Krycek switched off the laptop and pushed it across the mattress toward the wall. There'd been no further word from Buzz one way or the other. Hopefully the little fucker had stayed put, but there was no guarantee. There never was.

He lay back on the pillows and studied the small, amber circle the lamp cast on the ceiling. He felt better than he had since Scully'd shot him--not good, not strong, but definitely better. Tracy'd had him walking the chair around on the roof patio, the back slightly reclined to ease the strain. It had been strange at first--awkward. Or maybe the awkwardness had been in not being in control: he had an audience, it had been dark, and his position had made it hard to see the floor. But she'd been watching his boundaries at every step, warning him if he started to get too close to anything. Crazy as the movement had seemed, it had been a way to use his legs, to move and not be static, though a week ago... A week ago he wouldn't have dreamed of fielding suggestions from the Waif of the Year. Or trusting her with his safety. The last few years hadn't given him any reason to make trust a part of his daily routine.

He shook his head, leaned away from the light and glanced toward the deep shadow in the corner of the room where Tracy lay curled up, asleep in the recliner. She had no talent for lying, if he'd been worried about her loyalties. And she didn't judge, didn't push or press. No scorn, no fear, no 'scum of the earth' reaction--just help. It was damn nice.  Actually, it was pretty incredible.

Even though she knew who he was: that was the kicker. She knew what he was, but yet she was still here. Now he knew what Mulder had.

He glanced at the clock. Past midnight--farther past than he'd thought--nearly one. The pain was building and anyway, he was more than ready to hit the sack. Actual fatigue from doing something--it was a good feeling. He looked over once more at the recliner. A small movement came from her middle. He watched until it settled, then downed the pill and water waiting on the bedside table and reached for the lamp switch. No point in disturbing her and sending her upstairs to a room with no air conditioning. If the old man showed up he'd just say she'd fallen asleep in the chair; it was plausible enough. But after this they'd need to be more careful. No good would come from having the old man decide he cared about what happened to his little caretaker. They'd need two plans: one long-term and another for contingencies, in case something unforeseen happened and she had to be gotten away quickly. Che would be his usual self and offer to help... But Che couldn't keep her. That would risk both of them and Che was too valuable to lose. Anyway, who would be capable of keeping her out of the old man's hands if he decided to go after her?

Her question about Hemingway had come out of the blue. She'd already been in the chair, half drifted off, when her voice came asking him if he'd ever read the book. Yeah, he'd said. A long time ago.

What was it about?

An American, a military engineer who was helping the Republic in the war.

And Maria--who was she?

It had taken a few seconds for the pieces to come together--to figure out that she'd probably pulled the reference out of Marisela's head... and to realize where Marisela was going with it. 

She was just a girl, he'd ended up saying, resisting a sudden urge to clear his throat. A throwaway. The leader of the resistance cell he was working with just gave her to him. A gift, like a bottle of wine.

The pain pill was starting to do its thing. Krycek closed his eyes. The old man hadn't mentioned the recorder in days and it wasn't a good sign. Time to lean on Skinner to confess.

"You heard from Walter lately?" Dale said.

Mulder looked up from his mug of coffee. He shook his head.

"I got a note from him yesterday," Dale went on. "Said he'd been given a second chance. I don't know exactly what it meant, but I guess he's back on the job. For a while there, I though he was down for the count." He reached for another slice of the bread Rita had brought and dropped it into the toaster. "I didn't know Walter all that well; it was a passing thing, though I suppose it was different for him... I had a dozen guys save my life, too, at different times, but I never knew who they were. Reckon a number of 'em never made it back. It's the way things were."

Mulder picked up the half-full mug and took another sip. He had a sudden vision of Scully, two years earlier, wandering away from an interview he was doing with a Russian source at the Vietnam Memorial. She'd walked off toward the Wall, squinted at the sea of names inscribed on the polished granite, then stooped down by the mementos people had left at the base and picked up a brown, decaying rose petal. There had been fresh flowers, too, and keepsakes, but she hadn't touched them.

Dale's toast popped up. He stuck a wooden skewer through it, pulled it out and set it on his plate, which rested against a wooden L-shape fitted into the surface of the table. He reached for a small silver knife in a tub of margarine and began to spread it on the toast, which was conveniently held against the wooden wedge. Dale was an unblinking kind of person. He wore no prosthesis but simply had one empty shirt sleeve. 'I figure people'll get used to it eventually,' he'd said by way of explanation if you pressed him. 'I did.'

"Rita's at a loss," he said now, taking a bite of his toast. "She wanted to do this for Andy but she wanted just as much to do it for Bob--and for all those people who'll still be affected." He shook his head. "Anyone else would probably walk away, but not my sister."

"I think I understand." Mulder bit his lip, swirled the cooling coffee gently and watched it rise along the inside edge of the mug.

"You should try some of this," Dale said, pointing to the loaf of bread.

"No, I..." He shook his head. "I don't do much breakfast."

"This'll make you change your mind. She made it herself. Go ahead."

Mulder paused, then reached out, took a slice and set it in the toaster.

"You look like you're carrying the world," his host said.

He shrugged. "I just found out I was set up, years ago--walked right into an elaborate scam and bought the whole thing. Hook, line and sinker."

"We used to do that every day," Dale said. "Over there. After a while you figure out it's not whether you got suckered in--that happens to everybody. What matters is whether you get out again. Every second you spend kicking yourself is a chance for somebody to pick you off. Got to keep your eye on what's important."

Mulder nodded. He brought the mug up and put his lips against the rounded edge. It reminded him of her mouth.

Dale pushed back his chair and stood. "Make yourself at home," he said. "I've got a job to get to. If you need anything, Rita'll be glad to help you out."

Mulder looked up. They'd been at odds that time, too: Scully absorbed in some personal funk, him at a loss to understand.

"Thanks."

The toaster popped. Mulder took the bread out--it did smell good--and set it on his plate. What the hell had she been thinking when she connected with that guy, that Ed Jerze? Though it probably hadn't helped her state of mind that he'd made that crack about her having a date, as if it were an impossibility--as if she weren't capable of letting herself stray that far from her work. As if nobody'd want to ask her.

Next to the margarine tub was a little brown crock with 'apple butter' written across the front in script lettering. He lifted the lid and sniffed. It smelled good. He spread a thin layer on his toast and took a bite. Dale was right. It could make you change your mind.

Her own life was going nowhere, she'd said at the time. Where the hell was it was going now?

A knock came on the trailer door. Scully looked up from her laptop and turned around. Sandy's and Adrie's faces showed through the screen.

"You want to come to the falls with us?" Sandy said. She smiled, though the smile was a little forced. Maybe Rita had put her up to it. "I haven't been there before. Adrie's going to show me."

