And, luckily for me, Dr. Ken Miles happened.

"I know you're in here, Elizabeth. You can't hide from me all night-"

I heard him before I saw him. He was, again speaking loudly; but this time I didn't mind. In fact, I could have kissed him at that moment. It likely would have been a peck on the cheek, but still a kiss nevertheless.

She spun toward his voice, and I didn't hesitate to act. Dr. Ken Miles-Ken-stopped abruptly at the entrance and stumbled back a step, obviously when he saw the gun. His hands flew up to cover his face, and he screamed in a way that reminded me of a little girl.

I felt lightening in my veins, and I used her temporary state of distraction to grab the coffee pot. With strength, speed, and agility I didn't know I possessed, I bounded to her in three steps and bashed the side of her face with the pot. It made contact with her temple and shattered, hot coffee and glass shards raining down on her like justice.

She screamed. This time it was with pain. Her arms came up in an automatic response to fend off any additional attack and swipe at the wound.

I was surprised that the force of the impact against her temple didn't immediately knock her out, but wasted no time dwelling on it. Instead I tackled her, and the gun dropped to the ground-fired off one round-then skidded across the floor toward Ken.

"Oh my god!" I faintly registered Ken's shrieked exclamation as I struggled to keep the crazy woman from throwing me off.

"Get the gun, Ken!" I ordered him as her fist swung around and nearly collided with my jaw, missing by millimeters.

I couldn't waste time or attention on whether Ken followed through because, in the few seconds that passed since my assault with the coffee carafe, Fancy Stalker had mostly recovered her bearings and was swinging like a champion cage fighter. I dodged a right hook, but then collapsed as her knee connected with my stomach. Her fist pounded my kidney, and suddenly I couldn't draw breath.

"Stop!" As though from a great distance I heard Ken's voice, but I couldn't focus on it. I was in crazy pain. I couldn't think. I could only roll to the side and hope the next blow she landed didn't hurt as much as the first two.

The gun went off again, and I winced at the thunderclap, then ringing between my ears.

"I said stop!"

But she didn't stop. She lifted her fist as though to disfigure my face, her gray eyes beyond insanity and firmly on the line of animalistic. I braced myself for it, for her knuckles. But they never came.

Instead the gun went off a third time, and her left side whipped around, as though she'd been struck. Awed, I watched her stumble backward then fall to her knees. Her eyes were no longer on me. Instead her head was tipped down, her hand covering a spot on her abdomen where blood was seeping through her fingertips.

I blinked at her and time did that thing again, where it both slowed down and sped up. Once minute I was watching her, her movements slow motion almost to the point of stillness. Then, suddenly, I was on my knees next to her fallen body. I'd taken off my lab coat and bunched it up, used it to stem the flow of blood from her side.

There were other people present as well-Dan, Meg, Ken, as well as several ER triage nurses and other faceless colleagues of mine. The nurses immediately reacted, issued orders, pulled me away from her and placed me into the strong embrace of somebody.

It didn't occur to me to find out who that somebody was until several moments later, after the stalker had been loaded onto a stretcher and carried to the Operating Room. I glanced up at the owner of the arms and found Dan looking at me with plain concern and visible regret.

His brown eyes, usually so guarded, were soft and sincere, and he held me, didn't seem to mind that I was getting blood all over his nice suit.

"Dr. Finney, Elizabeth, I'm so sorry. I never should have left."

"Shh. No, no, it was my idea. I-I shouldn't have . . ." I shook my head, unable to finish the sentence, my brain no longer capable of forming words.

Instead I leaned into him, wrapped my arms around him, thankful for the comfort, but all the while wishing he were someone else.

The police came. In fact, a lot of police came. I gave a statement. Ken gave his statement. And, when it was time for Meg to give her statement, I punched her in the face.

It took both Ken and Dan holding me back to keep from giving her a second black eye.

Ken pulled me aside, and Dan hovered at my shoulder. "Elizabeth, are you okay?"

I nodded, flexed my hand. I noted absentmindedly that none of the police officers seemed at all concerned that I'd just assaulted someone.

Ken nodded, pulled his hand through his curly blond hair. "I just wanted to say, I wanted to tell you . . ." His eyes bored into mine with surprising intensity, and then he frowned as though just deciding something. "But none of that's important now. We should just-let's just agree to be friends again, normal friends."

He stuck out his hand, and, after only a brief pause, I accepted it in mine. We shook.

"Good," he said, still frowning. "Good."

I nodded. "Yeah. Good. And thanks, by the way, for . . ." I glanced around the break room, the blood and coffee on the floor. "Thanks for shooting her."

