"What??"

"Nothing's where it's supposed to be!" Simmons was mid-forearm deep, straining. "Lemme see those d.a.m.ned X-rays!" He stopped. "No, wait! I got it!"

He took the muscle in his hand, squeezed it. Her heart squeezed back.

And Jane opened her eyes.

Tanya stared down, aghast. Jane looked right through her, her eyes fixed on some inner distance. Tears welled in her eyes, rolled down her cheeks. "s.h.i.t, SHE'S AWAKE!!" Tanya cried.

Across the room, bedlam. "WHAT THE f.u.c.k?" Brinks yelled. "DAMMIT, KEEP HER UNDER!"

"How?"

"Another ten milligrams of morphine!"

"But . . ."

"DO IT!".

Tanya grabbed another dose, fed it into the loop. Jane went under again. Just as her eyes closed the cardiac monitor went off: a piercing alarm slicing through the chaos of the room.

"SHE'S FLATLINING!".

The team watched in horror as the sagging peaks dropped off, disappeared entirely. "Motherf.u.c.ker!" Simmons spat, sliding his hand out of the hole. This was insane. "Prep for direct cardiac shock, set it for twenty-five joules."

Nurse Hillary appeared beside him, a pair of surgical steel paddles in her hands. The paddles were cabled to the electroshock machine, a squat gray box on a rolling cart. She set the dial, handed him the paddles. Everyone braced themselves: direct shock was potentially lethal. Too much juice would burn her heart, literally cook the muscle inside her chest.

Simmons grabbed the paddles, quickly slid one inside the chest cavity and positioned it over the heart, then placed the other on her breastbone. Simmons backed off, as everyone held their collective breath.

"CLEAR!!".

There was a sizzling buzz as the current hit home. Jane's body arched and stiffened on the table. The jolt shut off; Jane collapsed back onto the table. A ripple rocked her flesh like an earthquake aftershock, spreading through her extremities.

On the monitor, nothing. The alarm wailed maddeningly.

"d.a.m.n!" Simmons yelled. "Increase voltage to thirty joules!"

"You'll fry her!" Brinks argued.

"She's dead anyway! DO IT!!!"

Hillary upped the voltage. Simmons repositioned the paddles. "Ready," he said, standing back.

"CLEAR!!".

Another searing jolt, followed by a faint burning smell. The room went deathly still.

Then, on the monitor, a spike.

A cheer went up as another followed, then another. The peaks grew higher, gaining strength.

Yes.

The team breathed a collective sigh of relief, watching her vital signs climb back onto the charts and then set about the task of holding that hard-won ground. Pulse, respiration, blood pressure: all began, bit by bit, to normalize. Her blue color faded, was restored to its previous deathly pallor.

But as they worked, Tanya was struck by the palpable silence that had now fallen over the team. This was not a typical reaction to success. Ordinarily, a victory over these kinds of odds would inspire jubilation. But these people seemed troubled; and even more, they seemed confused.

It was a reaction she completely understood. She felt exactly the same way. And all you needed was one look around the room to see that the perception was unanimous. The faraway look in Dr. Simmons's eyes suggested he'd switched over to autopilot now: wheels were spinning in his head, already groping for plausible theories. Brinks kept furtively glancing at Simmons; he smelled medical history in the making, was hoping that he'd find a way in.

The eye contact between Parker and Hines, the techies, was just a little more naked. What the h.e.l.l is going on? was what they wanted to know. That went double for the orderlies-especially that lip-flapping weasel Mancini, who kept sneaking little inquisitory looks around the room.

What the h.e.l.l is going on? It was an excellent question. And she had little doubt that, once it hit the rumor mill, it would take Huntington Memorial by storm. She could practically smell the buzz already, and it hadn't even left the room.

Because n.o.body could have survived all that damage, much less the procedures it had taken to bring her through. Not to mention the weird blood, the improbable X-rays, the skewed location of the heart. In the heat of the moment, there'd been too much going on to stop and hold a discussion group; but she knew that everybody here was quietly keeping score. This wasn't good luck and a strong const.i.tution. This was Ripley's Believe It or Not.

Already, Jane Doe's readings were pegging up and holding, coming on strong. You should be dead, Tanya found herself thinking again.

And as they prepared to take her up to surgery, Tanya wondered gravely about the ordeal this woman faced. Simmons would want answers, that much was for certain. And then everybody would want their piece of the pie. It was no fun being a medical anomaly; there would be tests-lots and lots of tests-plus endless, exhaustive monitoring. If they thought they had a live one here, her little odyssey through the American health care system had only just begun.

Poor girl, she thought, as they wheeled the woman out. Recovery would be the least of her worries. I don't envy you this part one bit.

Then the elevator came, and it was out of her hands.

I have to ask you something, he said, and she told him she would tell him what she could. He nodded and buried his shovel in the mud once again.

He said: you have to tell me what I am.