"I... um, I was just doing some research, trying to find out something more about the plant in town--the business itself."

"How?"

"On the Internet."

Sandy shook her head. "I don't really know nothin' about computers."

"It's all there... out there," Scully said, smiling belatedly at her choice of words. "Just about any kind of information you could want."

"Are you going to try to do something about..." Sandy made herself stop. She looked down.

Scully let out a quiet sigh. "Come in, Sandy."

Sandy glanced behind her. Adrie was already playing with a little structure beside the tree that he'd started building the day before. She pulled on the screen door's handle and stepped up inside the trailer. Scully gestured toward the bed and she sat down.

"I'm not sure exactly what I can do here--how much I can accomplish--without making myself--ourselves, Ben and me--noticed. But investigating is what I do. I guess I just naturally fall back on that. You must understand what it's like"--she paused momentarily--"to be doing something and suddenly have that ripped away from you. It's difficult to let go of what you're so used to."

Sandy looked down. "You got that right."

"I'll do what I can while I can," Scully said. She turned back to her screen.

"That your little girl?" Sandy said after a moment. She pointed to the picture of Emily.

Scully pressed her lips together and nodded.

"May I see?"

Scully hesitated, then reached for the picture and handed it to Sandy. She clicked the mouse button and scrolled farther down the page.

"She's pretty," Sandy said, handing the picture back carefully. "What're you looking at?"

"Financial reports for Beeson-Lymon. I was looking to see if there was some point when things got markedly better for them. Anything out of the ordinary. If they had a sudden unexplainable increase in income, for instance."

"Mr. Beeson's had a chauffeur for about three years now. A friend of Cy's drives for him. Has a Mercedes--black. Ryan's always bragging about how fancy it is."

Scully turned to face her. "Have you ever heard of people getting sick at the plant, Sandy?"

"What kind of sick?"

"Lung problems. Difficulty breathing."

"Alan Harder," she said.

"Do you know if he works with beryllium?"

"He does unless he's asked for a transfer. Not many people are willing to give up that kind of money."

A chime sounded on the computer.

"What was that?" Sandy said.

"I have mail."

Scully clicked on it. She smiled as she read. "My mother's invited a friend of mine to dinner," she said.

"She knows where you are?"

Scully shook her head. "E-mail is like... an electronic post office in the sky. You send your mail into it, and when the person you're writing to checks their mail, it sends your message out to them. You could be anywhere--anywhere at all. My mother goes to the library to send hers."

"So even if somebody were trying to get her to tell them where you were, she wouldn't know? But she can still keep in touch with you?"

"Yes."

"That would be great for my dad and me. He's a trucker. He's always moving around, no place I ever know to get ahold of him. He was here last week," she said, "when I..." She paused. "He helped me bury Roddy's ashes. My mom, she didn't understand why I wanted to put them out in the woods, but Papa, he's half Cree Indian. Maybe that's where I get it from." She shrugged. "It's half the reason she looks down at him. She'd think he was really nuts if she knew he was going to the reservation now sometimes. I wish I knew what it was like, his reservation. He seems real happy when he talks about the people he knows there. It's in North Dakota. It's called Stone Boy."

Scully clicked the mouse again and typed into a message box on the screen.

"I didn't realize how much I missed him until he showed up last week. Are your parents together?"

"My father was a Navy captain," Scully said, turning to glance at the girl. "He passed away about five years ago." She paused. "It seems like such a long time. We were very close when I was younger, when I was growing up." She returned to the screen, scrolled down again and clicked on an entry.

"I like my dad a lot, too. My mom--" Sandy shook her head. "We don't get along so well."

Scully searched another page, clicked on another link. She smiled. "Here," she said, turning to face Sandy, moving the laptop so the girl could see the screen.

"What is it?"

"Your father's reservation. There are pictures, too. Would you like to see?"

"Honest?" Sandy scooted closer to the screen.

Tracy woke with a start. Above her, the ceiling of Alex's room was flooded with daylight. She pulled the back of the recliner upright. Alex was lying on his bed, quiet. The whole room was quiet. Her hand ached. She rubbed it and stood up, then went to the window and pulled down the shade to keep the hot brightness out.

She crossed the room to check the clock--9:14--then turned to the bed.

"Alex..." 

His eyes were half-open, glazy.

"Sleepyhead," he managed, the word slurred.

"I must have been," she said, sitting down on the edge. "You took your pain medication?"

"Seven..." he said. "Right... right on... time... I have... doctor's appointment, he called me... later..."

"Who called you?"

"...old man... He's... sending a car... to pick me up, to take me..."

"When?"

"Later." He struggled to focus. "Eleven."

His hand came up off the bed and wavered. She took it. He was worried; it showed clearly even through his thickness. Would the doctor think he was making too much progress, or not enough? And what would his father read into either result? The old man was always there in the background, a dark, overarching shadow in the back of his mind, and Alex was always running, calculating, trying to keep that shadow from swallowing him.

"...hand?" he asked. He blinked. His fingers tightened against hers.

"It's... it hurts, Alex, but I'll live. Just get yourself through the next few hours. Don't worry about me."

He looked as if he were about to say something. His breath hitched momentarily, then his face changed to puzzlement.

She shook her head and smiled a bittersweet smile. "Your mind's like mashed potatoes in there right now. Just rest."

But rest was the last thing he wanted. He wanted the doctor's appointment to be over with. He wanted a solid plan to keep her safe. And his defenses were all down when he was drugged like this, walls and gates wide open.

"Close your eyes, Alex."

He closed his eyes. She eased his hand onto his stomach and looked toward the green leaves in the window.

Through the small window near the stairs, Tracy watched Alex being wheeled to the waiting car. She couldn't help but read his tension--his worry over being so noticeable--a man in a wheelchair in broad daylight--even if it was only briefly. The old man hadn't come himself; he'd just sent a car and driver to pick Alex up. It could be a trap--Alex had that on his mind, too--but she'd sensed nothing from the man in the gray suit who'd come to retrieve him. She'd stayed out of sight the way Alex had warned her to do, but as soon as the car was gone she'd go in, change his bedding and clean things up.

The man on the sidewalk was taking Alex by the elbow, helping him into the car. Alex was wearing the prosthesis. It seemed strange. She'd gotten used to seeing him with one arm and just a stump. The car door was being closed. A last momentary streak of panic went through him as the car pulled away. She tried to send some comfort, the kind he'd brought her when he'd shared his vision of the mountaintop. Hopefully somehow the feeling would reach him.

She ran a finger along the dusty window ledge, turned and went to the door of his room. Reaching in her pocket for the key, she worked it in the lock and turned the handle.

"Good morning," a voice behind her said too cheerily.

