Thank you candygramme and reggie11 for doing a great betaing job!

Sam's always had some trouble making friends at school. They never stayed in the same place for very long and it takes a while to worm into already established groups of friends. He didn't know what he was doing wrong but sometimes he got the impression that people thought he was weird, that his family was weird. Teachers would get worried about him, ask if things were okay at home, was he nervous about something?

He knew he would always be out of step with the rest of the world with the life his family led. They would always be on the outskirts, watching through a glass wall how normal people lived. Dad and Dean were happy with their life, but Sam wanted more. He wanted to step through that invisible barrier and become normal.

And now he'd done it. College. His chance to finally be normal.

Sam taps his pen against the page of his Psychology book, trying to concentrate on Maslow's hierarchy of needs. There's a sudden burst of loud laughter, and he looks up, eyes finding the group of freshmen gathered around a computer. He returns back to his book, feeling unsettled. It's two weeks into the semester, and everybody already seems to have found their own circle of friends. He's tried approaching people and joining in, but somehow he always seemed to get something wrong and was never invited back. He's seen his classmates out together, but they never acknowledge him, and Sam avoids them as much as possible, stung by their rejection.

Something knocks against Sam's back and he jumps, twisting around in his seat. It's just two students, the over-laden backpack of one of them having brushed against him while she walked past. He watches them walk away between the shelves before he's satisfied there's nothing suspicious about them. He turns back around to his book, but he can't pull his attention away from the distraction of the noise around him. There are so many people talking, moving around and walking behind him, he can't keep track of them all.

Finally, he picks up his books and grabs one of the tables in the corner, pulling his chair around so that he can see the exits and all the students going to and fro. He picks up his pen and starts on his summary of the chapter, his tense shoulders relaxing a little bit when he can keep an eye on the activity around him.

Things seem to look up a little one day at the end of his English Language 101 lecture. A group of classmates who invited him out a couple of times before largely ignoring him are chatting together at the back of the room. Sam keeps his eyes down as he packs his stuff, thinking about the essay they'd just been assigned. He hefts his backpack onto his shoulders and heads towards the exit. The group's chat dies down as he passes, and then one of them calls his name.

"Sam!"

Sam stops and turns to look. The girl who has spoken, Alex, Sam thinks her name is, looks slightly uncomfortable, like she doesn't want to be doing this.

"Yeah, we're going paint-balling this weekend, we just need one more member. Wanna come?"

"Yes!" Sam blurts out, after a few seconds of not being able to reply. "Yes, I'd love to!"

"Cool. Jason's in charge, he'll text you the details." She gives him a tight smile. Sam beams back, ecstatic at being given another chance.

"Great! That's great, I love paint-balling, it's gonna be awesome." Sam is blabbering now, ridiculously happy, and he can tell he's coming off as a bit weird so he tries to cut it short. "I'll – I'll see you there. Can't wait." And he waves and walks off, shoulders high. He won't mess up this time. Paint-balling will be easy with all his hunting practice. He'll impress them and show them he could fit in.

But as he pushes open the door, he hears one of the group say, "Jeez, Ashley, I know we need one more person, but did you have to invite the freak?"

The girl Ashley is talking about their professor, regaling them with a story. "I swear, he asks the question, and I told him. I said the answer, and he doesn't even look at me, just asks again. And then he tells us the answer, and it's exactly what I said. He must be deaf or something, seriously."

They all laugh. Sam's a little slower on the uptake. He doesn't really know why they're laughing, can't understand what was funny about what she said. But he laughs anyway and it's almost, almost, like he's one of them.

One of the guys, Jason, turns around, walking backwards and facing Sam as they make their way to the paint-balling registration office.

"You ever done this before, Sam?"

"Uh, no, not really-"

"Man, you're gonna get annihilated!"

There's a few smirks, some laughs. Sam feels a flicker of annoyance at being underestimated.

"I've done it with real guns," he says. Jason looks a little impressed. "My dad took me out hunting when I was a kid." He tries a little bravado. "So you better watch yourself, I'm gonna kick all your asses."

Jason grins and laughs. Ashley skips up to Sam and loops her arm in his. "Seriously? You gotta give me some tips."

