A million thoughts whipped through Dr. Camille Saroyan's cranium, as the Jeffersonian institute's doors swung open, giving her a perfect view of the lab that was normally in mid-chaos. Where was Booth? Somewhere in her mind, Cam knew that they were over, but she would have at least though he would have been at the hospital to drive her back. The poison had taken it's toll, and as she limped down the corridor, the feeling in her legs coming back in small jabs of pain, she almost regretted taking the job in the first place. If the attack had happened back in New York, even the coroner's office's drunken sketch artist, "Old Booze" as they used to call him, would have been there, with drinks. Cam's stilettos made uneven tap- taps as she made the final corner to her office. It was her place of refuge, and she took at least a small amount of pride in knowing that it was rarely shared with the rest of her team. To Cam, an office was everything. If you knew an office, you knew a person.

Reaching a cumbersome wooden door, she reached out with her key, a feeling of anticipation as her dark toned hands brushed up against chill of polished brass. Quite a contrast to the feeling of nervousness she had experienced when she first stepped into Dr. Goodman's former space, an applicant for one of the most honored jobs in her field. Turning the knob, she could remember her first day when she had noticed the small metal plaque hanging beside the entryway. Dr. Camille Saroyan, Head of Jeffersonian Institute Forensics, M.D. Another thing that distinguished her from her charges, Cam reflected as the knob turned smoothly beneath her carefully manicured fingers. Brennan has a PhD, as does Zach, Hodgins has three, but Angela, well, Cam wasn't exactly sure about her. But she was the only M.D. All three of them could sit through their lectures as much as they wanted, but it would always be something around the pathology lab for her.

Slipping into the room Camille squinted as the noontime sunlight shone in sharp bands across the office, blinding her every so often as she moved her head in an attempt to avoid the light. Making her way to her large mahogany museum desk, she took in the wood paneling along with the anatomy sketches she had hung not long ago. Put up after she had made sure she was staying long enough to use them. Gingerly slipping into her leather swivel , she tried to slip of her heels. No luck, the pain in her gut was still apparent, and she straightened with a small moan almost instantly. It was nothing compared to the groan that escaped her lips as she saw her phone ominously blinking red. If she had to take a guess, there would be more than twenty phone calls she would have to answer by this afternoon. The one con of this job, was paperwork and business. Less microscope time, more budgeting.

Resignedly, Cam pushed the button. The first message was from the Jeffersonian Board of Trustees, giving their "sincere apologies" for the "security problems" she had encountered. Cam decided they could afford to wait a few hours for a reply. Two messages from a hang- up, one from and old colleague needing some information on baseball bludgeoning, and then, the fifth call, a voice familiar to Cam for more than twenty-five years. "Yo, Cammie, it's me. Listen, mom was going nuts 'bout you being in the hospital, so giver her a call when you get out of there. I'd visit but I have this engagement… Gotta get to a lecture for physics, later sis."

Cam smiled. Jamar was her favorite of her three brothers. True to the Bronx, yet he was, along with her, the IQ of the family. Cam could imagine him concentrating as he pours over his latest textbook, checking his watch to make sure he wasn't late for a game with his crew. For the first time in a long time, Cam gave a real smile as she picked up her phone, and dialed.

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