Tracy froze, her hand momentarily one with the metal she grasped. She made herself continue the motion, pushed the door open and turned around.

"Hi," she said, trying to sound merely surprised. Inside, her heart pounded.

The old man paused to take a pack of Morleys from his coat pocket. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. "I thought I'd stop by and see how he's been doing," he said, letting out a stream of smoke and then smiling again.

She went inside and left the door open. He followed her in.

"He's doing okay, I guess," she said. "He's learned not to strain himself. He wants to do everything himself, you know? But he's learned to take it easy, not that he likes it." It was what he wanted to hear--at least as far as she could tell with her heart still racing. Why hadn't she sensed him coming?

"That's good." He nodded approvingly. "Very good."

He sat down on the desk chair and watched as she went to the bed, folded the blankets and pulled off the sheets. They smelled of too much time spent lying around and just of Alex--the way he smelled. Everybody had a smell. Behind her, the old man was watching, learning, congratulating himself on his powers of observation. He was leaning against her yellow sweater--her mother's sweater. Tracy grimaced and stuffed the sheets and the thin cotton blanket into a pillow case.

"He walks a little," she said now, eyeing the bed pad and deciding to take it to wash, too. He was wondering about her dress, her new yellow one and whether she'd already had it or whether it was new; it looked new to him. He wondered if she'd saved some of the money he'd given her or how else she'd gotten it. "From the bed to where you are and over to the window." She pointed to the narrow one beyond the end of the bed. "Several times a day. It's slow but he seems stronger."

"And he's... taking this well? How are his spirits?"

"He wants to be well, you know? He wants to be up and doing for himself but he's doing the best he can with it. He's making himself wait it out."

"Patience is a virtue."

"It is." She gathered up the linens and went to the jar on the shelf where Alex kept the quarters. "I have to go wash these things now." She counted out the money. "You know, so they'll be ready when he gets back. Is there anything else you need?"

"No," he said. "You seem to be doing a fine job. Keep up the good work."

He made no move to get up from the chair. After a moment she picked up the bed pad, folded the sheets inside and carried them out. The hallway was hot... or maybe it was her. She pushed the elevator button but thought better of it and started toward the stairs. Inside the room, the old man was looking around. Not actively searching but looking, his eyes open for anything out of place: for clues, for signs of independence or betrayal or compromise.

Skinner looked at the pile of papers in his in-box. Nothing had happened yet, but there was that element of anticipation. No, dread was more like it. It could be much worse this time than when there'd only been Cancer Man to worry about, after he'd tried to deal for Scully's life. This time there were two of them to maneuver around, spy vs. spy vs. himself. Dance for Krycek, steer clear of Cancer Man's interests, keep his connection to Krycek hidden. His mouth tightened.

He thought of the pale blonde girl, the one from his dreams--the one who was running errands for Krycek. Was she still with him and if so, why? She had no idea what a dangerous game she was playing but there was no way now--he was in no position--to help her in any way. She'd certainly helped him, however it was that she did what she did.

He let out a slow breath and took a folder from the top of the pile.

Tracy balanced the pile of clean linens in one hand and pushed the door open. Alex was lying in the recliner. He smiled when he saw her.

"Hi," she said, setting her load down on the small desk. "How'd it go?"

"Okay." He shrugged. "Doctor says I'm coming along. Not too slow, but not fast enough to push up the timetable." He looked away and then back at her. "He was here, wasn't he?"

She nodded. Her lips pressed together. "He was right there behind me when I opened the door. I didn't even sense him, Alex; I don't know why. Maybe I was just too buried in my own thoughts." She picked up a pillow case from the top of the stack. "I think it helped in the end, though--the way he saw me. He wanted to know how you were doing, how you were getting along. I tried to be like a nursing home person, you know? Just said you were making a little progress, that you were taking it the best you could. Like I was giving a report." She looked down and pressed a crease into the pillow case with her fingers. "He was looking around--after I left. I know how you feel now, the way he watches everything. I don't think he came across anything that caught his eye."

He let his head fall against the back of the chair. A sigh escaped him.

"So what did the doctor say?"

"She said someone was taking good care of me. Which is true." He nodded toward her.

She looked away. "I should get your bedding put back," she said, and busied herself with the mattress pad and sheets.

"She changed the prescription for the painkillers..."

She turned around. "Do you need me to go pick it up?"

He shook his head. "We got it on the way back. I'm all set. It's not supposed to be as strong. She said to try it but if it's not enough I can go back to the old ones."

"How soon do you need to take one?"

"Pretty soon."

She began to put the cases back on the pillows. "Thank you for the dress, Alex. I never actually thanked you. I really like it."

"No problem. You look a lot more comfortable now."

"I am." She picked up another pillow, tucked it under her chin and worked the case up over it. "Alex, do you ever think about growing old?"

He raised an eyebrow. "What brought this up?"

"This lady. She was out working in a little garden bed in the yard behind the laundry room. She kept thinking about how hard it had gotten for her, that she couldn't do the work the way she used to, and how her husband... she's watched him get weaker and weaker, and she figures she'll just have to stop planting whatever it is she's always enjoyed so much." She paused. "Do you?"

"What?"

"Think about it?"

He shook his head "Guess I don't expect to be around that long. The future's..." He stared up at the ceiling. "You don't want to know. It's... This life we live here... like this, it's like thin paper. So fragile you can't imagine." He shook his head again. "But people don't realize. They wouldn't get it if you told them."

He stared out the window. She watched him as she put the last of the pillows on the bed. Her fingers ached. She rubbed them with her other hand.

"How is it?" he said when he'd turned to look at her again.

"It hurts but it's probably just me."

"You should check it out, make sure it's not infected."

She went into the bathroom and took the tape off her fingers. The pad was stuck to the wound. She turned the water on and let it run over her fingers until the gauze loosened. Pulling the pad away, she dried off her hand and hesitated. It was stupid to hold back. Looking wasn't going to change the reality, whatever that turned out to be.

"If you don't want to check it, I will."

Relief flooded her and she smiled. "Who says you can't read minds?" she said, pausing in the doorway. "I can take care of other people. I can put up with a lot of gross stuff as long as it's somebody else."

"Come here," he said.

She went to the recliner. He motioned her around to the right side, where his hand was. He took her fingers, separated them carefully and inspected the area in between. She turned away.

"It's okay; it's looking good. Go ahead and wrap them up again."

She went back to the bathroom. She'd always had this problem with pain and now he was sitting out there wondering how she was going to make it when the baby came. The fact was, she'd wondered the same thing. She took the gauze from the shelf and made a little pad from a piece of it, the way he'd done the day before.

"Must be a pain," his voice drifted in from the other room. "To have to listen to people thinking, to know everything going on inside their heads."

