"I'll see one more patient and then that's it for me for the next week — I'm on vacation as of midnight. So what's up?" Dr. Reid Walker asked the emergency room nurse he was working with.

"We only have one patient left, period," the nurse responded. "Second week of October, first snowstorm of the season, icy roads — she slid into a telephone pole just outside of town. She says she's fine but the air bag deployed and you know police policy around here —  when the air bag inflates, they bring 'em into the E.R. to be checked out no matter what the vehicle occupant says. Her name is Chloe Carmichael."

Reid stopped short at that. "Say the name again."

"Chloe Carmichael," the nurse repeated. Then, without noticing the effect that particular name was having on Reid, she said, "I'll release our flu case, hopefully you can wrap up the car accident, and we're clear. Next shift will be in any minute. They can handle anything that comes in after this, and we're both outta here."

Reid didn't respond as the nurse left him. He also didn't move. Instead he stayed where he was, just outside the counter that surrounded the area that staff referred to as the fishbowl, where medical personnel convened to talk, pick up charts, get supplies and do paperwork.

The emergency room of the only medical facility in the small town of Northbridge, Montana, had just four rooms branching out from the fishbowl. Two of them were dark and unoccupied. Reid had just left the third after informing a girl from Northbridge College that she could relax, she wasn't pregnant and had only a case of influenza. Which left the fourth room the only possibility for the