Afghanistan, six years ago

The Army medic flicked dirt off his scrubs and double checked the man tucked in the emergency bed. Some twist of fate had led to a mobile hospital being set up in the remains of an actual hospital. The medicine was gone, and most of the equipment was broken or too old to be practical, but what was left of the place was sound, easy to clean and protect, and the heating still worked, a huge plus from the frigid shelters they had been going through the past seven months. It had been here three weeks now. The medic was sneaking off to smoke. He met up with a guy named Richmond, an infantryman who worked the front. Richmond had a supply of American cigarettes. He might as well have been God.

Sneaking a smoke in a mobile hospital unit is something everyone should do once. His spot was a stairwell at the back of the building that led up to what had been the second floor. It was covered, hard to see anyone from, and it drafted enough heat in from the hall to stay warm enough to smoke in. Richmond was already there. Even though sneaking a smoke was kind of a private act, Afghanistan was like a fucking horror movie. You never went on your own.

They smoked in silence for a moment. Richmond spoke first.

"So, you see that Staff Sergeant they brought in yet?"

"No. He dead?"

"No, but just about. This morning they cleared a home about twenty minutes from here. They found him in the basement. Last of his unit, poor bastard."

"Is he walking and talking?"

"Not really. They can't get much out of him. They found his dog tags so they have his name, but that's about it."

The medic took a deep breath. Whoever the Staff Sergeant was, he'd been through some shit if he was the last of his unit. The medic knew better than to ask if he'd been tortured. It wasn't a possibility, like winning the lotto. It was a hard fact.

"What did they do to him?"

"Not real sure just yet- lots of minor injuries, stuff that will heal. His right hand is broken up pretty bad. Last I saw him; his hand was bundled in a wad of gauze. He's in the bay now I think, just waiting for a shrink to come and get him talking. Not so easy to do with a bullet through your hand. Give him some morphine, loosen him right up."

"I'll see if I can get someone rounded up. I got two questions. The injuring of the hand is symbolic, right? I think I've seen this before, about four months ago. Private came through with three of his fingers cut off. To that point in time, he'd been a sniper."

"Makes sense- our boy is a Ranger, so being a sniper would fit."

"What's his name?"

"Booth."

"Booth?"

"Staff Sergeant Booth."

They finished their cigarettes in silence. The medic made it back down to the main bedding area. It smells like antiseptic and blood, every time, all the time.

Philadelphia, a year later

He'd walked into the church with booze on his breath. This place, these hallowed halls, had been an escape for him. He didn't feel like this was an escape now. He felt like the world was closing in. He couldn't drink it away. He didn't feel any better but he felt calmer. He walked out of the basilica, leaving the graceful arches of the church behind him. He stepped out into winter night, the last of the ice crunching softly under his feet. He wanted to make a call, but he didn't know where his phone was. He had his wallet, but his keys and phone were probably back at the bar. Better that way. His hand hurt, but it did when it got cold. The doctors told him he would heal all the way, but he wondered why it hurt when he got cold. Maybe he was still healing.

He walked a long time, Philadelphia soaking into his skin. He didn't take leave often, and when he did, it wasn't long. But this was different. There had been a death in the family, and he hadn't even been brave enough to talk to Pops yet. He walked along the boulevard, his breath spilling from his mouth in the chill air. He had quit smoking in anticipation of being a dad. He could have sworn he kept a ratty half pack in his coat pocket, but they were gone now too.

There was a phone booth just outside a Chinese place. He was hungry enough to eat now, and calm enough not to get kicked out, but he had a call to make first. His fingers stumbled a little, numb from the freeze, but hit the right keys. He had change for the call.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Pops."

"Hey Shrimp, what are you doing?"

"I'm over on the eastside, near the church there."

"You don't sound so hot, son. What's going on?"

"I have been drinking a little. I... well; I know I shouldn't be, but Rebecca, she had an abortion. She was just past her first trimester and she decided to do it. No more baby."

"Why did she do that? I mean, was she sick or something?"

"No, she wasn't. Just, said she had enough. Wanted her own life. Didn't want to be tied up with my problems. Didn't want me to turn out like my own father. For the best, she said."

His chest heaved in the cold air. He did his best to breathe. His chest felt tight.

"The bar, they took my keys and stuff. Can you come get me until tomorrow? I'm sorry I know you expect this kinda shit from Jared, but- "

"Where are you, kiddo? I mean, I know the church, but are you there?"

"No, there's a Chinese place, uh, Golden Hour, it's called."

"I'll meet you there in a little bit. Get yourself something to eat. I got it."

"Thanks, Pops, I'll see you in a bit. I got some things I need to talk about?"

"I think that falls safely under the box marked no shit, son. I'm not gonna give you the 'I told you so' speech."

The Golden Hour was busy. He was half heartedly working on a bowl of egg drop soup when Pops sat down at the chair across from him. He looked at the old man, and said nothing.

"Seeley, I know this isn't easy. It never is. I didn't like that one, and now I like her even less. But let's look at the bright side, Shrimp. You got the rest of your life. What are you gonna do with it? Is the Army still for you? You got what, a year or so left? You were able to requal sniper with no real problems. Even if that isn't your choice, you have a head on your shoulders. Use it. Remember when you were a kid and you talked about being a cop all the time? Or when you and Jared used to play spies? Your doors are wide open, son."