Sam tries to give some general advice. He doesn't really know if it's useful or not, but his attention isn't in the conversation, even with a pretty girl hanging on to his every word. There's the faint sound of gunshots in the distance. He can't help listening to it, his mind automatically whirring away and trying to work out how many people there are, what kind of battle is going on.

He's still a little dazed when they get there and pay, his skin feeling clammy. The paintball instructor shows them how to put on their protective gear and gives them a rundown of the safety regulations. And then Sam's presented with the paintball gun. It's not like any gun he's seen before, with weird container things attached to it, but his fingers caress the half-familiar shape of it anyway.

"You've used one of these before?" the instructor asks him. "Just hold it up, like that, get that target in sight. That's it."

Sam hefts it up and looks down the gun at the red circle painted on a tree several meters away. An image flashes into his mind for a second. His arms are shaking and he's holding his gun up pointing desperately at the Black Dog running at him, his brother screaming at him to "Shoot! Shoot it, dammit!".

There's an echo of a shot and Sam startles, sure for a second that he'd actually fired it, hit the monster. But the instructor's still looking at him patiently, waiting. Sam's skin prickles, he realizes that he's sweating, and his hands feel curiously numb.

"I-" he starts to say before he staggers back and falls to the ground, his legs giving up on him.

There's a flurry of voices around him, people rushing forward and then someone steadies him and pushes his head between his legs. Sam breathes deeply and tries to ride the wave of nausea. He can't throw up in front of all these people he's just got to know.

After several moments the sickness passes and Sam raises his head weakly.

"We've got a nurse on site for these situations," says the instructor. "Just sit there while I get him."

Ashley and the other students exchange glances. They're already suited up and ready to go. Sam shakes his head and pushes himself up from the ground slowly.

"No, I ... can I just get a refund? I think I'd better go home."

The instructor nods and says, "Sure. I'll take you to the cashier and get them to give you one."

Jason steps forward. "Do you need a lift back?" he asks. "I can drive you."

"No, it's fine," says Sam, giving a weak smile. He doesn't want to spoil their fun. "I'll take a bus."

Ashley and the other girl give him a hug, and Sam waves goodbye before turning around and walking away. He looks over his shoulder when he's walked several paces. They're smiling and goofing around, fake-aiming at things and looking excited to get started. They've already forgotten about him.

Sam rubs the heel of his hand over his closed eyes, trying to rub away his headache and the tiredness. Ever since the paintball episode his sleep has been disturbed with nightmares. He sees the face of the Shtriga about to suck out his soul, is chased by black dogs, eaten by ghouls. Every monster from his childhood roams his dreamscape. Even worse, his nightmares have started infecting his waking moments. He keeps seeing monsters in the corner of his eyes, in the faces of his classmates. He knows it's not real but it doesn't stop his brain from believing it, to keep looking for danger everywhere.

He picks up his cell phone several times over the last few days as well, scrolling through the contacts until he reaches 'Dean'. He wonders if he should call him, tell them he's finding it hard ... He shoves the cell under his pillow. He can't tell him. It would be as good as admitting defeat, and Dean would probably use the opportunity to try and persuade him to come back. No, he left because he wanted to be independent. This is something he needs to solve on his own.

He's in the library now, on the fourth floor this time, the one only graduate students seem to use. It's almost completely silent, only the scritching of pens on paper and the tapping of keyboards. He refocuses his eyes on the print-out he needs to study, ignoring the pounding pain in his forehead. It's an extract from a book on the purpose of government. It's important. He needs to understand this material to pass the class.

An image flashes across his mind. The body of a woman sprawled on the floor of her house, her dress stained red across the middle and a splatter of blood on her face. Her eyes are glassy and staring.

Sam clenches his fist and digs his nails into his palm. The pain grounds him and he's back, staring at the desk and the black words on the paper. This isn't the first time this has happened. These thoughts keep invading his mind, whatever he's doing. Gruesome images of people that have been killed in their hunts, people they were too late to save.

He rubs his knuckles against his brow. Okay. Okay, back to work. But the words on the print-out just swim together to make a jumbled mess of incomplete arguments and non sequiturs. He doesn't even know what the hell this essay is trying to say.

His thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a bag dropping onto his table. He clenches his pen in surprise and looks up to see a young guy with blond hair smiling at him. He's handsome and his clothes are that kind of all-American, smart, expensive style. Sam's seen him around the library but it's a preppy group he hangs out with. He doesn't have a clue what the guy is doing here with the poor scholarship kid.

