She went home by herself. The bus dropped her off at the corner of Pike and Pine. Amid the colorful crowd of tourists and weirdos and hippies, she picked up some food for dinner. Back in her apartment, she curled up on the couch, ate her dinner out of white cardboard containers, and watched the nightly news. Afterward, she made some notes on story ideas, called her mom, then turned the channel to NBC for Dynasty and St. Elsewhere.

Halfway through the medical drama, the doorbell rang.

Frowning, she went to the door. “Who is it?”

“Johnny Ryan.”

The jolt Kate felt almost knocked her off her feet. Relief. Joy. Fear. She experienced all three emotions in a heartbeat of time.

She glanced in the mirror hanging on the wall beside her and gasped. She looked like a fashion magazine “before” photo—limp hair, no makeup, eyebrows untrimmed.

He pounded on the door again.

She opened it.

He stood there, leaning heavily against the doorframe, wearing dirty Levi’s and a torn BORN IN THE USA tour T-shirt. His hair was long and uncombed, and though he was tanned, his face looked worn, older. She could smell alcohol, too.

“Hey,” he said, opening his fingers from along the doorframe in greeting. At the movement he lost his balance and almost fell.

Kate moved toward him. Holding him up, she guided him into the apartment, kicked the door shut, and led him to the sofa, where he half stumbled to a sit.

“I’ve been sitting over in the Athenian,” he said, “trying to get up the nerve t’ come over here.” He glanced blearily around the place. “Where’s Tully?”

“She’s not here,” Kate said, feeling a clutch in her heart.

“Oh.”

She sat down beside him. “How did it go in El Salvador?”

When he turned to her, the look in his eyes was so devastating that she reached out, put her arm around him, and drew him close.

“He was dead,” he said after a long silence. “Before I even got there, he was dead. But I had to find him . . .” He pulled a flask out of his back pocket and took a long drink. “Y’ want some?”

She took a sip, felt it burn all the way down her throat and settle like a hot coal in the pit of her stomach.

“It’s damned heartbreaking wha’s going on. And not enough is getting on air. No one cares.”

“You could go on assignment,” she said, even though she hated the idea.

“I wish I could . . .” His voice faded away, then turned sharp. “Old news.” He took another drink.

“Maybe you should slow down a little.” She tried to take the flask from him. Instead, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her onto his lap. He touched her face with his other hand, caressing her cheek as if he were blind and trying to come up with an image of what she looked like.