Even through the haze of her concussion, Sam recognized the implications of Wilson's plea. An ordinary person would relive past experiences in short, disjointed images, and vague recollections of emotional responses relating to the subject at hand. Sam was far from being an ordinary person. At the mention of his title, her mind branched from that central point, noting every detail she'd picked up during her study of medical staff while she'd been under lock and key. A medical man meant treatment of injuries, but it also meant risk. She knew how they loved their mind-altering chemicals.

"Oh, good," she grated. "A doctor. I haven't seen enough of [i]those[/i]."

Still, their options were steadily and rapidly dwindling. The cold, methodical calculations in her mind wound down to just two possibilities which, in this place, at this time, mattered at all to her survival: A shot from a syringe or a shot from a handgun. Given her mental scoresheet, she'd survived the former for quite a while. It made sense to go with what she knew over what she didn't. With a mental note to watch his every move, Sam silently -and grudgingly- resolved to help Wilson.

[i]"For now."[/i] she reminded herself. There was no sense in making long-term commitments. Not to one of [i]them[/i].

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