"See ya, Sam!" Cosmo said as he pulled on his overcoat. It was November and an early blast of frigid winds from Canada gripped the city.

"Tomorrow!" Sam said.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You splitting the cab with me or not, Biggs?"

Biggs hastily got up. "I'm coming. Let's go." He pulled on his coat as he nodded to his boss. "Later, Sam."

Noah started to get up, preparing to join the exodus as the members of the team headed home from the bar. He was exhausted. Tomorrow would bring a new case and weeks of sifting through a giant haystack of information in search of another fugitive.

Tonight, though, they had been celebrating. They had made a collar today, a man with known connections to the Sinaloa Cartel, a murderer who had jumped federal bail nearly a year ago. Weeks of painstaking work had led to the final showdown this morning, when they had burst into the small apartment where his mistress lived.

Before the newest member of the team, Noah, got to his feet, Sam said, "Noah, would you wait a minute?"

Noah felt his hands go damp and his heart start to race. This had been his first case on Sam Gerard's team. He had been tasked with sorting through boxes and boxes of old court documents and he had missed a key clue, one that Cosmo had thankfully caught. He did not know if Sam knew, but what else could it be? Noah wrapped his fingers around his empty beer stein and consciously tried not to squeeze it.

"Sure, boss. What's up?" He worried that his voice was shaking. He liked this assignment so much better than Witness Protection and he really did not want to lose it.

Sam frowned at him as he called out, "Tony, another one for Noah, here."

The barkeep, a slight black man with shoulder length dreads nodded. "Coming right up, Sam. Can I freshen yours?"

Tony chuckled at Sam's firm headshake as he put down a fresh glass in front of Noah. "Never known a guy who could nurse a warm, flat beer like your boss, kid."

Noah picked up the drink and took a sip as he looked back at Sam. Sam's glass was still three quarters full and unlike the frothy glass in front of him, Sam's stein was clear of carbonation and condensation. Noah's mind was racing as he noticed these odd details. Would Sam have bought him a beer if he was about to be sent back to Witness Protection? Maybe he was trying to break the news gently? Was this about his ponytail?

"Relax," Sam said.

Noah's mind snapped back to the present and he looked up from the beer in his hand (A quarter gone? Had he done that?) and back to Sam. "Huh?"

"I said, relax, kid. I am not going to call you on the carpet in a bar. And don't worry about missing that bit with the deeds. That's why we have cross checks. Just don't make a habit of it. Got it?"

"Uh, sure," Noah replied when it was clear Sam was waiting for some acknowledgement.

Sam said nothing as he twisted his glass on the table, absently staring through it.

Noah looked at him for a moment and then glanced up at the Cubs game on the TV.

They sat in uncomfortable silence as the Cubs' closer, Dan Plesac, allowed one, two, three, and four runs in the seventh inning, making the score two to thirteen. Just as Noah was trying to decide if he should say something, or even get up to leave, Sam spoke.

"What was he like?"

Puzzled, Noah asked, "Who?"

Sam's eyes were on the TV, watching the game, but they flicked down to meet Noah's for a moment. "John Krebel."

"Oh. Him." John Krebel had been Noah's first assignment as a U.S. Marshal, working on his protection detail.

"He seemed like a nice enough old man. He used to go to the park to play chess on Sundays. There was a group of old guys who all went. I'd play with him sometimes. Always lost."

"I heard he liked chess."

"Chess and, believe it or not, cheese doodles. He put away a bag of those really nasty orange ones every day."

Sam stared at the glass.

"How did you know him? Were you on his detail at some point?" ventured Noah.

Noah had first met Sam at Krebel's funeral. Noah had stood in the back while the priest had said the mass to a nearly empty room. He had been thankful that the assignment was over and he had been wondering if he was still too green to request a transfer to a different division in the Marshals.

About halfway through the service, Sam had come in and taken a seat in the back row. Afterwards, they had exchanged a few words. Two weeks later, he was ordered to report to Chicago for an interview and he was surprised to discover that interview was with the man he met at Krebel's funeral.

Sam looked up. "Did he ever tell you what he did to get into witness protection?"

Noah shook his head. "No. He never volunteered and SOP prevented me from asking."

"Ah."

"Do you know?"

"He was a hit man," Sam said. "Worked for the Chicago Outfit, back in the fifties. He did ten years of a life sentence in Joliet before turning state's evidence. His testimony was instrumental in convicting John Baglioro and Mikey Mechetta. He did another ten in Big Sandy – that's when they changed his name - and then they released him to Witness Protection."

Noah nodded slowly, trying to imagine the frail old man he had helped to the car each day as a murderer. Then he realized that Sam had not answered his question.

"What do you think of the Marshals, Noah? You're coming up on your first anniversary," asked Sam, changing the subject.

"Yes. Ten months with Witness Protection and then just shy of two with you. I like it. You run a tight team."

"I got good men." After a moment, Sam winced and added, "and women."

Noah smiled, imagining Poole calling Sam out for that statement.

"Are you one of those kids who grew up on the stories of Wyatt Earp and gun-slinging?" asked Sam.

"Nah. My parents are college professors. I thought I was going to be an academic, too."

"What do they teach?"

"My mom, chemistry. My dad, music theory."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding."

"So what brings you here?"

"I took a course in psychology. That lead me to criminal justice. Law was just too boring, so I went to the police academy. Took the Marshal's exam on a lark. Well, you know the rest."

Sam twisted his glass, staring into the flat amber liquid.

"What about you, Sam? Did you grow up wanting to be a Marshal?"

Sam laughed. "It would be safe to say it never occurred to me."

"What do you mean?"

Sam dipped his finger in his warm beer and drew a line across the table. "This is the law. Here is where you grew up." He drew a dot on one side of the line. "And here is where I grew up." He put a second dot on the other side of the line.

Noah frowned.

"I didn't have many options. My dad was incarcerated when I was two. My mom died a few years later. I grew up in a home for boys. I could have followed in my father's footsteps. A career in international relations would have come easily."

Noah looked up from the diagram Sam had drawn on the table. The non-sequitur left him baffled. What was he missing? "International relations?"

Sam ignored the question and continued, "I took a job as a prison guard out of high school."

Grasping at the straw, Noah asked, "So, you knew Jack Krebel back when he was in prison?"

Sam smiled slightly, swirling the dot he drew into a spiral. "No, I did not know him in prison."

"Then in witness protection?"

Sam looked at Noah meeting his eyes. Noah looked back and suddenly his eyes widened. He didn't know how he missed the resemblance before - the shape of the brow, the quirk of the eye.

"Oh my god."

Sam chuckled. "You figured it out?"

"He was your father. Jack Krebel was your father."

Sam lifted his glass in a toast and took a gulp of the flat, warm liquid. Setting the glass down, he stood and reached for his coat. "I'll see you tomorrow, Noah."

Flabbergasted, Noah nodded as Sam dropped a twenty on the table.

"Sure thing, Sam. See you tomorrow."