It's late when the car drops you off at your building. You know something is wrong before you've even closed the door behind you. The apartment is silent, but you can feel eyes on you. You draw your sidearm.

"Ms. Bering."

You twist toward the kitchen, gun raised. You can make out the outline of a woman, as tall as you are and wearing a long coat, standing in front of your refrigerator.

"I'm an agent of the Secret Service. Put your hands up," you demand, but the woman doesn't move.

"My name's Frederic," she says instead. She takes a step toward you.

"Stay where you are," you demand. "I'm armed."

"I'm with the government," she tells you as she takes another step. "I'm here on a matter of national security."

You hear rustling behind you. You spin around in place, gun still pointed, and find yourself face to chest with a large bald man in a suit. He holds a file out to you.

"Is this about the gala?" you ask, making no move to reach for it. "Show me your badge." You eye the file. "What is it?"

"It's an invitation to endless wonder," the woman—Frederic—says, but there is no humor in her voice.

"What?" you ask. "This doesn't make any sen—"

"Take it," Frederic tells you. She sounds entirely unamused. If anything, she seems impatient, like maybe this isn't her first encounter of this sort recently. "Read it."

You reach out and take the file without lowering your weapon.

"Please note the action code. It is legitimate. You're part of my bailiwick now."

You study the code, periodically glancing up at the man on whom your weapon is still trained.

Finally, you holster your gun and turn back towards Frederic. "I'm sorry, I've never heard of you before, and you're telling me, what? That you're my new boss?"

"Precisely," Frederic answers.

"Is this…" you trail off, trying to gather your thoughts. "Is this a promotion?"

"You're to be in South Dakota at those coordinates at noon tomorrow. You are to mention our meeting and your pending assignment to no one. Is that understood?"

"South Dakota," you repeat. "What?"

"Pack light, Ms. Bering," Frederic says. You can hear the fabric of her coat rustling as she moves toward the door. "We'll ship what you need and store the rest."

"But wait!" you call. "What's in South Dakota?"

The door slams shut before you finish the question.

You feel something light and wet on the bridge of your nose. You hear a child's laugh. There's an image of a young girl with close-cropped curly, brown hair wearing a yellow sundress behind your eyes, almost like a memory. She's clutching a blue bottle of bubble soap in one hand and a bubble wand with three circles in the other. She's looking up at you, laughing. She dips the wand into the bottle and blows. The bubbles pop against your face. One of them sits on your nose until the little girl reaches out and pops it herself. You hear yourself laugh.

You blink and she's gone. A childhood memory, you think. One that you'd forgotten until now. You're sure your hair has never been that short, but you know that memories aren't always completely accurate.

Pete grows on you. He's annoying and childish, but in an endearing way, in a way that reminds you of a brother you never had. Once you start thinking of him less like a colleague and more like family, it feels right.

Leena is an unknown, but you trust her almost immediately. She drifts through the Warehouse like a childhood home, and you know nothing about who she was before she got here. She is one of the kindest people you have ever met. Her presence alone is comforting. You find yourself wondering how anywhere ever felt like home without her.

Claudia grows on you too. She takes you from thinking that hiring her was the most ill-advised decision you've ever seen Artie make to confidently placing your life in her hands in the space of a month. She's brilliant and sarcastic and so young. She reminds you of someone, but you can't place who.

You're up late one night, leaning against the counter, drinking a cup of coffee, and watching Claudia take apart the oven. She's muttering to herself. You don't understand any of the words she's using. Your expertise is in the language of Shakespeare and Milton and Hawthorne, not technical jargon.

"Does Leena know about this?" you'd asked as you fished your favorite mug out of the cupboard.

"Of course," Claudia had answered, her voice echoing slightly from inside of oven. "I mean, I didn't ask her, but Leena knows everything that goes on around here, right?"

Something inside the oven clangs. You jump and nearly spill your coffee. Claudia swears.

"Everything okay in there?"

"Oh yeah, everything's just great," Claudia mutters. "I didn't need my head anyway."

You snicker as Claudia pulls herself out of the oven, one hand clenched against her forehead. She shoots you a dirty look.

If Pete is an annoying older brother and Leena is a comforting if soft-spoken older sister, Claudia is the younger sister who upstages you at every opportunity. She would remind you of Tracey if she wasn't so likeable. She never makes you feel less important because she's good at things that you aren't.

