In the cool darkness of the limo she pulls her sweater up around her shoulders. It has that new car smell, that smell as if it hasn't really ever been used, maybe it hasn't for all she knows. Her head on his lap, she reaches under herself and pulls out a card from her back pocket. She holds it up between two fingers, laminated hospital ID bracelet still on her wrist.

The card is white, embossed with the New York Police department shield, with a name and a number on it. There's a pager number on the back. Her face presses into his thigh, lips against the fabric. The car makes a soothing noise as it moves.