"Sometimes it helps you understand them," she said, reaching for the tape. "But a lot of times... believe me, you don't want to know it all. It's easier not to know what they think of you, or how..." She finished wrapping her fingers and left the bathroom.

"What?" he said.

"The way they worry about you sometimes. My mom..."

She stopped abruptly. The bed. She went to it and busied herself arranging the last of the pillows. "It's ready for you," she said.

When he brought the chair back up, she helped him stand and watched as he made his way across the open space to the bathroom. She'd never seen him whole, strong... and yet it seemed strange--him this way, hobbled, as if it didn't fit him.

"Can you get the top of this?" he said as he came out again. He held out the new prescription bottle.

She took the container and let him pass. While he was settling himself on the bed, she went for water. His pain wasn't as bad this time. Either it was earlier than usual or things were improving for him. And in a few weeks he wouldn't need any help at all. Her hand paused on the faucet as if fused with it. After a moment she made herself move, fill the cup and take it to him.

"Guess we'll find out what these do," he said, swallowing the oval pill and chasing it with the water.

"Want me to wait, Alex, and see how it works out?"

He glanced up at her and nodded. "Thanks." He handed her the empty cup.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. She pictured him strong again, the room empty, the bed made. It would only be a matter of weeks.

"Hey--"

She made herself smile.

"Tell me about your mom," he said.

To: DaddyW@zipmail.com
From: thelark@zipmail.com
Sounded like one to me.

"She was like me, Alex. Well, not as much. She told me to cherish the gift, that I must have it for a reason. I know she wasn't just trying to make me feel better, but... sometimes it's so hard." She rubbed the injured hand with the other and looked out the narrow window. "She knew it was hard. She was always there for me, and then..."

She stopped, bit her lip and started to stand but he caught her by the wrist. "You didn't finish."

She looked back at him, eyes suddenly shiny. "Look, I know what you're trying to do, Alex."

He let go of her. "Maybe there's something in there you need to work out. If you've got a thorn in your foot, every time you take a step..."

"...it stabs you again." She resettled and stared across at the far side of the room. After a moment she leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees.

"That was her sweater," she said, half-smiling, nodding toward the desk chair.

That explained something.

"She liked it a lot. Of course it was bigger. And then one day I was doing the laundry and I accidentally put it in the dryer with some other stuff." She turned to glance at him. "It's cashmere and she was big--she was a big person, Alex... and it came out looking like a doll sweater. I was really upset, you know?--because I knew she liked it so well."

"You get in trouble?"

She shook her head. "She knew I didn't do it on purpose. She was like that--said it didn't matter all that much, it was just a sweater. I put it away, in a cedar chest we had, but after she was gone I took it out again. It doesn't fit too badly and I like it, you know?"

"Enough to wear it in 90 degree weather and give yourself heat stroke."

The corner of her mouth twisted. "What about your mother, Alex?"

He frowned. "You're changing the subject."

"No, I..." She shook her head.

"You still haven't told me," he said after a moment. "You know, what it was you liked so much about her."

"She... Everything. I felt comfortable, I guess. I knew she loved me. I guess I knew that she was there for me, no matter what." She turned away abruptly, pale hair spinning after her. The silence between them sang. "Alex, I can't. Please don't make me."

"Sorry." He looked at the back of her. "People, they... they come and go. Maybe it's nice when they're there... But in the end you have to be able to count on yourself."

"But what if yourself's not enough?"

"You said you were strong."

"I'm not always."

"I think you are. Sometimes you just... forget." He let his head fall back onto the pillow and paused. "There was this beach I used to go to..."

"In Russia?"

"No. California. Just out into the surf there's this rock formation. Big rock. The waves wash over it all day, non-stop, just this... constant pounding. You can--" He paused and let out a short breath. "You can look if you want."

She sighed and closed her eyes.

"Do you see it?"

"Uh-huh."

"The rock never moves, no matter how many waves crash against it."

"They'll wear it down eventually."

"They'll smooth the edges a little. But it'll still be standing there, breaking every wave."

She leaned farther forward and pressed her fingers to her temples.

"But how do you hold onto that, Alex? How do you, when it gets bad?"

"I..." He shrugged. "I don't know. I just... keep going. You will, too. Your.. integrity--who you are... that's what'll see you through."

She said nothing. After a beat, her shoulders heaved.

Damn.

"Tracy."

No response, not even the subtle in-and-out murmur of the wrinkles in her dress. Dyshi, little sestrichka. Breathe.

She slipped off the edge of the bed, onto her knees on the floor, and wrapped her arms around herself.

"Tracy--"

It was like the little kid again, only without the gun--words for bullets. Bad move, stupid.

No reply came from the figure huddled on the floor, then there were sniffling noises followed by the low, steady sound of her pain. He grimaced, set his jaw and reached--stretched--until he could touch her head, and smoothed two fingers across her hair.

Mulder rubbed his hands together as he walked down the path. He rubbed them again, glanced down and winced at the beginnings of blisters. Two bales of alfalfa, that was all, and he'd needed the exertion--needed something to take his mind off all this. But it was a long way between where he'd parked and where David Barker had decided he wanted the bales. He'd never hauled alfalfa before. Even with the hooks those bales were a pretty fair load.

The edge of the trailer came into view beyond the barn now, its yellow-and-tan dulled with the weather, the roof covered in a thick layer of brown leaves. Beyond it was a view Scully had described--of the downward slope in pastel blues and greens. On his way to his lover or his execution, he wasn't sure which yet. He watched his boots, one foot in front of the other, soft decaying leaves passing by underfoot, twigs, memories, Diana, Scully, face up, wipe out, be saved, spiral downward in flames and crash--bam!

Her door stood in front of him. He grimaced. The sun was getting low on the horizon, weaker, the sky streaked with yellows and pinks. She could open the door and find him just standing here.

He pulled his hand from his pocket and made himself knock.

"Who is it?"

"This the Capulet place?"

A chair moved. The floor creaked softly.

"Depends. Who's asking?" There was spirit in her voice.

He smiled in spite of himself. "Some guy on the lam."

The door opened. Scully peered out, reading glasses on, her hair tied back, a few escaped wisps of it framing her face. She was smiling. Blushing.

"Long time, stranger," she said.

He took a step up and found himself enveloped in her embrace, her arms around his neck, his face pressed against her sweater. She smelled good--better than good. It was the green sweater. Had she worn it on purpose? Did it mean something? How far was it to the nearest bed?

But there were things to talk about.

"Scully--"

He looked up. She was too close; her mouth was too close. Too late. Wet, soft greetings enveloped him, softness and curves and spreading heat. To the top of the high dive and jump off--yeehah.

Almost.

"Scully..."