"Why are you drinking coffee so late at night anyway?" she asks. "Isn't Pete already asleep?"

You shrug. "Caffeine doesn't bother me."

"You're building up a tolerance," Claudia says. "You should be careful about that."

You take another sip. You've been drinking five cups a day since college. The damage is probably done.

You feel a tug on your pant leg. When you look down, a little girl is staring up at you with dark brown eyes so wide you feel like you could fall into them. She points at the cup in your hand.

"I want some."

"No," you hear yourself tell her, though it doesn't really feel like you saying it. "You wouldn't like this. It's bitter. Mama's in the kitchen. Why don't you go ask her to make you some hot chocolate?"

"Myka?"

When you look back up, Claudia is furrowing her brow at you, head cocked slightly to the side. "You drift off on me?"

You shake your head. "Yes, I… I must have. Sorry."

"It's the coffee," Claudia says, nodding at the mug in your hand. "I'm telling you, the stuff's not good for you. My Bubbe used to say that. Or, well, my mom told me she did. And she was right."

"Well, my mom said I should do whatever it takes to get through the day," you answer, but you pour the rest of your mug in the sink, because you really should think about going to bed soon anyway.

Claudia whistles. "Your mom sounds like she was a teacher."

"You're back," Rebecca says as she pulls the door open. You're in St. Louis with Pete, investigating some sort of device that attaches itself to people's backs, and you know this woman is hiding something.

"How long do you suppose this will take?" she asks you. "I have a call with a friend in Oregon at six. We don't get to talk much."

"Oregon, wow," Pete answers. He turns to Myka. "You know, I haven't talked to any of my old friends since we moved to—" He breaks off, and his eyes flash toward Rebecca. "To our current post. Not sure Mykes, here, had any friends to lose touch with."

"Yes, well, Louise and I had a rather harrowing experience while we were camping together in Montana. Oh, must have been… 1964, '65?" Rebecca explains. "Cookies?"

"Yes please," Pete calls at her back as she shuffles toward the kitchen.

"We were stranded in the wilderness for several days," Rebecca continues. "Thought we might die. That kind of experience bonds two people for life."

Pete is hugging you tighter than you can remember ever being hugged by anyone. "I'm going to miss you, Mykes."

"I'll miss you too," you tell him. You can feel your throat closing, unshed tears burning your eyelids. You hate crying in front of other people, but you think this can be an exception.

"This will be good for you," he tells you as he pulls away. His eyes are red-rimmed. "The move, not the other thing. Aurora will be better for you then Univille, given your… situation. Maybe you won't feel so much like you have to hide."

You nod. "Maybe."

You know, instinctively, that he's right, but you can't bring yourself to feel happy about it.

He sighs and steps toward you again, pulls you into another hug.

"God, I know this has got to be harder for you than it is for me," he tells you, "but I can't believe you won't be here anymore."

"Let's take a seat, shall we?" Rebecca asks. Pete touches your arm has he starts toward the living room and you jump.

"Ms. St. Clair, we think there's something you're not telling us," you say, forcing yourself back to the present.

Rebecca looks more amused than threatened. She's still smiling at you pleasantly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You asked if there were any more electrocutions," you reply. "What exactly did you mean by that?"

"I heard it on the news," she answers, as if she's offended by the suggestion that she might have gotten the information anywhere else.

"No." You narrow your eyes at her. "It was never mentioned in the news."

"Ma'am," Pete cuts in. "You know more than you're saying."

There is a long pause where Rebecca seems to be considering something. She nods almost imperceptibly, and then she speaks again. "Okay, let's cut to the chase, shall we?"

You and Pete exchange confused glances as you wait for her to continue.

"The unexplained electrocution raised a flag. You found Jack, and you finally figured out there was an artifact. You're from South Dakota, right?"

Pete takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair.

Of course, she was a Warehouse agent.

You bet she wasn't even really camping in Montana.

The first thing Pete asks you after you resuscitate him is if you're okay. You're about to cry, but you're beaming.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

He struggles to sit up. You rush to help him.

"Remind me…" he pants, "never to die… again."

"Okay." You nod enthusiastically.

"You get it?" he calls over his shoulder at Rebecca.

"I got it," she answers.

He turns back to Myka. "She's a pretty good agent for someone who's fifty years out of practice. Makes you wonder what the Warehouse could have accomplished if she'd stuck around." He takes a couple of deep breaths. "Give me a minute."