The old woman was silent for a time. Her pain was palpable, as was her anger. He waited, while the rain continued to fall. He was knee-deep now. It would soon be dawn.

He tossed up a shovelful of mud, sank the blade deep again. At last, she spoke.

We are what we are, she said, because we know we are.

Another shovelful, another pause. And me? he asked.

What you are, she told him, remains to be seen.

He kept digging. The ground kept bleeding back into the hole, mud and runoff from the infinite rain. The woods hissed and rustled around them. His arms were numb. His back was numb. He continued to dig, tried not to blame himself for thinking so slowly. He had to keep reminding himself that he was still in shock.

I'm sorry, he said. I don't understand.

We're creatures of imagination and will, as much as of flesh and blood, she explained. The power to Change sleeps in everyone.

But not everyone is a wolf he said.

No, she said. Not everyone.

He threw another shovelful, forced himself to ask the next question: so what was she?

She, the old woman replied, was out of control.

The hole grew deeper. On the ground beside him, Nora's corpse lay sprawled across a piece of tarpaulin. A solitary Coleman lantern hissed and glowed, the only illumination for miles around. It cast harsh shadows on the body, the pulsing light making the shadows dance. The body had changed much in the last several hours: discolored and bloated, swollen from the rain. She was almost human. But not quite.

He found it very hard to look at her.

How do we die? was what he finally asked.

The old woman shivered, a gaunt silhouette. It's not mysterious, she told him. We're still mortal. When you cut us, we bleed. We live long, and heal quickly. But we die in the end, just like everything else.

And we can be killed.

The inference hung heavy in the air. Syd said nothing, kept digging the hole.

How did Jane's parents die? he asked.

She shivered again, went on to explain. Mae's daughter Clarisse and her husband, Corey. Gunned down in the mountains, by poachers. It was pretty much just like Jane had said, only she'd neglected to mention that they were actually wolves at the time.

So they didn't need silver bullets, he said. Gramma Mae looked away, shaking her head.

Don't believe everything you see in the movies, she told him. No full moon. No gypsy curses. The Change was not a curse; she couldn't stress that enough. Not unless they caught you, or you lost control. The Change was a blessing.

Albeit a blessing in disguise . . .

Syd threw another shovelful of mud clear of the hole. He was having a hard time seeing it that way. He kept thinking about Jane, with her belly slashed and shredded. Kept thinking about Jane, and the wolf in the woods.

Kept thinking about Nora, and the function of the hole that he was digging.

It was cold. Soon, the old woman would have to go inside. Her face was streaked. Tears, rain. It was impossible to tell. She had suffered, too, in many ways more than him. She had certainly suffered longer.

There were a few more things he needed to hear.

Has she always known what she was?

All her life, came the answer. The power came with maturity, she explained, like the ability to conceive. But she has always known.

The shovel came up, went down again. Why didn't she tell me?

She didn't know you, she said flatly. And she didn't know if you could be trusted. She looked away, into the shadows.

Already, you're dangerous.

He flinched at the brutal truth of it. The earth was bleeding back into itself, trying to fill the hole. He had to keep digging. He was almost done.

It shouldn't have happened this way, she said.

And he told her, I'm sorry.

The hole deepened. He struggled against exhaustion, wondered if there was anything else he needed to ask her. But it was she who posed the next and most important question: do you love her?

The digging stopped.

And at first, he thought she meant Nora, and he was horrified by the thought of having to confront his feelings: not right now; not right here; not in front of Gramma Mae.

But, no, that wasn't what she'd meant at all. The question she asked was far easier to answer.

And far more important, in the final a.n.a.lysis.

Yes, he said. Yes, I do.

She watched him a moment, then nodded. There was nothing more that needed to be said. Gramma Mae turned, started back toward the house. He watched her stooped gray form recede, went back to his digging. Just before she melded into the shadows she stopped, turned to him.

Your heart is the key, she said.

Guard it well.

And then she was gone, and he was alone: in the dark, in the rain, in a muddy bleeding hole that he diligently carved from out of the mountainside, while Nora's body slowly decayed beside him. Now that he was alone again, he felt the presence of that body more than ever.

Look at it, said a voice in his head.

No, he answered, out loud, digging in harder. Digging in deeper. Mud flew from his shovel and trickled back in. The war against nature was a losing battle. And yet he had no choice.

Look at it. The voice was adamant.

He shook his head, dug in. The voice was intimate and knowing. You want to know what you are? You want to know WHO you are?

He shook his head. Digging and digging and digging.

Take a good hard look at who you are.

Digging it nice and deep.

Do you still love her? That question again, unblunted by mercy. The shovel came down, came up again. The earth's blood ran.

Do you?

The voice was cold, incredibly cruel. He stared down at the hole. It was up to his hips. It was starting to flood. He paused to wipe his face. Tears, rain. It was impossible to tell.

DO YOU???.

And it was hard, oh yes it was, to bring himself to look. But every second he waited, it just got harder. Such was the nature of fear. He had always known that. He knew it now, more than ever.