"What?" Her head went back a little. Her fingers trailed past his temples and into his hair. "What is it, Mulder?"

"I need to..." He took a breath. "Look, can I come in?"

Sandy fumbled with the button at the back of her skirt and looked at herself in the mirror. She'd lost a little weight since the last time she wore it and that was a good thing, even if it was because she'd had no appetite. She hadn't looked at herself this way--as a woman--in longer than she could remember. She hardly looked in the mirror at all anymore--hadn't for a long time. There'd been Cy here and Roddy to watch after, laundry to wash and meals to cook and cleaning and marketing to do; who had time for looks? She brushed her hair back now, long strokes--it was halfway down her back and wavy--and held up a pair of earrings. Small earrings; no point in looking like she was out advertising for company. Lipstick. Some soft shade if she had anything that would do. Nails... no. Too much. God, it was a game. It was always a game but this time it was for really and truly. Like that baseball movie. If she had it--information--Annie would come to her; she'd use it to find out something, and it was the least she could do for Cy and Roddy, to find out what'd happened, to bring the man who'd killed them to justice or to help those other people at the plant who'd been getting contaminated by whatever it was.

Sandy looked at herself in the bedroom mirror. V-neck top, skirt--a little short--she'd worn this when she wanted to be noticed, but there was nothing better in the closet. And heels--low heels and not nearly as comfortable as her bare feet; she'd really gotten out of the habit. But she'd make do. For Cy and Roddy she would.

She dug through the top drawer until she found the lipstick she was looking for, leaned forward toward the mirror and began to put it on. This was crazy. But so was the way she'd lost her family.

"Mulder, what is it?"

She stood next to the desk chair. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward and breathed into cupped hands. She pulled the chair out carefully and sat down.

"Just hear me out, Scully."

It was what had had him on edge all day, whatever it was.

"I got a mail from my mom yesterday--early, when you were in the shower. She said a long time ago when she was still... when she still had some contact with Smoky..." He took a breath. "A woman who said she was his wife--Smoky's wife--showed up one day at her front door. She wanted to warn Mom about him, about what he was capable of. Mom said the woman was nervous, that she was a nervous kind of person, distraught... Anyway, she left Mom her address on a scrap of paper and Mom was going to throw it away but she ended up keeping it. She hid it in the back of a picture frame and she just remembered it a few days ago."

"She must have had some inkling," Scully said. "Your mother. Some intuition that the woman was telling the truth."

"Yeah, well it sure looks that way now." He paused. "We know this woman, Scully."

She sat down in her chair. "How?"

He looked at the knee of his jeans, then up at her. He pursed his lips. "It's Cassandra Spender."

Her mouth opened, though it took a moment before she was able to speak. "Cassandra?"

"Yeah." He looked past her, to the kitchen window where the sun was going down.

"He could have had something to do with her disappearance. Mulder, if he knew she was working against him in some way..."

"There's that possibility."

"Mulder, that means he's installed his own son..." She pursed her lips. "...over the X-files. He's put..."

So that's where this was going. Mulder was looking down, at the carpeting. She swallowed and watched the screensaver on the laptop morph slowly, tangled wires rolling, distending, changing colors as they went, red to orange to yellow to green. The only sound was the random gurgling of the laptop's hard drive.

"So I guess you were right all along and I was just an ass for believing." He turned his head away.

She said nothing. He'd mislead her before, starting into investigations and covering his motives with reasons that masked his actual agenda, but nothing had been quite like being left to stumble over the fact that he and Diana had been partners. More than partners; Diana herself had made sure she understood that.

Her lips pressed together.

"That's why I wanted to talk first," he said, venturing a glance at her. His mouth was small, with those familiar curves his lips got when he was flustered, or stumped. "I wanted to see if you were just going to throw me out or what." He heaved a sigh. "Look, Scully, just say something."

"Was that some kind of apology?" She could feel her mouth tighten. Her voice sounded distant, as if someone else were speaking.

He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess it is in a way. I... I froze. I didn't know how to tell you because I guess..." He let his breath out slowly. "...she was personal and I wanted you to be personal. And you didn't want that."

"Mulder, I never tried to hide the fact that Jack Willis and I..."

She looked away. He also hadn't made any comments about Jack or his mental state, or the fact that the man she'd had a relationship with was one of her professors. There was a load of ammunition there and surely it hadn't escaped him. But he hadn't said anything; he'd kept himself out of the way. Out of her way.

"Mulder, I... didn't mean to make it sound like I was judging your... personal life, though I suppose I..." She looked up at him. "...wasn't very careful to make that clear. It's just that it was hard, knowing you hadn't told me yourself, and because you... Damn it, Mulder. Because you're so willing to believe that you'll swallow anything sometimes, regardless of the evidence."

The air was getting cooler. She rubbed her arms for warmth.

"Yeah, well I guess I did in Diana's case." He rested his head in his hands.

'I told you so' was not what he needed to hear.

"Mulder, if it was all a setup, if she was there--positioned there--to draw you in..."

"Then what the hell significance do I have to him, Scully? Have I just been working for him all this time in some way without knowing it? Have I been his carrier pigeon, his...? My mother said he talked about 'protecting' me. Why would he do that unless it was in his own interest?" He shook his head. "I wish I knew, Scully. I really..."

She watched him: nearly motionless, obviously churning inside. Outside the window, the sun had set. The light wouldn't last much longer. She pressed the computer's power button, watched the screen go black and stood up.

"Mulder, come walk with me. There's something I want to show you."

He looked up, his face confusion. She held out her hand.

"Come on. It'll do you good."

He took it and stood.

"Alex?"

She stood in the doorway and looked toward the bed. His computer was open beside him. She couldn't tell if he was asleep or awake.

"Umm..." He turned toward her.

"I just wondered how those pills were doing. I... When I woke up you were asleep and I went upstairs and fell asleep again myself." She came in and shut the door behind her. She looked down. "Sorry about falling apart like that."

He shook his head. "Don't worry about it." He rolled slightly toward her. "This new stuff doesn't knock me out so I just... lie here." He let out a sigh.

"It doesn't mask the pain so well." She came closer.

"Always that tradeoff." He shrugged and gave her a pained half-smile.

"Do you want to go upstairs?" It was wearing on him, the nagging discomfort.

"Maybe for a while. I... Yeah. Let's give it a shot."

She went for the wheelchair behind the door. By the time she had it open and ready he was waiting, sitting on the edge of the bed. He blinked, then blinked again.

"What is it, Alex?"

"Just a little dizzy, that's all. I'll be okay."

She waited until he was ready and helped him into the chair. They went backwards through the door and out into the hall.

"It was cooler today," she said. "Look, there's still a little light."