"Hey," says the guy, and he sits down across from Sam, still smiling at him.

"...Hi."

"I'm Tyson Brady," he says, and he sticks his hand out. Sam shakes it after hesitating for a second. "You can call me Brady though."

"Sam ... Sam Winchester."

"Awesome," says Brady. "I keep seeing you in here, and we've got one class in common. Poli Sci? You seen me there?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Yeah, so I thought, why haven't we talked already?"

Brady pauses here, and Sam realizes it wasn't a rhetorical question. "I don't know," he says, slightly irritated. He wonders when the guy is going to leave him alone. He needs to get this work done.

Brady laughs at that. "Yeah, me neither." He pulls out a notepad and a print-out, the same one Sam's trying to make sense of. "So you're working on the recommended reading too, huh? I thought I was the only one to bother."

"Why wouldn't you do the recommended reading?" Sam asks, genuinely confused. "It's there to help you pass the class."

"I don't know, man." Brady shrugs. "I guess some people aren't as serious about college as us." A grin flashes across his face. He's possibly the smiliest person Sam has ever met. "So, are you stuck on anything?" Brady asks, and he scoots his chair over so he can look at the notes Sam's made so far.

Sam's a little put-off by how Brady's leaning into his space but this is the first time anyone's approached him for days. He decides to let go of his pride and admits he's not getting it, and for the next 30 minutes he and Brady work over the essay. Brady's easy company and for some reason, he wants to hang out with Sam. In spite of himself Sam finds he's having fun.

"So, have you decided what you want to major in?" Brady asks later, chewing on his pen.

"I think ... maybe law?" Sam says. "I like psychology too though, but I think I could help people more with law."

"Cool. So you'd be a defense attorney then? Saving innocent people from jail and stuff?"

"Yeah..." Sam says slowly. He tries to picture himself, in an office or a courtroom, talking to clients, defending people. But it's such a world away from the only life he remembers before college, it's like it's not even real, nothing that could actually happen. He'd never thought he'd live past 30; that he'd go out the way most hunters do. And although he's broken away from the hunting life now, he still can't quite believe he'll be able to have a normal life as a lawyer.

"I'll probably go into medicine," says Brady. "Or business. I can't decide. Or maybe I'll just drop out and work for my Dad's company, that's always a possibility."

"What does your Dad do?" asks Sam, dragging himself away from his increasingly pessimistic thoughts.

"I really don't know." Brady grins around the pen in his mouth. "Data collecting? Data processing? Something to do with data, he never explains it properly. All I know is it earns him shitloads of money. So, what about your family?"

"My Dad's a traveling salesman." Sam's already worked out his fake family history. "My brother too ... I don't see them much."

Sam has to duck his eyes away here, staring at his notes. Luckily Brady seems to sense the awkward atmosphere and brushes it off with a "That sucks, man", before launching into another conversation topic.

After that encounter it seems like every time Sam's in the library Brady will be there too. He insists on studying together, mock-whining that he needs the help because Sam's so much brainier. He introduces Sam to the people he hangs out with and invites him to group events. Sam doesn't really know what Brady gets out of it; Sam still makes faux-pas and most of the cultural references go over his head, but Brady seems to think Sam's doing it on purpose and is just a hilarious guy.

Once out of frustration, Sam asks Brady why he befriended him, sure that Brady is for some reason humoring him. Brady seemed confused and kind of sad at the question.

"You seemed kind of lonely in the library so I wanted to talk to you. But now I've gotten to know you, I just want to hang out. You're a really great guy."

Sam mulls over that answer for a day before finally deciding that Brady is just a generally nice guy. He must be, to hang out with Sam. He's probably done this with other awkward people loads of times.

Whatever Brady's reasons are he keeps hanging out with Sam and inviting him places. Sam's circle of friends grows bit by bit. He's suddenly got stuff to do apart from classes and studying, people to hang out with. He gets on with most of the group, they're nice people, but he finds he can't ever truly relax with them. There's hardly anything he can tell them about his family or his childhood. They all seem to have lead charmed lives; parents who encouraged them to follow their dreams and enough money to help them pursue those dreams. Sam eagerly listens to their stories of what his life could have been like, but he can't relate. He keeps himself under wraps and talks only about the now; divorcing himself from his past, like he's a separate person.

