Andrew bent over Michaela, listening to her heartbeat and respiration.  Rays of early morning sunlight slanted through the window, striping the bed in bright bars.  With the night's shadows chased away, the room had assumed a cheery aspect which belied its still, somber atmosphere.

     With a sigh, Andrew straightened and replaced his stethoscope in his medical bag.  Across the width of the bed from him, Sully finally slept, his head pillowed on his arms by Michaela's side.   Sully's exhaustion had obviously caught up with him at last.  His slumber was so deep that Andrew's  presence in the room, as he changed Michaela's dressing and checked her vital signs, had failed to rouse him.

     Andrew was loathe to disturb him, surmising that this was probably the first real rest Sully had had  in at least forty-eight hours.  But reluctant as he was to intrude on Sully's sleep, Andrew would have to wake him.  Michaela's condition had deteriorated to the point where a decision had to be made about her further treatment.  They dare not wait any longer.

     Quietly Andrew moved around the foot of the bed and approached Sully.  Gently he touched the sleeping man's shoulder.

     "Sully?" he said softly.

     Sully's head immediately snapped up.  "Michaela?" he said reflexively, his eyes going at once to her face.

     "No, Sully, it's me," Andrew said hastily, as Sully fell back in his chair, his heart still pounding from the shock of his awakening.  "I'm very sorry to disturb you, but—“

     "What is it?" Sully interrupted, rubbing his eyes, which still burned from lack of sleep.  The dark stubble of his beard contrasted sharply with the paleness of his face.  "Has something happened?"

     "In a manner of speaking, yes," Andrew replied.  "Why don't we go into the examination room and talk?'

     "Whatever you have to tell me, you can say right here," Sully said, watching him intently.

     "I could," Andrew agreed.  "But Grace brought a pot of fresh coffee and some sweet rolls over from the café first thing this morning.  I think you could use some."

     "I ain't hungry," Sully said absently, his eyes drifting back to his unconscious wife.

     "Be that as it may, as a doctor I'm telling you that you need nourishment—and a change of scenery," Andrew told him.  "Please, Sully—come with me now."

     With a reluctant sigh, Sully nodded.  He lifted Michaela's hand and kissed it, then leaned over her and brushed her forehead with lips that were feather-soft.

     "I'll be right back, Michaela," he whispered.  "I'll be just down the hall."  Wearily he rose to his feet and followed the young doctor out of the room.

     Sully's two guards—or "shadows," as he had come to think of them—stood a few feet away, looking rather sleepy themselves.  Sully ignored them as he and Andrew went through the door into the main room of the clinic.

     "Sit down," said Andrew as he went to where a tray containing a large metal coffeepot, some tin cups and a plate piled high with pastry rested on the desk.  Steam rose from the nose of the coffeepot.   The rich aroma of fresh-ground coffee beans, mingled with the sharp, spicy smell of Grace's cinnamon rolls, perfumed the air.

     Sully dropped into the chair adjacent to the desk as Andrew poured them each a cup of the strong, hot coffee.   He handed one of the cups to Sully, who accepted it gratefully, realizing that maybe he did need it after all.  He took a sip, then another, feeling its warmth coursing through him. Andrew sat across from him in Michaela's desk chair.  Taking a deep breath, he prepared to speak.  But Sully didn't give him the chance.

     "She's worse," he said, his words a statement, not a question.

     "I'm afraid so," Andrew admitted.  "Her blood pressure is at a dangerously low level.  I had hoped we would begin to see improvement as the time passed, but—“

     "The truth, Andrew," Sully said quietly.  "Don't sugar-coat it.  She needs a transfusion."

     "Yes," Andrew said simply.  "I don't see any other course of action at this point.  And we need to act immediately."

     "Fine," Sully said briskly, getting to his feet.  "Let's do it."

     "What do you mean?" Andrew asked, somewhat startled.

     "What do you think I mean?" Sully said irritably.  "Michaela needs a transfusion—I got blood to give.  So let's get on with it."

     "Are you suggesting that *you* should give Michaela a transfusion?" said Andrew.

     "I ain't 'suggestin'' nothin'," Sully answered.  "I'm going to give Michaela my blood—as much as she needs."

