"John?" She rushes after him, but stops herself from actually embracing him, landing on the wreckage of the ship's windshield. Clouds of sand surround them both, and are slowly coming to rest.

"What are you doing here?" she starts to say, but then she notices. He's healed, or he was never wounded. The gaping orifice Jack left is gone.

But a closer look revealed something else: this wasn't John. Not quite. The John she knew, the John lying facedown on the battlefield, didn't have hair quite this long, a voice quite this high, or curves quite this pronounced. But most everything else - his teeth, his clothes, his demeanor - is the same.

So she changes her original question, in the middle of asking it, to instead say: "Who are you?"