Ken grimaced and sighed. "I was actually aiming for her knee."

I didn't respond, but I'd wanted to tell him that I didn't care where he'd shot her, I was just thankful that he did. I was thankful to be alive.

I was sent home shortly thereafter with instructions to take off my Tuesday afternoon shift. However, I was asked to return for the evening shift at 11:00 p.m. Dan argued against this, argued with me as we left. He expressed his opinion quite loudly that I needed time off to recover, and, at the very least, I needed to see a therapist or a trauma counselor. In fact, during the entire drive back to my building he ranted that I was a ridiculous and unreasonable person and, therefore, when I collapsed from exhaustion it would serve me right.

I could only shake my head-which hurt like the devil-and try to pacify him in small ways.

What he didn't understand and what most laypeople don't get is that you can't call in sick when you're an emergency room physician, especially not in an inner-city Chicago trauma center. There are no mental health days. If you don't show up, people suffer, people die. Sure, sometimes the hospital can find a replacement in a true emergency. But my situation wasn't an emergency.

I could walk, talk, and think. I could see patients.

In the end I made a few concessions. I agreed to make every attempt to reduce my shifts over the next two weeks, I further agreed to ask Dr. Botstein to allow me a few extra days off. By the time I arrived at the penthouse door it was close to three in the morning, and I likely would have agreed to hosting a panty dance party for all of Quinn's security and body guards.

I wondered what it was about life and death situations that bonded people in such an indescribable, intangible way. I now felt that Dan and I would be friends for the rest of our lives. We had no choice in the matter. We had an understanding, a shared situation. There was no escape.

We stared at each other in the hall for a full half-minute then abruptly he pulled me into a hug. "You're an idiot," he whispered in my ear, his Townie accent suddenly thick and unmistakable.

I laughed. "Thanks."

Dan pulled away and physically set me inside the penthouse, much like he'd physically set me inside the doctors' lounge earlier. "For God's sake, please talk to someone. If you wait too long you'll be wrong in the head."

"I'm already wrong in the head."

"Yeah, but you're funny wrong in the head. I don't want you to be basket-case wrong in the head."

My mouth hooked to the side. "Because you like me?"

"No. Because basket cases are the worst people to guard. I don't need that shit."

I laughed lightly as he reached forward for the door knob, essentially pushing me into the apartment, and closed the door.

I stood in the entranceway for several long minutes, dazed, then tiptoed to Nico's bedroom, careful not to wake up Rose or Angelica. The first thing I did was strip off my clothes and take the longest shower in the history of forever. The second thing I did was brush my teeth. The third thing I did was lay in Nico's bed and surround myself with his pillows.

And, predictably, I couldn't sleep.

I didn't mention the episode with the stalker to Rose during Angelica's infusion that morning. But I did ask her the favor of borrowing her cell phone. She happily agreed, obviously feeling guilt-free about ignoring Nico's text request from Sunday.

I called Nico's cell, and it went straight to voicemail, which I expected. When the beep sounded I took a deep breath and said, "Nico, it's me. I'm using your mom's cell phone because mine was . . . broken last night. I'm not sure if you already heard from Dan or Quinn about what happened, but I wanted to tell you, talk to you about it so, if you could call me back that would be great. I'm on your mom's phone . . . bye." I glanced at the phone, I didn't hang up. After a short moment I brought it back to my ear. "I love you."

Then, I hung up. I tossed the phone to the bed and sat on the edge, my elbows on my knees, my face in my hands. I breathed out then in, strangely aware of the feeling, the sensation of breathing.

While I listened to myself breathe, my brain and heart abruptly reached an accord: I was going to fight for Nico and that was that. I was going to push, play games, and fight dirty. And if he ultimately left me, if he didn't want me in the end, I would be devastated and heartbroken and want to drink scotch alone while listening to Radiohead. But I would live.

And, after just living for a bit, I would start eating alphabet soup.

Even if Nico and I didn't end up together I would always be grateful to him for helping me realize love was a choice that I was capable of making just as much as it was a risk I was capable of taking. I was older and wiser and wouldn't enter into it lightly because I knew now how precious it was.

I was yanked out of my odd meditation by a buzzing on the bed next to me. Rose's cell was ringing. I grabbed for it, swiped my thumb across the screen, brought it to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Oh, thank God, Elizabeth!"

My heart jumped, my eyes immediately stung from tears of happy relief. "Nico." His name was a prayer of thanksgiving. I fell backward on the bed, surrounded again by his pillows, the smell of cologne; all of it now paired with this voice.