     "But—“ Andrew began.

     "If you're worried that I don't understand what's involved, don't be," Sully told him.  "I've given blood before, to Loren and to Cloud Dancin'."

     "Really?"  Andrew said.

     "Yeah—it was before you come here.   Loren needed blood after an operation.  And Cloud Dancin' needed a transfusion after he got stabbed at the reservation."

     "Obviously the transfusions were successful both times," Andrew remarked.

     "Yeah," Sully said.  "And if it worked for Loren and Cloud Dancin', it can work for Michaela.  So let's stop wastin' time and get started."  He looked at Andrew expectantly.  Yet the young doctor hesitated.

     "Well, what is it?" Sully asked impatiently.  "Come on, Andrew—you said yourself we can't wait any longer."

     "Perhaps Michaela never explained this to you," Andrew began slowly.  "But transfusions have a better chance of succeeding if they're done from male to male, or female to female."

     "Yeah, I remember her tellin' me that," Sully answered.  "But blood is blood—I don't understand what difference it makes that I'm a man and she's a woman.  "Sides, we already know that my blood helped Loren and Cloud Dancin'—so why can't it help Michaela?"

     "I wish I could tell you," Andrew said apologetically.  "But there's a great deal we still don't understand about transfusions—why they work in some cases, but not in others.  Even when they're done between people of the same gender, there are no guarantees of success."

     "Well, if it's all a big risk anyway, is givin' my blood to Michaela really that much more dangerous?" Sully argued.

     "Perhaps not," Andrew said.  "Again, I wish we had more answers.  But all we can do is base our decisions on case histories and statistics—which seem to indicate that transfusions have a higher rate of success if they're performed between those of the same sex.  I'm sure you want the best possible chance for Michaela.  That being the case, it's best that the blood not come from you."

     Sully slammed his fist on the desk, startling Andrew and causing the cup in front of him to jump.  Coffee slopped over the edge of the cup onto the surface of the desk.  Andrew pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped up the spill as Sully slumped back down in his chair, his head in his hands.

     "Let me give Michaela the transfusion," said a voice from the doorway, causing both men to look up sharply.  Rosalind stood on the threshold, regarding them calmly.  "Forgive my eavesdropping, but I could not help but hear your dilemma," she added.

     "It's the only sensible solution," she went on, entering the room.  "I'm fit, I'm strong, and I am female—as you said, Dr. Cook, the best chance Michaela has for a successful transfusion."

     "Rosalind," Sully began.  "I can't ask you—‘

     "Of course you can," she corrected him briskly.  "And you are not asking—I am offering."  She approached his chair and put her hands on his shoulders.

     "We are family, Byron," she said, looking into his face earnestly.  "I love you both.  I would cut out my heart if I thought it could help Michaela.

     "I know you want to be the one to help her," she said gently.  "But Byron, consider:  your mother and I are sisters.  You are my sister's son.  We share the same blood.  Dr. Cook may use me as his instrument, but the blood that flows into Michaela's veins will be yours—as surely as if it came from you yourself.

     "Please, my dear, let me do this for her," she pleaded.

     Sully stared up at her, his face pale and haggard.  Tears brimmed in his eyes, and slipped down his cheeks.

     "She can't die, Rosalind," he whispered brokenly.  "She can't."

     "She won't," Rosalind promised, reassuring him the way he had reassured Brian.  She bent over him, and stroked his hair as if he were a child.  "It will be all right," she crooned to him softly.  "It will be all right."

     Andrew waited quietly, his face averted to give them privacy.

     Finally, however, he cleared his throat.  "Excuse me," he said hesitantly.  They drew apart and looked at him.

     "It is decided, Dr. Cook," Rosalind said.  "I will give Michaela my blood—our blood," she amended, glancing at Sully.  He returned her gaze, his eyes touched by the faintest flicker of hope.

     "Your offer is admirable, Lady Sutcliffe, but I must caution you—even female to female, there is no guarantee that it will work," Andrew warned her gravely.

     "And if we do nothing?" she asked.

     The young physician's face was white and strained.  He cast a compassionate glance at Sully and didn't reply.

     "As I thought," Rosalind concluded.  "Very well.  We must act quickly.  What do you need me to do?"