"Sure, sure." You rock back on your heels to give him space.

"Don't ever get whammied," Pete tells you. "Not fun."

"Oh, you haven't really become a Warehouse agent until you've nearly been killed by an artifact," Rebecca calls. "It's coming. Don't you worry."

"Those were some impressive pitches. I thought wrestling was your sport."

Pete is walking toward you, tossing a softball from one hand to the other. A young girl with curly brown hair pulled into a messy ponytail is running ahead of him.

"Well, I guess you could call me a jack of all sports," Pete says. You smile and sock him on the arm. He jumps back.

"Hey, hey, okay! I might have had a little help from Jack Pfiester's glove."

"Pitches unhittable balls?" Myka raises an eyebrow at him. "Did you really need that against a seven-year-old?"

"But I wasn't showing her how to hit, was I?" He waggles his eyebrows at you. "I was showing her how to pitch. Great thing about being the guy in charge is no one yells at you when you borrow artifacts."

You roll your eyes. "You're setting a bad example for the agents."

"Nah," he waves you off. "Steve will set them straight. Guy never was any fun. Now come on." He looks down at the little girl. "Mom's probably getting worried."

You cross your arms. "I'm Mom."

"Mother then." He taps your arm with the glove. "Come on, let's get going."

"Okay." He holds his hand out to you. You're back on the ground in the generator room, feeling as disoriented as he looks. "Help me up."

You didn't think you'd be back in Colorado so soon. When they pulled you out of Denver to go to D.C., you thought you were leaving this life behind for good.

"Look at those mountains, Mykes," Pete says as you're driving reluctantly toward the house where you grew up. He hasn't looked away from the window since you pulled out of the rental lot. "You could go camping up there every weekend. The hiking must be great. How could you not love living here?"

You don't tell him about how camping was something your father always thought he'd do with his son, and the fact that you would have jumped at the chance to go was never any consolation for that. If anything, it was the opposite.

You park along the curb outside the shop, and suddenly you're crying. Hard, violent sobs that wrack your entire body. You don't know why, but you know that you feel hurt and hopeless and angry. Angry that them, but also at yourself for ever believing this would turn out okay.

Your forehead is resting against the steering wheel, and you're clutching it with both hands, so hard your knuckles are white. Your cheeks feel raw. You're breathless.

When you glance back toward the shop, Pete is gone, but you can see your mother on the second floor, peering out at you through the living room window.

You spot your phone in the CD holder. It's black and rectangular with no keypad, and you've never seen it before, but you know that it's yours. You know how to unlock it. You didn't know phones could be locked. You reach for it, your hand shaking.

"Mykes?"

Pete is jostling your shoulder. "You ready?"

You jump and snap your head towards him. Your cheeks are dry and you no longer have the achy sinuses and stale taste in your mouth that comes with really crying.

"Come on." He jerks his head toward the shop. He reaches over and unbuckles your seat belt. "It's a long flight from Portland. I bet your mom will make us some more of those wings."

You sigh as you push the car door open.

When you reach for the door of the shop, Pete stops you with a hand on your arm.

"You okay? You seem a little out of it?"

"Yeah." You nod. "Fine. Just a little stressed out."

"Look, I know being here is hard for you," he says. "We'll be back at the Warehouse soon."

Sometimes it surprises you what a good guy he can be. It surprises you that you're actually glad he's here, despite the fact that your mother will probably ask you about him every time you talk to her now, and you'll have to keep inventing reasons you're not together because "We're just friends," and "He's like a brother," and "I like him, but not like that" will just never be good enough for her.

You've never felt number than you do for the twelve minutes you think Artie is dead. When Sam died, there was another objective. You reminded yourself that what he died for was more important than one person's life, and you focused on the job. You didn't process it until afterward.

In those twelve minutes, surrounded by electrical fires and steel beams falling all around you, your only thought is finding Artie. You don't feel anything.

The walls around you are white, covered in photographs of lakes and mountains that are probably meant to invoke an aura of serenity. They don't make you feel serene. They just make you feel trapped.

You can hear the sharp, rasping breaths of a person crying. There is a woman with long, greying brown hair in the chair beside you. Her face is buried in her right hand. Her left hand is gripping yours so hard it aches. You can feel the metal of the band around her ring finger digging into the web of your hand. Her shoulders are shaking so hard you're afraid she might fall apart. You want to put your arm around her, but you feel like your body is frozen.

