"How's your head?"

Ellette just groaned.

"Sorry, stupid question. Here, take this."

She opened her eyes and squinted up at the speaker. It was the man from the street. Rand was his name. She'd saved his life over a year ago, in a dream. She was positive it had been a dream. Her life was never that exciting. This though, this was real. Especially her headache.

"You passed out and hit your head on some railing. I work as a nurse, and I figured you wouldn't want to deal with an emergency room or bills, so I brought you to my place. I hope you don't mind." She stared at him, the same dark eyes of the man she'd met in a dream stared back.

"You're not real, you were just a dream," Ellette found herself saying.

"That's what you said before you went down."

"My dreams have always been vivid, and I could always control them, mostly. I always knew I was dreaming. You were a dream, but I'm not dreaming now." The words tumbled out one after another. "If all my dreams have been real, and I just thought I was dreaming..." It only made her headache worse to think of the possibilities. She took the ice-pack that Rand was holding gently to the back of her head.

"I think you were exhausted by the heat and hit your head," he said kindly.

Ellette began to shake her head but decided against it as the throbbing pain started anew. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Well, you can stay here till your head clears," he offered.

"Thank you," she managed.

"Least I could do after what you've done for me."

They sat in silence for a while, Ellette holding her aching head and Rand picking at the fabric of the sofa. She watched him out of the corner of her eye with only one thought in her head: He shouldn't exist. The silence seemed to be getting to him, so went to the rickety metal bookshelf and retrieved something from the top. He sat in the only chair in the place and opened the long rectangular box. The metal hinges creaked softly, barely audible over the traffic noise from the street below.

Ellette watched him more attentively, wondering what the box held. He seemed very intent on its contents as if he'd forgotten all about the stranger sitting on his couch. Then he looked up at her. "Mind if I play? If your head hurts too much, I won't."

"No, no, it's fine," she stuttered.

He removed a finely crafted, though rather plain, wooden flute from the battered old box. He lifted it to his lips and began to play. It was soft, breathy and sweet. The sound of it was foreign, something she imagined belonged in the depths of a desert oasis. Yet, the way he played was unlike anything she'd ever heard. It wasn't long, though, until the notes began to falter and came to a halt.

Ellette opened her eyes, which she didn't remember closing, and stared at her host. He was studying the instrument, running long fingers along the dark wood. Ellette studied his hands, remembering that dream from over a year ago.

His fingers had been broken, and his hands covered gashes when she had found him. They hadn't even looked like hands, even after he'd been cleaned and bandaged. Crippled for sure, she remembered the doctors saying.

He hadn't cried out in panic or pain while they'd beaten him, nor when Ellette had shot off her gun to scare off the attackers. Nor had he done anything but clench his teeth against the pain when she had cleaned him up or when the paramedics had done their share. But he'd cried when they told him about his hands. Ellette didn't think much of it later--after all, it had been just a dream.

The hands that held the instrument were terribly scarred, and the fingers, though long and elegant, were notably malformed.

"You play wonderfully," she whispered, looking down at her lap, and her own, long pale hands that rested there. She heard him putting the flute away, the sound of the velvet against the wood, the creaking of the small brass hinges, the soft crack of wood against wood, and the final click of the lock. Finally, she met his eyes, knowing that there was more to his story. It was an unspoken need for him to tell, and she to listen.

"My mother gave me the flute," he began. There was more to that story as well, but he moved on. "Music was the only link I had to home, and my sanity while my life turned to hell. It's all a blur, I held it together as best I could, but eventually, I couldn't pay the bills. I should have given up the house. I should have known better. But after what had happened to my family, I wasn't thinking straight. The guys at the bar, they seemed helpful enough. Until I couldn't pay.

I should have died that night, I was already dead until an angel in black with a gun showed up." He smiled at that, and Ellette realized that he was referring to her. "You stood by until they were sure I'd make it. I thought I'd been given another chance until they told me about my hands..." His words drifted off, and he lightly caressed the old wooden box that held his flute.

"I was sure I'd been given another chance when you spoke to me. I remember you saying: 'Life may seem bleak at times, but you are still here. You are meant to live the life you've been given. It will get better.' I didn't forget." He got up and put the flute back on the shelf. Silence hung in the air once more.

Ellette fingered the bump on the back of her head, wishing her mind wasn't so muddled. Despite her sluggish thoughts, she realized how much she'd needed to hear those words again. One of her foster parents had told her something along those same lines years ago.

"Would you mind if I stayed awhile?" she asked softly. Dream or not, there was a reason they'd met up again. Something bigger than both of them had its hand in their meeting. She was one to believe in fate. "I think I'm the one who needs rescuing, this time." She smiled wanly.

He laughed. "How long is a while?"

She shrugged. "However long you'll have me. I've got nowhere else to go."