and didn't seem to make any sense to her, but she tried to recount it as best she could. After a while, she became too distraught to go on and just kept her eyes closed while she cried.

She sat for several minutes with her face in her hands until she felt something touch her thighs. Looking down, she saw that Marie had put a box of tissues in her lap, and then the curly-haired woman went over to the kitchen area. Dez heard the microwave running and a minute later a ding. She pulled some Kleenex out of the box and wiped her eyes, then blew her nose. Keeping a couple tissues in her hand, she set the box back on the table.

Marie moved around in the galley kitchen, shutting a drawer and rustling paper, and then came over carrying two mugs, one of Minnie Mouse, and the other a plain white mug. She set both mugs down on the coffee table.

"I made you some peppermint tea."

As soon as the therapist said that, the mint aroma reached the tall cop. "Thank you." She picked up the white mug and blew on the surface of the warm liquid. She took a sip and felt a pang because the tea was sweet which made her think of Jaylynn.

Marie settled in across from her with one foot tucked behind one knee. "Have you shared any of this with anyone?" When the dark-haired woman gave her a quizzical look, the therapist said, "A friend? You mother? A work buddy?"

Dez shook her head and sighed. "No. Raina Goldman knows a little about it. But no one else."

"Why not?"