Sayid walked down the humid tunnel that connected the plane to the gate, a few steps behind Sun and Jin. His eyes fell to their clasped hands, and the joy he felt for their happiness was tainted by the knowledge that nothing tangible awaited him in California, that the one firm attachment he had made in the last seven years had been untimely shattered, and that the body of the woman he had all too briefly loved lay in a shallow grave marked by a crude cross.

Oceanic airlines had arranged a hotel for him, where he could lodge for up to two weeks. But beyond enjoying a hot shower, a full meal, and a soft bed, he had no plans for his future. He had not even decided if he would attempt to find Nadia in Irvine.

Abruptly, the couple before him stopped, blinded by flashes from a myriad of cameras. Sayid bumped into Jin and placed a light hand on the Korean’s muscular back in unspoken apology for his stumble. He looked over Jin’s shoulder at the sea of reporters that surrounded the gate, and he sighed audibly. Sun glanced back at him with a weary smile. “You knew it must be a major news story,” she said.

Jin touched his wife’s arm and motioned subtly to a break in the crowd. The Korean then caught Sayid’s eye, who nodded and commanded beneath his breath, “Quickly.” The ducking trio broke through the gauntlet of reporters and hastened down a long corridor, separating and losing themselves among the airport’s other patrons.

When Sayid heard footsteps trailing close behind him, he assumed a meddlesome reporter was attempting to secure an interview with one of the now famous survivors, and he quickened his pace. Not surprisingly, the footsteps behind him hastened to catch up. The last thing Sayid wanted now was to be the subject of a human interest story; the first thing he wanted was to be alone. He thought that if he had to run to escape his pursuer, however unceremonious that might appear, he would. Indeed, he was just about to sprint when he heard a deep, feminine, and familiar voice call his name.

He turned slowly and stood still before Nadia.

Sayid did not say anything—he could not say anything. His silence would not have been so awkward but for her own. At last, however, Nadia spoke. “I read about the crash in the paper. They listed the names of all the passengers, but they did not yet know who had survived. I saw your name. I live here now, in California.”

“I know,” he said. Her confusion was apparent, but he did not attempt to explain. He motioned his head toward a short line of reporters that was closing in on them, and she glanced behind herself. Understanding his concern, she began to walk quickly beside him, and they managed to escape the terminal and hail a cab before the media could press in upon them.

They now sat hesitantly beside one another on the brown bench seat in the back of the taxi. Sayid had leaned forward to tell the driver the location of his hotel, and he now sat back. He caressed the surface of the seat and toyed with a tear in the fabric.

“More reporters will be waiting for you there,” Nadia said.

“Where do you suggest I go?” he asked.

“Have you eaten dinner?”

He shook his head, and Nadia leaned forward to give the cabbie the address of a restaurant. When she had again rested herself against the back of the seat, she said, “If you return after dark, you can steal into your room without being harassed.”

“You must be accustomed to escaping notice,” he said. How long had she lived on the run? Where had she hidden? What had she suffered? He knew nothing of her story, nothing of her history beyond those prison walls.

“Yes,” she said simply. “Perhaps I will tell you someday.” When he did not answer, she continued, “Or perhaps it is better not to tell. Some things are best left buried in the past.” She glanced at him as if her words had been a question.

“Yes,” he answered quietly. “Yes, some things are.” He gazed absently out the window at the foreign landscape, cluttered with cars and coated with smog, so unlike the crisp, solitary views on the beach. He felt her extend a single finger to touch his hand, tentatively and lightly. She let it lie there for less than a minute, and then she withdrew. He did not feel the heat he had felt that day in the cell when her hand had covered his. Part of him wanted to feel it, but he did not.

An uncomfortable silence descended between them, and he broke it with a sudden question: “Are you married?” He had not thought beyond the present moment, but he knew eventually he would be forced to. And when he did, he ought to know, at least, that one fact about her.

“No,” she answered. “I never married. And you?”

“No,” he said. But there was someone, he thought. There was no point, however, in explaining all that now.