Before he knew it, Paul Garner had watched several men load his youngest son onto a stretcher and into the back of an emergency vehicle. The last time he had watched from his current position, he had found himself kissing the same son in welcome to the world as he kissed his wife goodbye for the last time. He felt the loss of Marissa as well and dreaded the responsibility that he felt to bear the news to her parents. Without his permission, his head fell into his hands, and he began to weep.

"Pop," came Carl's deep, calming voice. "Pop, Mr. Crenshaw is here to drive you to the hospital."

Professor Garner looked up into the face of the man into whose friendship he had found himself thrown over the previous few days, but the man could offer no solace except the compassion of an outsider. Still, when Paul glanced into the waiting car and caught sight of the devastated Barbara, he finally felt stirred to something besides self-pity.

"Barbara," he consoled, and when she looked up into his face, he couldn't restrain himself from wrapping her in a hug. For the next several moments, neither of them spoke. Finally, she turned back to her father, and Paul was left watching the consolation from the outside.

When the car arrived at the hospital, Mario rushed out to greet his father.

"I'm so sorry -" Mario began.

"Just don't say anything," Professor Garner cut him off. "I need to just get this over with. I need to see my son."

"But Pop," Mario pushed, "that's the thing. You can't see him."

The professor felt a hint of his old indignation rising to the surface under his usual calm demeanor. "If they tell me I can't see my son, they are going to have to call the police to restrain me. What? Are they afraid I'll contaminate the evidence? I want to see my son." His voice rose, and Mario knew he needed to intervene before his father got himself in trouble unnecessarily.

"Even if you interrupt the surgeons? Even if it endangers Tony's life?"

After he had said it, Mario almost regretted his impetuousness, because he saw his father stumble backwards, and if the wall had not impeded his descent, Paul Garner would have fallen to the ground. "Tony's not dead?" he choked out the question.

"He's hurt really badly, Father, but he's alive."

For the second time in his adult life, Mario Garner saw his father cry, and he understood completely. When he had arrived at the hospital and heard the news, Mario had wanted to cry as well, but he had felt more compelled to talk to the doctor and find out the details.

Tony had sustained a bullet wound to the shoulder, which, except for risk of infection, would have proven minor. Unfortunately, though, it had struck a minor artery and caused him to lose a lot of blood. Mario recognized the look of hope on his father's face, and he almost hated to see it there.

"Father," he pressed gently. "He's still in a lot of danger. These surgeries fail as often as they work."

Despite Mario's attempt to rein in his father's enthusiasm, Paul Garner still looked elated, and Mario didn't understand the reaction from the usually down to earth college professor.

"Mario," the professor actually smiled at his middle son, "twenty-one years ago, I watched as doctors wheeled my wife into a room like that." He nodded toward the room marked "surgery," and Mario's heart twisted in pain at the childhood memory, so dim to him now. "At the time, I knew that I had little hope for a good outcome. She would more likely die from an infection than from the injuries she sustained in the street. Still, she needed the help, and it didn't work. A lot of things have changed in two decades. I have a little more faith," the professor reach to place his hand on his son's, "that things can work out. Besides, I thought my son was dead and now he's alive. There is always hope."

From the nearby hallway, Mario heard a sob, and since his father seemed entranced in his own thoughts, Mario stood to investigate. He found what he had suspected; a huddled mass standing a few feet from the door, dressed impeccably in bird's egg blue. Unfortunately, Mario didn't really know how to help her. He didn't blame her – he didn't. Still, he couldn't quite divorce himself from the fact that she had made the choices that led to his brother's shooting. Besides, denying the reality would do her a disservice.

He couldn't ignore her though, not now that he had seen her there. "Barbara?" he ventured, though he had no idea what would follow. The very faults he could blame her for produced the same things he loved her for. When she pulled away from him, Mario could only hover in indecision. "Are you okay?" he finally offered lamely.

With a knowing smile, she turned and peered at him through wet lashes. "Mario, what right do I have to be okay? I brought this on all of you, and I deserve any pain I feel. In fact," she scoffed, "I deserve all the pain you feel, and I deserve to be on that table with my life hanging in the balance."

Mario glanced down at the ground, ashamed that the same thoughts had passed through his mind a few times. In truth, he didn't believe them. After they had injected themselves into his brain, his first realization told him that, no, Angus Moran and Carson McReynolds held responsibility for the shooting; them and the shooter. In fact, he had realized, the real fault lay as much with the men of the town as with Barbara. Most women didn't or couldn't vote; their population had only recently gained the right, and many men still wouldn't let their wives vote.

So, who should have stood up against the Angus Morans and the Carson McReynoldses?