"I'm sorry," you hear a woman say. She talking to you from just across a large oak desk, but she sounds like she's miles away. Her nameplate reads, Dr. Swinton.

"I wish there was something else I could tell you."

She sounds more pained than you feel.

You don't feel anything.

You will. It will come crashing down on you later, when you're lying in bed tonight. You'll cry into your pillow until you're almost too exhausted to breath, and no one will ever know that you cried at all. That's how it always goes.

"Why didn't he wait for us?" Pete is asking. The white walls are gone, replaced with fire and wreckage and angry grey smoke. He sounds furious. You can barely process the question.

"What are we going to do?"

"Top of my list…" he kicks a piece of ruble with the strength and precision of someone who spent their childhood playing sports, "kill that son of a bitch, McPherson."

You see something metallic glint in the light of the sparks coming from a nearby heap of wire. You lean closer.

"Oh my god."

You reach down and pick up Artie's glasses. "Pete."

He's at your side in an instant, squinting at them over your shoulder. This explosion tore apart steel rods the size of your body, but the glass lenses and delicate wire frame are completely undamaged. You could have picked them up off a shelf at Lens Crafters.

You hear a fizzling sound, and when you look up, a cloud of grey-brown smoke is swirling six feet in front of you.

"Pete, what is that?"

"I don't know." You feel his hand on your arm. "Get back over here. It might be a—"

"No," you interrupt. "I don't—I don't think it is."

"Oh my god."

Sparks are flashing around you like lightning.

"Are you getting a vibe?" you ask him.

It takes him a moment to respond.

"A good one."

"Okay, so uh, H.G. Wells is actually a woman," you say to yourself as you slip into the room where she is holding Pete by the point of his Tesla. "I'm going to have to process this."

"Well, make it fast, will you?" He looks over at H.G. Wells without moving his head. "And, and could you please be careful with that, okay? It's a Tesla, and up close it just might be—"

"Lethal," H.G. Wells finishes. Her lips twitch toward a smile that almost feels familiar to you. "I know all about it," she says into Pete's ear. "I brought it to the Warehouse."

"What?" you ask.

"I was apprenticed at Warehouse 12," she explains. "Nikola Tesla and I met at the Chicago World Fair in 1893."

She nods and smiles in a way that feels predatory. You wonder if you can keep her talking long enough to come up with some sort of plan. She does seem to know how impressive she is, seems eager to share.

"Woah," Pete sighs. "You are rocking my world, lady."

You agree, although you're not sure this is quite the time.

She turns back to you, and her smile disappears. "Perhaps you'd like to tell me why you're ransacking my home," she says through clenched teeth.

"Ransacking your home," you repeat, to buy yourself time to think. "Well that has a distinctive ringtone to it."

You can only hope that Pete understands as your hand inches casually toward your pocket.

"What does that mean?" H.G. Wells asks. You can't tell if she's suspicious or merely intrigued by the world she woke up to.

"Oh, it's an American expression… that means…" Pete raises his eyebrows at you, and you nod as imperceptibly as you can, "gotcha."

The Cookie Monster's voice fills the foyer. H.G. Wells turns her head to look for the source of the noise. Pete takes the opportunity to twist out of her grasp.

"I'll take that," he mutters as he tries to wrestle the Tesla out of her hands. "I'd hate to have to hit a sweet old Victorian lady."

You pull your gun just as she kicks him in the face.

"I, on the other hand, have no problem shooting one."

Her face is only about a foot from the barrel of your gun. It's the closest you've been to her since this whole fiasco began, and you swear you recognize her square jaw and high cheekbones from somewhere.

You're not holding a gun on her anymore, and she's smiling at you again, only now it doesn't feel predatory at all. It's the odd mixture of excitement and curiosity you've seen so often on her. Her hair is loose and hangs around her face, and she's wearing a waistcoat and jacket. A bowtie hangs loosely around her neck. Her shirt is buttoned all the way up for once.

You're standing in what you recognize as a courtroom, maybe the one in Rapid City, and you're happy. You're so happy.

Your fingers are laced with hers.

A tear runs down your cheek, and she untangles one of her hands from yours to reach up and wipe it away.

When you come back, Pete is wrestling her to the ground and you're still standing there with your gun pointed at empty air feeling vaguely nauseous.