The other three albums chronicled his life throughout the Twentieth Century. He remembered a time on the Western Front and that Christmas night in the forest when, in the quiet, a lone German began singing Stille Nacht. Soon, voice after voice joined in, some in German, others in English. Lance flipped the page with a lump in his throat. Another picture showed him a few years later. This time he was dressed in a top coat, fedora, snappy suit and holding a Thompson sub-machine gun. There were other men beside him dressed from the same era, including Mooney and Ness. Though Ness had tapped him to be one of his Untouchables, Lance realized it would give him a notoriety that might become a liability, and had respectfully declined the honor, preferring to work out of the spotlight. Another picture showed him shaking hands with Patton during his time in Italy. There were other pictures: him and Ethan during Korea, his home in Tuscany, and various friends he'd made along the way.

Setting aside the last album, Lance realized he'd stayed up all night. The first gray light of day was just creeping into the sky and Natalie was still out. The grandfather clock chimed a quarter to six as he quietly let himself into her room. He gently sat on the edge of the bed and felt for the pulse in her wrist. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found it steady and strong. Natalie stirred in her sleep.

"Huh...?" she murmured finally. "Where...? How...?"

Lance flipped on the bedside lamp, flooding the room with a cheery incandescent glow. Natalie groaned as she squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden glare.

"How do you feel?" he asked gently.

"Like shit," she replied frankly. "I don't remember drinking last night, but damn, do I ever have one helluva hangover."

"What do you remember about yesterday?"

Natalie thought for a moment. "The last thing I remember is being out in the woods looking for Sarah."

Lance nodded and watched her eyes as she remembered more details about that afternoon. A few minutes later, she peeked underneath the covers, looking for any evidence of her wound.

"Where are my clothes?" Natalie accused.

"The kitchen," he replied. "They're in a garbage bag. You're welcome to burn them yourself."

"Why?"

"They're ruined."

"So yesterday wasn't some god-awful dream?"

Lance shook his head. Natalie stared at him in disbelief.

"I really... died?"

This time Lance nodded.

"I don't believe it," she whispered softly.

"Believe me, I know that feeling."

Natalie pretended not to have heard him. "What time is it?"

"Nearly six," Lance replied. "I'll go make breakfast and then drop you off at your hotel. I'll meet you at the station after you've had a chance to change."

He handed her the t-shirt and flannel pants before moving to leave the room.