Men like himself and his father; Jerome Weathers had done it -even Tony - but two men couldn't stop an army. Some police fought them, but some protected them. The whole situation had to change, but that would only happen when others like himself quit hiding away in their intellectual caves and began to do the hard work required to change things. Looking at Barbara now, he saw a woman with limited means trying to overcome a system that held unlimited resources. All things considered, she had done surprisingly well, and Mario should blame himself along with every other man in town.

"So do I, Barbara..." he finally comforted her.

"You didn't throw an innocent girl to the wolves," she spat out him.

No doubt, she expected some consolation, but Mario could offer none. Instead, he grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him. "Didn't I?" His anger matched hers. "Everything that you said was right; someone needed to do something about this. Maybe you were wrong about exactly how, but what options were left you? Marissa gave you an opportunity to say what everyone thought but wouldn't say. You had no intention of throwing her to the wolves, but your hands weren't exactly free to work in the best way."

If he correctly read the relief on her face, she had not considered the possibility that blame lay with anyone else. The thought seemed to bring her, not peace, but a measure of solace.

"I've just watched my dad for so many years," she explained, still dabbing at tears, "and he seemed so powerless to change anything, even though he had won his elections. When Marissa showed us how powerful words could be, I just thought someone should use them to do something."

"And someone should," Mario agreed. "Our mistake was not publishing those lists. Our mistake was going behind Marissa's back."

An unexpected sob broke from Barbara's lips, and even when Mario peered down at her, he could not guess at her new reason for misery. When she tried to speak, Mario wrapped her up in his arms and squeezed her until he feared he might crack a rib. That she had lived for even a moment with the personal burden that she bore broke his heart. "It's going to work out okay, Barbara," he tried to comfort her. "Don't beat yourself up."

"Okay?" Barbara had hissed. "It's never going to be okay again! Marissa is dead. How exactly can that work out?"

As he spoke the words, he felt her melt from rock-hard ice into warm putty in his arms. "Marissa isn't dead, Sweetheart," he soothed. "She hit her head when Tony pushed her to the ground, and she was knocked out. Other than a bad headache, she'll be fine in a couple of days."

Barbara stared up into his face with wistful elation before dissolving into tears again. This time Mario didn't interfere except with the comfort of his arms. He recognized the weeping of relief that enveloped her the second time around. By the time she calmed, Mario could lead her quietly by the hand into the room where they would all wait for the news of Tony's fate.

***********

For a full minute, Marissa lay with her eyes closed, smelling the unfamiliar scents that surrounded her. She could hear the shuffle of feet nearby, and she recognized the cool, slight scratch of new sheets against her skin. She didn't like the sensations that seemed to float in under her closed eyelids and through her gradually wakening senses. Mostly, she didn't like the stab of pain in her head that seemed to slice past every other feeling she could discern.

"Not yet, Miss Erinson," the unfamiliar voice broke into her sightless observations, and uncomfortable with the lack of information, she wrenched open her eyes. Of course, if she had taken the time to process the data she had taken in before, she would have known her location without seeing it for certain.

The shallow firmness of the hospital mattress, the iodine scent, the occasional rustle of papers as the nurse read her chart: just the realization of her location made Marissa want to jump up and flee. When she took in the white walls and the tray of tools, though, the memory of her last waking moments flooded back and effectively pinned her to the bed.

From within her mind came the memory of the fresh scent of air as she tried to memorize its invigorating thrill for the last time, the sound of far off hooves mingled with car horns where they honked at the slower travelers, the cool shadows of the buildings as they melted into the warm sunlight. Never had she so wanted to experience them, never had they meant so much, and never had she known that she would experience them no more.

I've been shot, she realized as her hand flew to the bandage that covered the stab of pain in her head. Wait, I’m alive!

"Now, don't touch that," the nurse rushed over and intercepted Marissa's fingers before she could fiddle with the tape or the gauze.

"But how am I alive?" Marissa voiced her shock.

A low chuckle emitted from the nurse, and Marissa stared up in disbelief.

"Sweetheart, people have survived much worse falls than that. I hardly think that you would die from a gash and a bruise."

When the realization finally struck her, Marissa sat bolt upright. "Can I have a mirror?" she begged aloud.

"Well, now, of course, but don't get all worried. The cut is high on your head, and any scar will probably blend in with your hair. The doctor did a fine job sewing you up."

As she spoke, the nurse turned to a table behind her and retrieved a hand-held mirror. Marissa took it from her, and what Marissa saw confirmed the inexplicable.

"I was shot from behind," she said aloud, though merely in thought, not as a solicitation of news. "How is the wound in the front?"

Had it entered in the back and come out the front? she asked herself with a sense of horror.

