Maine, 1997.

Claire Neason watched him, watched him in helpless silence as he leaned against the icy cold window, pressing his forehead against the glass. His shoulders tugged and sagged forward, the slow, deep rhythm of his breathing apparent beneath the rise and fall of the loose sweat suit he wore. Long, slender fingers gripped the windowsill, and his body shook slightly. Although she could neither see nor hear them, Claire knew that he cried. He cried tonight as he had cried every night since his arrival. He cried for what he had lost, for what he could neither remember nor reclaim, and Claire's heart reached out for him.

He was an enigma, this man; a nameless John Doe whose body had washed up on the shores of Maine moments after the muddy waters of the Atlantic drowned him. It was on the boating trip with her brother and his wife when they had found him, found and revived him. Claire had believed it impossible, her medical training and nursing classes telling her that this pale, lifeless one had been dead for hours, perhaps days. She remembered remarking aloud that he looked like one of the lab cadavers. But Dallas had tried nonetheless, his strong back bent, dappled with shadows as the sky had clouded over.

Despite her predictions, despite everything her training had taught her, that too still body had moved. Lungs had heaved, coughing up more water than Claire had ever imagined would be possible for human lungs to hold. He had coughed, and breathed, and lived again. While grateful for her brother's years as a paramedic, something in Claire recognized it was a miracle that the young man lived at all.

He had no name, no identification. No one had reported him missing. Diagnosed with traumatic amnesia, he'd had nowhere to go after his release from the hospital, so Claire had brought him here, to her parent's home. Her mother was a retired schoolteacher, and having someone to care for kept her from meddling in Claire's life, even granted Dallas and his wife a reprieve from the nagging hints at Mrs. Neason's need for grandchildren.

A low sob escaped from the depths of his throat, the sound startling her, making her feel dirty, and ashamed. She felt like an intruder, spying on such a moments of anguish. The tray rattled in her hands as the smell of her mother's famous meatloaf and mashed potatoes filled the small guest bedroom, revealing her presence.

The sound distracted him. He didn't look at her, but she saw the shift in his stance. She almost felt him reining in the powerful emotions that had elicited that tortured sound.

"I brought you some dinner," Claire said softly. The tray shivered in her slightly trembling hands. "Meatloaf. It's leftovers, but Mom said you liked it."

"I did." His voice was low, flowing and somehow charming, despite the lull of pain and hopelessness it carried.

"I'll just leave it on the table then?" Claire offered.

"I know who I am."

Those were not the words Claire expected. She stared down at the meatloaf then at the back of his head, at the close cropped sandy blonde hair there. "You're having memory flashes again?"

"No." He turned, partially, just enough so that his brilliant blue eyes burned into her soul. His hands still gripped the windowsill, the knuckles standing out in white tension. "I remember everything. I know who I am."

This was good news, wasn't it? So why did he seem even more anguished than before? Why did pain etch more deeply into his face, flashing like knives in his reddened eyes?

"Who are you then?" It seemed the only appropriate question, the only thing she could ask as he stood there, her awareness focused totally on those blue fires in his eyes.

Blue eyes held hers for what felt like an eternity. Then he turned back to the window, staring out into the darkness of the Maine night. "My name is Jack Dawson. And I should be dead."

***End of Prologue

Chapter One