"I wanted the doors that I had Pops. I was perfectly fine with those. Look, Jared is the military man. I mean, he just picked up his commission and everything, I'm sure he'll do great. The Army was something I can do, it's not who I am."

"Then who are you, Seeley? You know, much as you might hate to hear it; your father was like that after the service. Aimless, no direction. Even after he got his barbershop, he's never really keened in on anything after that."

"I'm not like him. I'm not. I have a direction, I do. Right now I just feel like the ghost of who I was going to be."

"Ghosts are dead, kiddo. Dead and gone. You are still breathing. Look, I remember when I was about your age; your grandma and I lost one, just after your father. I was crushed, and your grandma was even worse. I went to talk to a priest, a fellah that I knew from my time in the service. He told me, he said Hank, when a child is meant to come into this world, fate and nature conspires. If that child was meant to be here, then it will. Until then, it's… someplace else, not a thing of this world. Just be glad you didn't have the kid and then lost it."

"I know what you mean, Pops. But Rebecca, she told me I wasn't... I wasn't good. Something changed in me after coming home the last time. It's more than being on edge. It's, I don't know. I think she might be right. Maybe I wasn't father material. I sure as hell wasn't husband material, she made that abundantly clear."

The old man shifted in his seat. It was clear that he was uncomfortable. Sometimes, even the biggest heart just does not know what to say.

"Tell you what Pops. Order some soup. I got a job offer last week, something I have to consider carefully. Wanna hear about it?"

Pops looked tired. He laced his fingers together solemnly. "Tell me."

Washington, D.C., two weeks ago

Brennan loved the turn of the seasons here. The fall gave her many excuses to wear the variety of coats she collected. Although not a clothes horse per se, Brennan had a taste for coats and the coat closet in her apartment was more than modest. This morning was a navy blue trench coat she'd seen in the window of a vintage clothing store. Her friend Angela had suggested it for her. This morning, she was tending to the last of her immediate administrative business at the Jeffersonian and handing the reins over to her assistant. She'd been pushing for a chance to go to an archaeological dig near Thurso, Scotland. A flood had displaced several bodies interred at a small cemetery. Crews sent to rebuild the site found a sealed room under the edge of the cemetery. It turned out to be the foyer of a pagan burial mound. A church had been built over the site sometime in the sixteenth century, and local records indicated that the mound itself had been undisturbed since long before that, possibly dating back as early as fifth of sixth century AD.

The Scottish National Historical Society welcomed the opportunity to have her. Arrangements were made for her to use a local house as a temporary examination room. The remains would possibly be reinterred there if possible, pending a safety and structural integrity report. If not suitable for visitation or reinterring, the entire mound would be excavated. The initial dig time, pending safety reports, was set at four months, possibly as much as a year. Brennan didn't see her involvement stretching to a year, but if it did, she'd welcome it.

She stopped in at a bookshop in the terminal. The flight was long enough for leisure reading, which she didn't make time for. She'd even thought about writing a novel of her own, but she questioned where to go with it. A part of her, a more clinical part, knew that writing something related to work would fill pages, if not volumes, but a more wistful part of her, the part that desired actual romance and adventure, wasn't certain if she knew enough about either subject. What Temperance Brennan had achieved in her professional life, she lacked in her personal one. Her twenties had been consumed with studies and school and digs and internship. She had made it to this point with no long term entanglements and no children. Her last relationship had been an on and off with a former professor. It hadn't ended per se, but it had been long enough between on that she thought it as mostly off. Angela warned her of the dangers of post thirty dating.

At the tender age of twenty seven, she had been made the lead Forensic Anthropology at the Jeffersonian Institute. She'd hit the ground running, gaining funding and reputation very quickly. If anyone doubted her abilities as a leader, it was actually her. She didn't see it. If anything, she was a lead from the back type, even if Angela saw different.

A month worth of scrambling had ended with her here. She was on work visa rather than getting a passport, as work visa was faster to obtain. She read idly for a moment, and at some point, her mind drifted toward Scotland, but not the Scotland she knew she was headed to. She envisioned rough Scottish landscapes and rough Scottish men. She frowned slightly, thinking there would probably be no time for that, either. She focused on the book more intently, hoping to wrap herself up in the story. She was almost done when the plane touched down.

Inverness, Scotland, the same night

Brennan checked into her overnight hotel. She'd be taking the train to Thurso in the morning. She finished the book slowly. The room service was all meats and sauces and after a long flight, Brennan was thinking something more like a salad. Maybe vegetarian if she could find it. She sauntered down the main boulevard, no direction in mind, mostly just looking for something that seemed warm and inviting. The lights of the small city seemed to focus here, at least from the train station. She'd taken out her other coat, a heavier dress coat in white. Rain started to speckle the ground. She turned into the first place she could find, a local pub called the Lion's Den. Dinner that night was simple- roasted chicken and potatoes. She finished it off with a local beer. Normally, she wasn't a beer drinker, but the local brew was hoppy with a little bite to it, and the handsome bartender, a tall blond man with a thick Scottish accent, had bought it for her.