"You weren't shot," the nurse answered Marissa's ponderings. "That brave young man took the bullet. You just hit your head, though hard enough to knock you out for a while and to need stitches. Actually, you would have awakened a few hours ago, but the doctor gave you something to help you sleep. He said you could use some extra time to recover."

Again, her last few minutes of consciousness rushed through her mind, and Marissa tried to remember what had happened as she heard the crack of the bullet. She remembered. She felt his arms around her; she felt herself falling. She saw the ground rising to meet her. She felt the pain of impact - the pain hadn't come until impact! At the time, it had meant nothing. How could she process such a small anomaly when she saw death so close at hand?

That brave young man took the bullet.

The words hit Marissa with the force of the bullet she had escaped. Stupid boy! she reprimanded, a sob welling up from her gut. For several moments, she could only cry, her vision obscured by a blue haze of misery. Why had he done it? What had he done?

All that time he had wasted protecting her; he should have spent it better! Now, her stupidity had cost him his life! She should never have left her parents. She shouldn't have tried to make it on her own. Most of all, she shouldn't have written those articles. True, she hadn't known about the lists, but her stories gave Barbara and Mario the venue. If Marissa hadn't felt so dead set on changing the world, things would have stayed the same. Barbara and Mario could have finished college without incidence, and Tony could have gone on to change the world himself.

He had the real potential to do so, Marissa knew. He could have charmed anyone into believing in Jerome, or in anyone for that matter. Tony Garner could have walked through a room without a concern or fear, and when he walked out, he would have made a half dozen new friends.

Tony...Marissa stopped thinking, and the nurse walked up with a cup in her hand.

"I think the doctor was right, sweetie. You need to rest. I imagine you've been through quite the ordeal today."

"Wait," Marissa push the cup away an inch. "What about Jerome?" she forced between calming breaths. "Did they shoot him, too?"

"Who?"

"The politician? From the rally?"

"Well, I imagine if something like that had happened, the news would have made it here with you. I haven't heard a thing about it."

Through her fading misery, she felt a slight contentment. At least, if she could believe the nurse's reasoning, Marissa had saved Jerome.

She had just cost Tony his life.

For a moment, the tears threatened again, but she reined them in, not wanting to risk more medication. Instead of being tethered to her bed, she wanted to get up and run away. She couldn't run, she knew, but maybe walk.

"Am I too injured to use the washroom?"

The nurse skeptically tilted her head at Marissa, but reconsidered quickly. "Well, you're fine, but are you sure you feel well enough? And do you promise not to touch your bandage?"

"I have no desire to see what's underneath. I just need to use the washroom and would really like to test my legs a little."

"Of course," the woman smiled, convinced.

As soon as she stepped through the door into the hallway, Marissa could hear the low murmurings of hospital solemnity. The washroom stood at the end of the hall, and once she began the journey, she felt exposed; not because of the breezy, floor-length crepe gown that someone had provided for her or the cotton robe that protected her dignity, but because of her total isolation from any relationship that had meaning for her.

With Tony dead, none of the Garners would want to see her, and Barbara would, despite the injustice of her own behavior, side with Mario as a show of uniformity. How could any of them look at Marissa the same when her actions, in the most direct way possibly except for pulling the trigger, had resulted in Tony's shooting? She didn't want to go home, either, though she feared no judgment there. Still, empty forgiveness without injury didn't amount to much, and her parents' acceptance would not exculpate Marissa's guilt. Only Tony, or in his place Professor Garner or Mario, could absolve her.

Just before she reached the washroom, Marissa peered into the last room and observed several figures in solemn repose. Professor Garner stared pensively at the pristine wall, and his son, Carl, sat next to his father, hands intertwined. Barbara wept silently on a painted wooden bench, and Mario hovered attentively over her, his arms upon her as much for his own support as for hers. From where she stood, Marissa could take in the entire room, but none of the occupants could see her. When she felt the tears tumbling past her control again, she rushed silently from the doorway and into the washroom, securing the door behind her as if against a hurricane. She could not face the misery of so many people – not when she had caused it.

Marissa washed her face, brushed the loose tresses from her eyes, and stared into the mirror. Only one choice lay before her, she knew, and as soon as she could inform Mr. Ellenwood, Marissa would continue the escape she had planned before Sam Lincoln had redirected her. Marissa would go home and admit the farce of her parents' acceptance. Better that than to force her friends to pretend, or to press them for her own comfort when they needed it themselves.

When she returned to the room, Marissa noticed a new nurse on duty, though the trip down the hall and back had taken less than ten minutes. The woman spoke just as kindly, though, and Marissa sighed at herself for wishing so badly to escape.

"How long do I need to stay at the hospital?" Marissa begged as soon as she passed through the door.

The nurse beamed up at Marissa, an apparent attempt to soothe the patient. "Well, that depends. Where will you go after?"