She pushed the elevator button; it opened almost immediately and she pulled him inside. Inside the elevator they were silent. He was thinking about a boy he'd known when he was growing up, one who'd worked in a big city with his father before he'd been orphaned. The boy had told stories of riding elevators that went down beneath the sidewalks to the private basement workrooms of shops. All the gulag boys had been impressed.

The elevator door opened and she wheeled him out into the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs she helped him stand, then took the chair up and came back to help him. On the fifth stair he sagged unexpectedly, but he recovered and they continued to the top.

"To the wall," he said, nodding ahead.

"Are you sure, Alex?"

"I'm okay now."

The sunset colors still hung in the sky, fiery orange and purples and pinks.

"I love the colors," she said. "Sunsets can be so beautiful, and even if you're homeless or penniless nobody can take them away from you."

"You know, the kid moves when you're asleep," he said, staring out over the edge of the wall. The deepening colors reflected off his face. "I saw him last night."

"Sometimes I think I've felt something," she said. "And then I wake up and nothing more happens. Like when your car has a problem and you take it to the mechanic but whatever it is that happens for you won't happen once you get it there."

"You drive?" He glanced over at her.

"I did. For a while there. I've got a license, I just don't have anything to drive. It's expensive, gas and insurance. Even gas is more than I've got."

"I learned to drive on a tractor," he said. "Out in the vegetable fields. I was ten."

He was looking out to where the last of the light was. He'd ridden a motorcycle until he lost his arm, until the balance wasn't there and the chance of dumping the bike was too great. He was feeling slightly lightheaded again. He needed the chair but if he sat, he wouldn't be able to see the sunset. He was enjoying the colors, something he hadn't paid attention to in years.

"Tracy..."

"What?"

"I've been thinking... If something happens--you know, something unexpected and you need to get out of here, get away and I can't help you." He fished in his pocket and took out a torn piece of a business card. "This is my mother's phone number. I've only seen her--talked to her--once, but I think she'd help you. I don't know anyone else I can trust to help."

She reached for the piece of card, but panic shot through her suddenly--his panic, and the overwhelming feeling of being smothered.

"Alex?" Her heart stumbled and then surged.

He was sagging against the wall, grasping the edge, straining to breathe.

"Alex--"

She pulled the chair up behind him and eased him down into it. His lack of air tingled inside her head. She forced away his panic and the wild rhythm inside her and reclined the chair back.

"Any better?"

He shook his head and struggled to turn to one side. The breaths he took were longer, deeper, but they weren't enough. She fumbled with the safety strap on the chair, secured it across his waist and put his hand over it.

"Hold it down, Alex, so it stays below the wound."

He looked up at her, wide-eyed, and nodded.

"I'm taking you back down."

Not that way. Not down the stairs.

"I have to, Alex. There's no time. You said I was strong. This time I am."

She paused at the top of the stairs, tipped the chair back toward her and eased the wheels down.

"Hold on, Alex. Just hold--"

Long gasping sounds came out of him. He was working to focus, to keep his mind elsewhere, controlled so it wouldn't affect her while he struggled for air--he knew she could feel what he felt--that they might both fall--but there wasn't enough air. His lungs felt as if heavy boots were pressing on them. The scene in front of him was going gray.

Eight more stairs, four more, three more, two, one. Landing. She slipped past the chair and pushed the elevator button. Her arms were shaking; her heart pounded. Should she call 911 or his father? He hated his father--he had reason to--but the old man would know who his doctor was. His hand came out, reaching. She took it and held it hard, as if her resolve could strengthen him. The floor tilted slightly and she blinked. The elevator door lurched open.

They were inside and going down. Hold it together Tracy, don't think, don't feel what he feels; just do, one step to the next, help him, get the key ready, go for the phone. His hand was on her wrist.

"I'm here, Alex."

Door open, out into the hallway, working his hand from her wrist--don't read him. Key in the lock, door open, rolling in, phone. Phone. Who to call? He was trying to block her out, to shield her. He was suffocating. She pressed the numbers, blurted out the information half-thinking. Medications: they might need to know. Her heart pounded. She got the bottles, put them in a bag, wedged them down beside him in the chair. Don't think of her--don't think of Then--he was reaching again; she took his hand. If only he could read her, if she could take him... somewhere, a peaceful place. She couldn't watch him; she was drowning, drowning in a too-familiar dark pool, heart racing, screaming. It was happening again, again, again...

A knock on the half-open door. She opened her eyes. Men came in--tall--she was talking, telling them something, like in a dream, and then the chair was going, Alex's face tinged in graying shadow; she could feel his hand still, though he was out the door, in the hall, going down now, his stomach sinking in the elevator car, head floating. Stay away, stay safe was all she could hear him think and then there was nothing, she was in the room--dark, silent room--and it was empty.

Scully closed the door behind them and flipped the wall switch. The light that filled the room was the color of aged parchment.

"Well, the next time I plan a little excursion like that I'll remember how many mosquitoes are out there," she said.

Mulder was behind her, his hands brushing through the hair at the base of her neck.

"What?" She turned.

"You brought one in with you," he said, pinching it between his fingers. "You have some place to get rid of this?"

"You can wash it down the sink." She gestured toward the kitchen.

He ran the water and then rubbed his hands under the flow and turned it off again.

"Towel's on the stove door," she said.

They'd walked to the falls and back, close, not speaking, just letting themselves loosen, letting the tension go. If not for the mosquitoes they might have stayed and sat, listening to the water. As it was, they'd turned around and come right back.

"Sit," she said, pulling out the desk chair.

He gave her a questioning look but sat down.

"I don't want you bringing any in, either. I've got to sleep here tonight, you know." She checked around the base of his neck and inside his shirt collar, then rested her hands on his shoulders. They were broad and warm; she could feel them go up and down slightly with his breathing.

She swallowed.

"I've been thinking, Mulder." A pause. "I haven't always respected the journey--our journey together. I was thinking about that as we were walking along--that there's always been this... adversarial thing that we do, this... bouncing things around--theories, interpretations--and we're both completely convinced we're right, and somehow, in the end, it all turns out... a lot of the time. And that's healthy for the most part--it certainly seems to work, and yet... for this--this--" She paused. "Maybe sometimes we play a little too hard, a little too..." She squeezed his shoulders gently and sighed. "I think that was an apology. I'm not very good at this."

He tilted his head back and looked at her. "At least I know you're not conspiring against me in any way, Scully. You're the one person guaranteed not to tell me what I want to hear." The back of his head brushed her arm; he smiled a tentative smile. "But that's probably a good thing, in the end."

She slipped her arms around his neck and closed her eyes. Her cheek settled against his hair. He smelled good--familiar. Maybe not familiar enough. "Mulder, how soon do you have to be back?"

"Couple of hours. Maybe three."

