For half a second, glancing back at his wife standing in the hall isn't a matter of seeing. For half a second, Rachel's face is the one he remembers from seven years ago, young and terrifyingly blank in a hospital room where they'd almost lost her--where she'd nearly lost herself.

It takes a firm blink before she's herself again. She's so much taller, stronger, prouder; with such a more self-assured lift to her chin as she moves toward him. She'll be marked by this forever, he knows, but she'll never lose herself to this again.

His grip on her hand is likely too tight to be completely comfortable. His smile is tight and tired as he nods to her when she looks for help.

The reassurance is softly murmured, because it's only for her, not for the man outside their door. "You're Rachel Caustello."

And she's not alone.