Jaws dropped, mine included. As I stared at her I saw for the first time how worn she looked. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what gave her that appearance, but in fact there was no one specific thing; she just looked exhausted. We were all tired—it had been a long and stressful year thanks to wavering ratings—but she looked like she’d been through the wringer. I wondered if she was off the drugs again, or if she’d ever gone back on them at all. Was this the virus running its course?

Carl spoke into the shocked silence. “Dianne and I have already discussed it; we’ll be writing her out through a transfer to a new precinct. I’ve said it to you already, Dianne, but this time I think I speak for everyone when I tell you that you’ll be missed.” Murmurs of agreement rose in a soft cloud, and those standing near her wrapped an arm around her shoulder or kissed her cheek. As the group began to disperse, Dianne spoke for a moment with Carl before they embraced, and when they parted she headed for the door.

I watched her leave and saw the door close behind her, and before I knew what I was doing, I was on the walkway outside the house, running after her. “Dianne, hold up a sec.”

She paused for a moment before resuming an unsteady walk toward her car and saying over her shoulder, “I don’t want to talk, Jack. Good night.”

I continued to run anyway and caught her arm before she unlocked her car. “Dianne, please, give me just a minute.”

She sighed and turned around to face me, leaning on the car and running her hand through her hair. “What?”

Good question. What did I want to say? Why had I come out here in the first place? “Um … I just wanted to tell you good luck,” I finally stammered. “What are you moving on to?”

She mustered the energy to look irritated. “I’m not moving on to anything, Jack. I’m leaving. I’m moving home.”

I blinked and accidentally laughed. “To Iowa? You hated it there! You couldn’t wait to leave! Why are you going back now? You’ve got talent, Dianne, you shouldn’t—”

“I have AIDS, Jack!” She spat the words at me like they were bullets. The alcohol on her breath wafted toward me and watered my eyes. “It’s not getting better, it’s running me down, and I can’t deal with the pressure of this place on top of it. Not anymore.”

I was astounded. “It’s already progressed that far?”

She folded her arms and avoided my eyes. “Not yet. But it will, you know that.”

“But what about the meds?”

“They make me so sick—I feel better when I’m off them and dying than when Im on them and putting off the inevitable.”