Brady's invited Sam over to a house party. It seems like someone in the gang has one at least once a week. The pre-law program is really intense but Brady bugs him a lot about how he works too hard and Sam tries to make most parties.

Brady slaps him on the back and hugs him when he gets there, slipping a bottle of beer into his hand at the same time. "You made it! C'mon in."

The party's big enough that it can't all be contained the living room; people are spilling out into the corridor. Brady walks them over to the kitchen, grabbing a bowl of chips and perching on a stool. Sam leans over the counter and swigs his beer while listening to his friend talk. After about ten minutes there's a little commotion by the door, someone arriving late. Sam looks up and sees Heather, one of Brady's friends, has arrived. She looks done up and prettier than normal. She hurries over eagerly to Sam and Brady and hugs them both.

"Is something different?" asks Brady, looking her over. "New haircut?"

"You'd know if I had a new haircut," says Heather. "It's a new dress, what do you think of it? Do you like it?" she asks excitedly, bouncing on her feet. She pulls out the skirt of the dress, showing it off. Brady hides his smile in his beer bottle and nods. Sam takes a proper look at the dress for the first time. It's knee length with a bright tropical flower print. Something about it sends a little twinge through his memory and he frowns.

Heather smiles and twirls around, her dress flaring out.

"I got it from Goodwill. Don't you think I'm pretty, Sam?"

Don't you think I'm pretty?

"Don't you think I'm pretty?"

The witch smiles, scraping the knife along the honing rod again and again. "Your blood's going to keep me beautiful. You're a good boy, you want to help an old lady like me, don't you?"

Sam's transfixed, he can't look away from her eyes, the wide-eyed madness. He pulls at the rope binding him; he's trussed up, on his stomach with his ankles and wrists tied. He needs to hang on, he knows Dean and Dad are out there, but every second they are delayed the less hope he can keep.

Sam's faintly aware that he's frozen, that he's taking too long to respond, but he can't unstick his tongue from the roof of his suddenly dry mouth.

"Sam, you okay?" Brady's voice comes from right next to him and Sam startles, jumping back away from his friend. He's suffocating, his breath is coming in sharp gasps, and he feels like the room is closing in around him. He steps backwards till he hits the wall and collapses, the bottle falling from his limp hands and rolling away, spilling beer on the floor. Heather's face changes from smiling to alarmed in rapid measure; she rushes forward and grabs him by his forearms.

Her arms are enclosing him, her body cutting him off from the world. He can see the flowers up close on her dress and the scent of perfume fills his senses. His friend's face dissolves away and another's replaces it; young and pale, with a cruel turn to her mouth.

The witch steps forward and crouches down beside him, her old fashioned flowery dress pooling around her. She lifts Sam's chin up from the floor and regards his face for several seconds. Sam's yell is muffled by the gag. She lets go and his chin smacks painfully against the floor. He groans, eyes watering at the pain. And then he feels little soft things falling on him. He looks up and sees the witch is sprinkling dried flowers over him.

"Narcissus for beauty. Lilies for youth," she chants in a sing-song tone.

She gets behind him and straddles the small of his back, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back so far that Sam has trouble breathing. The knife descends in front of his eyes and the edge comes to rest on his throat.

"Bleed for me, boy."

He panics and lashes out; fights the hands restraining him. He can hear shouting, his friends' voices, but they're growing fainter and fainter, overwhelmed by her laughter ringing out, until that's all he can hear. And that's it. He's lost.

Sam drifts through the dream, barely aware what is going on. He hears voices, though he doesn't understand what they're saying. He sees colors and shapes moving but it's not real. It's just pictures in front of his eyes. Gradually his vision fades away, until he's not even aware he's seeing anything. There's just a gray nothingness. At one point someone tries to move his limbs and he resists, fighting to keep his body in the position it's in. He buries inside of himself, keeping safe and hidden from the outside world. He ceases to exist.

Sam wakes up gradually, in slow increments of his senses coming back. He's lying on his side and the first thing his eyes focus on is his arms. They're held up together in front of him, his fists loosely clenched and forearms pressed up against his face, like he's trying to protect himself from something. He lowers them slowly, and his muscles protest the movement, like they've been held in that position for a long time.

"Sam?" comes a voice. "Sam Winchester?"