She pictured the cabin steps again, sitting behind him, and the all-enveloping quiet. "Stay till then."

"Okay." A pause. "Scully, I think it's too bright in here." There was the hint of a smile in his voice.

"I wouldn't know. I've got my eyes closed." She moved slightly with his breathing, like a swing shifting in the wind.

"It's too bright. Will you shut the light off?"

"If you'll stay." She felt the smile that spread across her face.

"Okay." He tilted his face up toward her. "Shut the light off," he said quietly.

"You staying?"

"You've got me. Scully..."

She reached for the wall switch and flipped it.

Tracy hugged her arms close to her body in the dark. It was cold, the air conditioner churning. Only thin, gray light was visible through the window. He was gone, his absence as stark as her mother's had been. She would have to tell his father--for Alex's sake, for her own. Would he wonder why she hadn't called him first? His number must be somewhere; surely Alex would have it no matter what his feelings for the old man. He had to pull through, he couldn't... She couldn't even make herself think it. A trembling ran through her.

There was a small movement at the side of her belly, a kick or maybe a stretch, the kind of movement that accompanies a yawn. Stay strong. Stay strong for him.

She rose reluctantly from her spot on the floor, went to the door and turned on the light. The sudden brightness made her squint. She looked at the desk, her yellow sweater--her mother's--still on the chair back. He'd been able to pry her from it, or maybe she was like a toddler just learning to walk, willing to leave one hand when another was offered. When she'd come in this afternoon, he'd actually smiled. He'd enjoyed the sunset colors for the first time in years and now he was gone, his bed with its rumpled sheets as stark and leering as her mother's afterward. Things always happened before you were ready.

She walked to the bed and picked up the phone from the end of it. She didn't know his number and Alex would never leave a list around, evidence that could be used against him in some way. She held the phone in her hand and looked at the lighted dial. They hadn't even mentioned which hospital they were taking him to. Or maybe she just hadn't heard, wrapped up in her own private horror. He needed to pull through. He had to.

Her thumb pushed the speed dial button and pressed '1'. She raised the phone to her ear and swallowed. It had to be. For as ironic as it would be, for as much as he'd chafe at the significance of it--would hate it--it had to be the one.

"Yes," a voice on the other end answered, the 's' on the end sibilant like a snake's. She grimaced.

"This is..." Her voice was wavery, watery. She bit her lip. "This is Tracy. Something's... happened to Alex. They took him to the hospital. I called 911; I didn't know what else to... He couldn't breathe. He couldn't get enough air."

He was full of questions; she had few answers. She listened to him talk. Her blood pounded. Around her the room echoed its emptiness, an all-too-familiar emptiness--no ordinary emptiness. Hadn't she'd banished it? It had been hidden, covered, tamped down, but it had risen so quickly again. What would she do now? Which hospital had they taken him to? The phone was dead in her hand, beeping; the old man had hung up. She set it back on the base.

The old man would find Alex but it didn't mean he'd tell her. Would he expect her to wait? To leave? Would he send someone to get rid of her in the middle of the night and get someone else to take care of Alex once he was out of danger? If he was out of danger. She needed to know. And he needed her help. She could feel the grip of his hand again, a plea.

She stood up and began to smooth the bed sheets with long, even strokes. She could see her mother on the bed, vacant, her eyes still open. She swallowed and turned away. Crossing to the small desk, she picked the yellow sweater from the chair back and clutched it to her. Then she was at the door, flipping the light switch, leaving the room in darkness and going out.

Sandy slammed the front door and kicked her shoes off beside the mat. She bit her lip, continued to the kitchen and turned on the stove light. The sink was full of dishes. She turned on the water and let it run hot. A squirt of dish soap and bubbles began to build and rise. She waited, impatient, trying to decide which was worse: Sara slipping away into the cereal aisle to avoid her when she'd seen her coming or Ryan Norton coming on to her at Denny's. Sara'd had Mikey with her. He was a week older than Roddy and maybe that was what had sent her running. What did you say to the mother of a dead child, anyway? I'm sorry? What could be more useless? What good did your sorrow do? It didn't bring him back. It didn't save the mother.

She turned off the water, took a sponge and began to wipe the sudsy surfaces of plates and bowls. Where would her father be tonight? If only he'd call she could tell him about the e-mail. Maybe he could find a way. Maybe Annie'd let her send mail from her computer; she seemed nice enough in her own cautious way. She could tell him she'd seen the pictures of Stone Boy.

Sandy rubbed the lip of a saucepan and started in on silverware. There should be more dishes--two more plates, two more cups. Cereal bowls from Roddy's day. Ryan Norton was a pig. It hadn't made any difference as long as Cy was with her; he'd been her buffer, her safety zone. His friends looked at her differently now, but she'd sat through a soda with Ryan anyway and she'd do it again if she had to. He drove for Harlan Beeson and if he knew anything--anything--it would repay the frustration of having to put up with swine like him.

She rinsed the dishes quickly and let the water drain. Small drifts of lingering bubbles clung to the side of the sink. She'd write it down, everything she remembered, in case any of it would make some sense to Annie. She smiled bitterly. Two weeks and the whole world had changed. Old life gone--her husband and her little boy just swept away--and here she was, recast as Little Miss Detective.

Sandy took a pad of paper from beside the phone and sat down at the kitchen table to write. She could almost feel Cy's big arms coming around her from behind, his beard against her ear, his drawn-out 'come o-o-o-n, Sandy'. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again and picked up the pencil.

"...There's more," Mulder said, pushing the pillow farther under his head.

She turned back to look at him. She was spooned in front of him, nested in a snug cocoon of arms and legs. "Mulder?"

"There's an opening at the plant. Dale told me about it this afternoon."

She searched his expression. "You aren't kidding, are you?"

"Nope." He paused. "I didn't know what you'd think."

The old man strode down the shiny corridor toward the nurses' station. Alex was supposed to have been out of the woods. It had been unexpected--the worst of it, perhaps, the girl's reaction, her near-hysteria. But she was just a young, impressionable girl. Seeing someone in distress could be shocking for her. She wasn't likely to have witnessed anything like it before.

"Dr. Williams," he said to the nurse at the desk. "She's expecting me."

"I'll page her," the desk nurse said. The glare of a computer screen reflected off her glasses.

He turned and looked across the hallway. A patient was being wheeled out of a room on a gurney, an older woman. He'd looked down at Teena Mulder that way once, past all apparent hope, the gray and white of her hair spread against a hospital pillow. Fox had stuck to her like a barnacle to a rock, wanting to protect her in spite of everything.

The click of shoes approached. He turned around. She was tall for a woman, chocolate-skinned with close-cropped hair. She wore a suit, a brown jacket and skirt. Obviously she was on her way out.

