2412. He looked at the numbers he'd just written on the page. He looked at all the numbers he'd written on the page, the same four digits repeated over and over, covering the page so it no longer looked white but black. No matter how he looked at the paper in front of him, upside down, right side up, sideways, front and back, they stared at him accusingly. 2412. There was no escaping it, no getting around it. One hundred and one half days, 144,720 minutes, 8,683,200 seconds, it didn't matter how he did the math, it all added up to such a short time he'd been given with her. Such a short time, the numbers stared back at him, their recrimination clear. 2412. The numbers glared back at him. How many unsubs had they caught in 2412 hours? How many victims had they saved; victims who had required far less than 2412 hours? Some victims had been saved by mere seconds. You had 2412 hours the numbers told him. And what did you do in that time? Nothing. She didn't want me to, he tried to tell himself but, even as he did so, he knew the argument was weak. Sure, she might have been angry that you'd gone against her wishes. You could have handled the anger. At least she would have been alive to be angry. Now you have nothing. Maybe that's what you deserve. He ripped the page up angrily and threw the pieces, not caring where they landed. He could feel the pain beginning and he put his head in his hands. He hadn't taken his vitamins. What was the point now anyway? He likely deserved the headaches. She'd helped him and he'd done nothing to help her. You tried, he told himself. Not hard enough; I didn't save her. I tried but I couldn't save her. Too little too late, far too late. His head began to pound like a jackhammer as he reached for another sheet of paper. 2412.