He cursed for a while. He ranted for a while after that about Quinn and incompetence and guard dogs and semiautomatic weapons. I just let the sound of his voice wash over me, a miraculous soothing balm for the largest wound-missing him.

After a bit he calmed, quieted. I heard him sigh on the other end. "I don't know what I would've done if . . ." He sighed again, his voice thick with emotion. "I can't even say it."

I nodded. "I know. I know how you feel. Nico, I can't stand this. I can't stand being away from you, you not taking my calls. Can we just forget about the last few days? Please? Can we forget about me losing my temper on Friday and the stupid, awful things I said?"

My entreaty was met with silence. I worried my lip. Waited.

"Nico?"

I glanced at the phone screen to make sure the call hadn't been dropped. Sure enough, the call was still live.

"Nico? Are you there?"

"I'm here."

My heart plummeted, crashed to the earth with each protracted second of silence. I closed my eyes because I knew what his silence meant.

"I can't believe it. I can't . . . I can't believe you're still going to make me wait, after what happened. You're going to make me wait until you come back next week, aren't you?"

"Elizabeth, listen to me. You just went through a terrible trauma, because of me. Because of who I am, what I do-"

"No! I just went through a terrible trauma because a crazy person decided to hold me at gun point. You aren't responsible for putting that weapon in her hand."

"There's something I haven't told you. She and I, we, I dated her."

"I know. She told me when she had me trapped. If she hadn't been holding a gun I might have scratched her eyes out."

He ignored my attempt at brevity. "It was just once, just one time. She wouldn't leave me alone after that."

"Is that why you wanted to be with me? Girl A? Because girl C might be cray-cray? Are you settling for me because you know I don't-"

"No! I want to be with you because I-I can't. . ." He man-sighed, I heard a loud whack then crash as though he'd hit something and it broke. "I don't want to push you. I've already done that and now you almost-you could have died."

"Nico, we're going around in circles. You're not responsible for what she did."

"But I'm responsible for wanting to be with you, for introducing all this craziness into your life. The paparazzi, the media, the stalker? Those are because of me."

I sniffled, determined not to cry. These tears would be tears of frustration and anger. I couldn't lose it, not yet, not when I had him on the phone, not when we were talking for the first time in days.

"Being with you is my decision."

"You said yourself that I pushed you into this."

"I was out of my mind with worry! I was reacting without thinking-"

"You need time-"

"I need you!" I growled at him, at the phone. I was suddenly angry with the phone because it felt like a barrier between us.

Again I was met with silence.

I huffed, dug my nails into my palm as a reminder to stay calm. "Nico . . . listen to me." My voice wavered, shook dangerously. I had to take three calming breaths before I could continue. "Yes, I did just go through something terrible; there was a minute, a moment where I thought that I might die."

Nico cursed again. It was a whispered curse, both impressive in creativity and vehemence.

I continued. "And when you go through something like that you realize what is really important, what matters, right?" I paused, hoped he would fill in the blank before I said it. When he remained silent I supplied the answer. "You. You matter. We matter. We belong together. You've known it for eleven years and I've known it for five days. You can't take this away from us."

"I'm not." He didn't sound at all convinced of his own words. My heart constricted painfully. "I'm giving you the space and time to be sure, to be certain. I'm sorry for not returning your calls, I wanted to-you can't know how much-but I'm trying to do the right thing."

"You're pushing me away."

"I'm not pushing you away!" His voice rose; I could sense his frustration through the phone. "Do you think I like this? Do you think this is easy for me? It's not! It's fucking hell!"

"Then why?"

"Because, regardless of why you said it, you were right. You were right about everything, especially when you said that you never wanted this, never wanted me." It hurt to hear him repeat the words back to me. I hated myself for saying them. I hated my short temper.

"I even admitted it to you last week, at your knitting group. I told you I was playing this as a game to win. I don't want you to be with me and then leave me when you realize what life will be like, with the paparazzi, with all the crazies. I want you to be certain. And we can't build something on a shaky foundation. We can't be together because I pushed you into it."

"Why?" My voice cracked. "Why don't you believe me?"

"Elizabeth . . ." He paused. For a second I thought he was going to hang up, but then he continued. "I'm not walking away. I'm not pushing you away. I'll be back next week and we'll talk about what comes next."

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying anything else because I could feel my mounting anger, the next words out of my mouth would likely be ill-advised, reckless, and hateful. I needed to calm down.

"I love you." His voice was soft, like a lovely caress. I knew he meant it.

My tears burst free with a suddenness that surprised me. I closed my eyes again at the onslaught and managed to respond in an extremely watery voice. "If you love me then stop hurting me."