Sam looks up. There's a man standing by his bed, leaning down over him. "It looks like the Lorazepam worked," says the man. "Sam, can you hear me?"

Sam nods before swallowing and trying to speak through his dry mouth. "Wha-?"

"You were admitted to hospital last night showing symptoms of catatonia. You've been unresponsive but the Lorazepam injection has brought you out of the stupor. We'd like to keep you under observation for another night though."

Sam struggles to take that in before he shakes his head. "Insurance?" he asks.

"It's been taken care of," says the doctor. "Now, I just need to do some tests."

Sam is helped to sit up and led through a series of tests; a flashlight is shined in his eyes, he's asked to touch his nose with his finger and follow the doctor's finger with his eyes. At the end of it, the doctor straightens up and says "Well, there doesn't appear to be any abnormalities. Your friend says that you collapsed at a party and became unresponsive. Did you take any drugs earlier?" Sam shakes his head. "Do you take any prescription medications? Have you been hearing voices? Have you been feeling depressed lately?"

The questions go on, Sam shaking his head to all of them until finally he says "I – I remembered something. I saw something that reminded me, and then … it was like I got trapped in the memory."

Sam's asked about the memory and he gives him the bare details, changing the story so it's a normal woman that kidnapped him, not a witch. The doctor nods when he's finished and says, "I think you could be suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."

Sam stares blankly, trying to process what the doctor's just told him. His childhood was … it wasn't entirely safe, they moved around a lot, he took part in the hunts and was put in danger several times but … it was his life. It's all he ever knew. How could he have PTSD from what was a normal life for him?

"Now, in a case like yours we would prescribe psychotherapy in conjunction with medication. I think Paroxetine would be best to start with-"

"No. No treatment," Sam interrupts. He can't afford it anyway.

The doctor seems reluctant to give up but Sam insists. Just before he leaves, the doctor says "There's a man waiting to see you. A Tyson Brady? Are you okay with him coming in?"

Sam gapes and then flushes at the thought of his friend seeing him like this. But Brady was probably the one who'd brought him here anyway; he's already seen Sam in some zombie stupor. "Sure," he says finally.

The doctor leaves and Sam sits up a bit straighter, smoothing his hair. There's no mirror to check his appearance but he bets he looks awful.

Brady comes in a few minutes later, almost tiptoeing in. "Hey, man," he says, voice a little soft. "How you doing?"

"Fine," says Sam, before giving up. He's not kidding anyone. "Well, the doctor said I have PTSD."

"Shit. What are they gonna do?"

"They want me to stay another night and then medication, therapy... " Sam pauses, twisting his blanket between his fingers. "I don't have any insurance for any of that. Can you – can you ask them to bring the AMA discharge forms?"

"Hey, don't worry about that," says Brady. "I paid for your admission, and if the doctors say you should stay another night then you're gonna."

"What? Brady, you can't – I don't need charity-"

"It's fine. I took it from my allowance. Seriously, my dad won't even notice."

"I can't-"

"Yeah, you can. You're my friend, Sam. Of course I'm gonna help you."

Sam's suddenly overwhelmed, that Brady would do this for someone who isn't even his family. He has to look down at his lap while he struggles to hold back tears. "Thanks," he says finally, his voice uneven.

Brady smiles at him when he looks back up. "No problem."

"Okay, Sam. Stanford provides some help with medical care for scholarship students, so I can see you for a full 8 sessions, no fees. Now, I see your doctor diagnosed you as suffering from PTSD."

Sam nods and shifts in the seat, trying to get comfortable. The therapist is sitting across from him, a notepad and pen in her hand. They're in a small room decorated in a neutral style, with a white noise machine in the corner. Brady's the one who persuaded Sam into getting an appointment with the university's medical center.

"I want you to go over what you remembered at that party, what did you see?"

Sam looks down and swallows. This is exactly why he hadn't wanted to come. His family's philosophy has always been to keep everything locked up, they never talk about their feelings or the danger they constantly face in the hunts. But Sam knows that this is the reason why he ended up in hospital. He needs to get this out, no matter how hard it is.

"I remembered this time … when I was 13. I was ... this woman kidnapped me. She – she was going to kill me, and I was tied up. I couldn't get out, and she was gonna slit my-"

Sam's voice breaks off. His hand comes up to his throat, covering it. He can feel it now, the sharp edge nicking his skin, the hint of pressure being applied, the witch's breathy laughter in his ear as he strained to keep his head back and his throat away from the knife.

