The typical tri-tonal ring tone of the CTU phones drew Jack Bauer away from the tedious paperwork he was filling in. When President Taylor had approached him about taking part in the reformation of a new CTU, he hadn't taken into account the may levels of bureaucratic red tape that went into such an undertaking. Event though he had balked at the idea of taking on a directorship (not that they'd offered it, just Head of Field Ops again), there was administrative work that needed doing, at least until Brian Hastings arrived to take up his position.

They were running on a skeleton staff at the moment, Jack acting as Director, Chloe O'Brien staking her claim as lead analyst. There was some friction Dana Walsh, another tech, but that was kind of par for the course. At the moment, Chloe wasn't in the office. She was in D.C., meeting with some Homeland Security Analysts about interagency information exchanges.

The phone at least was a break from the monotony. Grabbing the receiver, he barked, "Bauer."

There was a pause, then a woman's voice, nasal, with an odd accent, asked, "Jack Bauer?"

He didn't recognize the voice, but that didn't really mean much. He didn't know a lot of people in New York, where their offices were located. In fact, his social circle was pretty much limited to Chloe and, by extension, her ex-husband and son. It was a sad reality.

"Yes," he said, never one to waste words.

"Mr. Bauer, this is Astor Barrington, from the The Birch Wathen Lenox School . I'm afraid Prescott's taken ill and we've been unable to reach his parents. As you are on his emergency contact sheet, we'd like you to come pick him up."

She sounded like one of those uber-yuppies WASP's from Connecticut, the part Martha Stewart lived in. It was off putting and Jack blinked. He knew he was one of Prescott's contacts, as when Chloe had enrolled him at the school, she had informed Jack that she had put his name on the sheet. He didn't have a problem with it, but at present, he wondered where Morris was. The man might not have been able to make his marriage to Chloe work, either time, but he was a good father, had relocated across the country to be with his son.

"Chloe's in D.C. till tonight," he said, then glanced at the clock. It read 10:56am. "I can be there to get him in about twenty minutes."

"Good." The woman sounded stressed. "There's a stomach flu epidemic. You can't imagine how unpleasant things are getting here."

If only puking, cranky kids even rated on Jack's scale of potential horrors.

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After setting up his phone to forward his calls to his cell, Jack hustled over to the school. The trip, just under 7 miles, took the 20 minutes he had estimated. New York traffic was not something Jack was fond of.

He was surprised not to see an onslaught of other adults, coming to pick up their children. From what Ms. Barrington had said, he assumed there'd be a rush. Instead, it was just him and a young, uniformed police officer who arrived moments after he did.

She narrowed her eyes at him. Obviously, she didn't recognize him and he looked out of place, looking around for a sign as to where he should be heading. None was forthcoming. The place looked more like a fancy museum than a school.

"Can I help you?" the officer, E. Healy, according to her nameplate, asked.

Relieved, Jack nodded. "Yeah," he said, "My friend's son goes here. She's out of town and they called me to come get Prescott."

She relaxed fractionally and said, "The office is this way. Have to check in there first."

Healy led the way to a nicely appointed office, where a thin, pinched looking man nearing middle age sat at a desk. His suit was expensive and the cut of his thinning, mousey brown hair looked like it probably cost far more than it was worth.

Holding up her ID, Healy said, "I'm here to pick up my kids. Tara and James Healy."

The administrator gave a stiff nod, then looked at Jack, who flashed his own ID. "Jack Bauer, here for Prescott O'Brien."

Yanking two slips of paper off of a pile, the man said, "Nurses Office. Down the hall."

Exiting the office, Jack asked, "Did I do something to offend him?"

Not that he really cared, but he didn't want Chloe to be mad at him if the people at the school said something to her.

With a snort, Healy said, "No. Just between your jeans and the facts that I'm NYPD and my children have names I can spell, we were probably just too blue collar for him."

Chloe had mentioned the people at the school being snotty, but she was willing to deal with it so Prescott could be exposed to the academic excellence of the institution.

The nurses office was full of unhappy children and a very harried nurse.

"Akiri, into the bucket, please….Zander, don't throw that at Denji….Go lie down, Nura, sweetheart….Bronson, don't wander….."

Well, Jack thought, that explains the 'names I can spell' comment. A pair of small children latched onto Healy's legs and, with a nod to the nurse, she swept them out of the germ ridden room.

It took him a moment to locate Prescott, sitting on a bed with a few of other lethargic looking kids. Offering the boy a smile, Jack said, "Hey, Prescott, ready to get out of here?"

The boy looked up at him with tired eyes and nodded. Far too slowly for a five year old, he hauled himself to his feet and gave a brief wave to his friends. "Bye, Xiomara. Meiling. Omari."

They returned his half hearted farewells and, when they reached the hall, Jack picked the boy up. The fact that he didn't insist he was far too old for such treatment was a testament to how poorly he was feeling.

"Where's Mom?" Prescott questioned as Jack carried him out to the car and flipped down the little booster seat thing in the backseat. "Or Dad?"

Jack strapped him in and said, "Mom's in meetings in D.C. today and I'm not sure about your dad, but we'll just wait for one of them to come home, okay."

Eyes already slipping closed, Prescott nodded.

If this was the worst of it, Jack considered himself lucky. Hopefully, the actual vomiting part was over.