This was, in fact, the same view she'd had of Jack McCallum the first time they'd met, when they'd both been ER residents in San Francisco General Hospital. He had been standing at the nurses' station, writing in a chart, his broad shoulders sloping fatigue, his hair ruffled as though he'd just rolled out of bed. In fact, he had, it was the morning after a hectic night on call, though he was unshaven and bleary-eyed, when he'd turned and looked at her for the first time, the attraction between them had been instantaneous.

Now Jack was ten years older, his dark hair was threaded with gray, and fatigue was once again weighing down on his shoulders.

She had not seen him in three weeks, had spoken to him only briefly on the phone a few days ago, a conversation that had deteriorated into yet another noisy disagreement. These days they not seem to be reasonable with each other, could not carry on a civilized conversation, however brief.

So it was with apprehension that she continued down the hall in his direction.

Hank Millar spotted her first, and his face instantly tensed, as though he knew a battle was imminent, and he wanted to get the hell out of there before the shooting started. Jack must have seen the change in Hank's expression as well, because he turned to see what had inspired it.

At his first glimpse of Emma, he seemed to freeze, a spontaneous smile of greeting half-formed on his face. It was almost, but not quite, a look of both surprise and gladness to see her. Then something else took control, and his smile vanished, replaced by look that was neither friendly nor unfriendly, merely neutral. face of a stranger, she thought, and that was somehow more than if he had greeted her with outright hostility. At least then would've been some emotion left, some remnant, however tattered, of a marriage that had once been happy.