"Dr. Williams? I'm here about Alex..." That was all they'd known, all the girl had told them. She'd never known more than his first name, which was all to the better.

"I was just leaving. You're the father?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's a good thing he was brought in as soon as he was. Apparently he had a reaction to the pain medication he was taking. We've got him in intensive care. We're going to be running more tests in the morning but he seems to have stabilized."

"May I see him?"

"It's after hours," she said. "You can look in for a minute, but you're not to disturb him."

"Very well."

She led the way down the hall and held open a door. He went in. The doctor remained behind him, protective of her patient. She wasn't about to give him the opportunity to wake her charge if that had been his intent. Alex was lying on the bed, pale, asleep or sedated, an IV in his arm, an oxygen line secured beneath his nose.

"When will you know anything for sure?" he said.

"We'll have to keep him for at least a day," she said. "Maybe two."

"Very well, I'll check back tomorrow," he said. "Thank you."

He ran a finger along the bed rail and turned to go. Dr. Williams stepped back to let him pass. At the doorway he turned and glanced back again. He looked at Alex's arm on the bed and remembered the operating room, Alex's hand somehow come loose, dangling palm up. The hand on the bed curled suddenly, grasping something invisible. He watched until it relaxed again, then turned and left the room.

"What kind of position is it, Mulder?" She rolled toward him and watched his face in the dim light the moon cast.

"Janitorial."

"Mulder as janitor..." Her mouth wanted to smile but she held back.

"Hey, you never know who's trash I could be emptying. It could be a starting place." He let his head drop back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. "Hell, I don't know whether I'm just crazy or... I mean, we should be out there somewhere Smoky could never find us, Scully, some urban area where we could disappear into the woodwork. That's where we'd be if we had any sense, not in a little town like this where every new arrival makes headlines on the local gossip lines."

"And if we were... out there? What would we be doing?"

He let out a sigh. "I don't know. What the hell does it matter?"

"But it does matter, Mulder." She rested a hand on his bare shoulder. "You know it does. Yes, it's dangerous here, and yes, maybe we're a little crazy... if you look at it from the outside, from someone else's perspective. But there are people here who need our help. Sandy Miller, Mulder. To watch that girl--that woman... what she's carrying. And it happened because of him, because of the Smoking Man."

"Yeah, but how's this going to help us catch him, Scully, so we can stop playing this charade some day?"

"I don't know. But we'll never find out if we don't try. No one else is going to help these people."

"Then you think I should take the job?"

"It's up to you."

He bit his lip. "I just... I didn't want to commit to anything until I'd talked to you."

Silver light glittered on tree leaves outside the window. A sudden breeze rocked the trailer gently. There wasn't much time; he could see the glowing numbers on the wall clock. He gathered her in against him and rested his cheek against her head. He'd give anything to stay with her like this, the two of them skin-on-skin, wrapped around each other. "I've got to go."

"Don't leave yet." Her hand traveled along his side and slipped around his waist..

"I have to. I told Dale..."

She sighed.

"Lark, Scully. I thought you were the lark."

"Didn't I tell you?” She tried to look serious. “I switched. I'm the nightingale now."

He shook his head and smiled. "Scully, if you're a nightingale we're in big trouble."

Her lips went against his chest and then the covers were pushed back--cool air--and she was out of bed. He watched her dress in the shadows.

"Come on, Mulder. I'll walk you to your truck."

He sat up and pushed himself to the edge of the bed.

He could breathe.

Krycek opened his eyes. He was in the hospital; he remembered the faces in the emergency room crowding around him, the feeling of... He turned his head and forced himself to trace the shape of the darkened window.

Night. He was hooked to an IV; his arm ached where they'd put it in. He tried to remember: the roof, the trip down the stairs, the ambulance... He let his head fall to the side, then tensed. He wasn't alone. Someone was in the room, shadowed next to the window.

His heart stopped momentarily, then surged heavily ahead. He stared hard into the darkness. It was a tallish form, thin. Not possible. He had to be dreaming. Must be whatever they'd given him coupled with a good dose of wishful thinking.

He closed his eyes. She must have been terrified. For as strong as she was, she was only human and she had that raw spot where her mother still haunted her. He could hear her again, sobbing against the mattress, could feel the smooth thinness of her hair under his fingers.

The window curtain rustled. His eyes opened.

"Alex?"

Blood surged through him like a wave.

The form in the shadows came a step closer, then another step and another. She wore a worried smile.

"I had to come, Alex. I had to know where you were, if you were alright."

"How? How did you...?"

She came closer, slid the rolling table out of the way and leaned over the bed railing.

"It's not important. Are you... okay now?"

He nodded. "I think so. I..." He shook his head. "...relief, being able to breathe again. I'm tired."

"You should rest. I didn't mean to disturb you. Go back to sleep, Alex."

He looked at her. She reached across and took his hand. He let his eyes close.

"Tracy, do you have bus fare or... It's late."

"I didn't come that way, Alex. I'm okay. Just rest."

He let himself drift.

Scully slid the jeans down over her hips, stepped out of them and laid them carefully over the back of the desk chair. She pulled the sweater over her head and paused a moment, looking at the bed. Then she laid the sweater over the jeans and slipped in between the covers. The sheets were cold against her skin. She pulled the blanket up around her neck, reached for the pillow on the far side and pulled it in against her. Above her, through the window, silver-lighted leaves murmured on the trees outside. Her eyes closed tightly and her breath caught. After a second she forced her breathing into regularity.

The grit of brick against the side of her face brought Tracy back to consciousness. She opened her eyes. She was on the patio--Alex's roof patio. Her room had been hot and there was no way she could stay in his. She just couldn't. She'd come up here... and sat down against the wall in the corner where no one could see her if they came up the stairs.

But the old man wouldn't send anyone now, looking for her. He was all right. Alex was safe.

She rubbed her cheek and temple carefully and straightened. Her neck ached. It reminded her of the man on the stairs--Alex's brother--it seemed so long ago--and the way he'd sometimes fallen asleep against the cement pillar that held the railing. Where had he gone, he and Scully who she didn't know, Scully who didn't leave him in spite of what he was? It was a fact that impressed Alex, that puzzled and awed him at the same time.

She stood carefully, brushed at her dress and leaned forward against the wall. Hazy in the sky above her was the moon's version of a Cheshire cat smile. She watched wispy clouds drift past it and tried to picture her mother in the garden, whole and smiling.

Sandy shifted in bed. She felt warmth behind her and then his thick arm going around her middle. When she turned back, she was greeted by the familiar bristle of beard.

"Cy, where you been?"

"Out. I just got in." His breath smelled faintly of beer.

"Well, good. I've been waiting for you..."

She put her arm over his and tucked it closer against her waist.