"Sam!"

The therapist's voice breaks through and Sam's eyes snap to her. He's breathing hard, and he can feel his rapid pulse beneath his hand.

"Focus on me, Sam. You're not there. You got out, didn't you?"

Sam nods slowly and brings his hand down. "Yeah, it was – it was my brother," he croaks. "He called the police, got there before – before she could-"

"That's right," says the therapist. "Whatever happened in the past, you're safe now. Now I want to do an exercise with you. Close your eyes."

Sam does so. His sight is enveloped in black velvet, and he feels his breathing start to calm down.

"Imagine a cinema screen," comes the therapist's voice. "You're sitting in the audience, watching it. There's a still image on the screen, it's you just before this experience."

It starts to form in his mind; a dark theater, and a picture of himself on the screen. He's crouched down by the bushes outside the witch's house. He shouldn't be there but he'd snuck off when he'd found out where she was, wanting to prove himself to Dad, that he was ready to hunt like Dean.

"Float outside of your body. You can see yourself sitting in the cinema but you're watching from the outside, watching yourself react. Now turn the image into a film and run it, at normal speed."

The Sam on the screen is moving now, sneaking around the house. His breathing is controlled but he looks afraid. He reaches the ajar downstairs window, and he wriggles through it, landing in a heap on the floor. He gets up quickly, listening but doesn't hear anything. Maybe she's not in? He pushes open the door slowly and takes a step into the hall, trying to keep his feet flat and soundless on the floor.

And then there's an iron grip on his arm, wrenching him forward and slamming him against the wall. A young woman looms over him.

"What do we have here?" she says, a gleeful smile spreading across her face. "A little mouse trying to get in my house?"

Sam panics and kicks her in the shin, trying to pull away from her. She laughs and grips him all the harder. He's struggling but he can't break free and he realizes: he's just a kid, why did he think he could manage this on his own? He's just a stupid kid and he's gonna die, she's gonna-

His eyes snap open. It feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room, he has to get out of here. "I can't," he starts to say, and the therapist motions for him to sit down.

"You're doing great. You're going to rewind it now, okay? Close your eyes and go back to the cinema. Rewind it until you're safe."

Sam slowly lowers himself back into the chair where he'd half risen from it. He closes his eyes. The screen's stuck on the last image and with some effort he rewinds it, as fast as he can, until Sam's back outside the witch's house.

"I'm – I'm back," he says, keeping his eyes closed. He relaxes the tight grip he has on the arms of the chair and concentrates on the image on his mind screen.

"Good. Now tell me how far you got and we'll repeat the exercise."

"This was our last session, Sam," says the therapist.

"Yeah." Sam squeezes the stress ball he'd been handed earlier.

He's been going to these appointments every week for the past two months. The therapist uses a form of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and, as part of it, he's given homework every session: worksheets and exercises to practice on his own. Each time he talks about his past it's gotten easier, like a lock has been broken on all his feelings. He hasn't been able to tell her everything of course. Even if he erased the monsters, his experiences would still strain credulity, so he focused on a few events, and told her non-hunting related stories about his family. The things he couldn't tell her he's been working through on his own, using the techniques she'd taught him.

He's opened up to Brady a bit more too, talked to him about his childhood. Brady seemed pretty shocked by what Sam told him, and although Sam felt bad about giving a bad impression of his family, it was comforting to have reassurance that it wasn't a normal upbringing, that kids shouldn't be brought up like that. And Brady shared his own stories as well about his strained relationship with his step-mom and younger siblings. For the first time Sam has a close friend that isn't his brother, one he can tell almost anything to. He's not alone anymore.

The therapist speaks up. "We can continue, schedule another 8 sessions, but I don't think you need it anymore."

"Really?" Sam looks up, surprised.

"Yes, really. You've made excellent progress, and I believe you've learned enough strategies to cope on your own now."

Sam feels like he's floating on air – free of any baggage – when he thanks the therapist, takes her card so he can contact her in emergencies, and leaves the building. It's sunny outside, with a cool breeze in the air. Sam takes a deep breath and a smile breaks over his face. He takes out his cell phone and dials.

"Hey, Brady. You free? Let's go get lunch."