Marissa bit her lip, uncertain of what to say. "I plan to go home," she finally answered truthfully, though she sensed that her full disclosure may complicate her plans.

"Home is the best place for you," the nurse agreed, "but you can't travel more than a few miles over the next week or so. Your brain suffered a pretty intense jarring when your head hit that pavement, and we can't have it rattling away in a train or a car or on a carriage until it has had a chance to heal."

Again, Marissa chewed her lip. She didn't want to wait a week. Still, she could manage, she imagined, if she moved out of Mr. Ellenwood's apartment. She just didn't want to risk that someone would come looking for her. As soon as she could pack her things, she would get in touch with her parents and inform them of her return. She would ship her belongings home first, then follow them a week later. In the meantime, surely Marissa could manage a hotel room for a few days. From what the nurse said, Marissa could expect at worst a few days of headaches – nothing aspirin couldn't handle. If things grew too difficult to manage alone, she could have the front desk ring the doctor. Maybe the doctor would even visit her at the room, depending on how sick she felt.

As soon as she lay back in the bed, Marissa begged the nurse to shut the door, and after a brief conversation, the nurse agreed to Marissa's plan to leave. If Marissa left out the exact details of her remaining stay in St. Louis, the nurse would never know. An hour and a half later, Marissa stood staring up at the warm familiarity of the bookstore, her home for less than two miserable months.

She had made friends, made enemies, lost her friends, attracted a boy, and caused his demise all in an attempt to learn. Well, Marissa had learned a lot, and she would return home wiser, if a lot less naïve. By the next morning, Marissa had packed her things and given the address for her parents' house in South Carolina. A phone call later, she had explained enough so that her parents expected her things, but not herself, and they seemed content to restrain their curiosity. Marissa had never felt more grateful for her mother's forbearance.

When the door to the bookstore shut on Marissa for the last time, she withheld her tears until she had entered the little taxi that would take her close enough to watch her friends, but far enough to avoid their detection. Marissa had no plans to do the former, and had taken great pains to accomplish the latter. After exactly seven days, Marissa would close the chapter on her misadventure in St. Louis and return home, a sadder, more cynical, and hopefully wiser girl.

She turned toward the main thoroughfare on the north side of the park. She planned to head part of the way toward the train station, just far enough to stay out of the regular path of her friends but not far enough to lie outside all bounds of familiarity. If she needed to leave, she wanted to make sure she knew the way.

When the fingers of the music stroked gently under her chin, though, Marissa found herself turned away from the station and in the direction of the touch. The touch that felt like Tony. Now that she had lost him, now that she would leave St. Louis behind forever, surely it didn’t hurt to indulge the thoughts that had scared her before.

The music had been her undoing – she now realized that, and the realization brought a smile to her lips. Now that she lay out of danger of succumbing to the sway, the memory brought her rather more pleasure than pain. Certainly, the dance at Marcel’s had opened a door to the young man who had determined to prove her champion. The dance had just been the disturbance, though, someone shaking her on the shoulder as she lay in the dazed slumber of childhood. Then he had said to her, “You’re not a child anymore.”

When he said the words, he had turned on a light, revealed the brilliance of color that had become her mind. She had dared to travel halfway across the country. She had refused to accept the limitations that everyone around her tried to force upon her. She had stupidly braved the back halls of an illegal club. She had grown up.

Then, she had hidden and run away like a scared child when she had encountered a challenge she didn’t know how to handle.

Standing before Tony in that back room at Marcel’s, Marissa had experienced for the first time – not a childhood fantasy, but the expression of a fully sentient, intentional, aware, desirous, tangible woman. He kissed her, and she saw that she was real. No longer an attempt at a person, but the person reflected in his eyes. The amazing, beautiful, generous woman who deserved his admiration.

As she stood before the imposing edifice then, something inside her responded against reason to the first two pleasant sensations she had experienced in St. Louis: the dance of the music and the awe of the beautiful, white, immense hotel. They had allured her as a child when she had arrived. Now, they swelled in her womanly heart in a new, vibrant way, filling the pain of loss and painting it tragically beautiful.

She shouldn't, she knew, park herself in a location where any of her friends could – and probably would – happen by at any moment. Still, once she had wandered into the lobby and found out that the hotel contained 500 rooms, she held no fear of discovery. True, the week's stay would exhaust most of the money she had saved over the last couple of months, but after the week, Marissa would go home, and at home she would need for nothing.

Why not? she reasoned, and though her mind tried to provide answers, she let the music from the club drown out her protestations. Before she could turn away, she grabbed the key from the attendant's hand and hurried to the elevator. She could not mourn Tony with his family, so she would mourn him with the music.