After at least a dozen abrupt turns and over twenty miles, he asks her to pull over in the turn-out before a narrow one-lane bridge. Her hands are still shaking as she shuts off the ignition, fumbles for the door handle, and gets out after him.

He's bent over the rail, staring down at a dried up creek bed when she reaches him. She waits for him to talk first. And waits. And waits.

She looks from the empty dirt road to him with barely coiled exasperation before yielding. "What happened?" She flinches inwardly at the hitch in her voice. He continues to look down, studying nothing, and she feels the ridiculous need to justify her question. "You haven't said a word."

He turns, and she thinks he's about to utter some noncommittal response-she can practically see him mulling over his answer-but he surprises her with a cold, hard truth. A recently absorbed fact regurgitated from the inner turmoil of his mind. "I think my mother's alive."

She gapes at him, but he looks away. She pulls her gaze away herself, staring instead at her shoes. She knows that for now, the conversation is over.

They're somewhere in the foothills of Big Bear, California, some 90 miles outside the city by the time they stop for gas in a sleepy resort gateway town called Crestline. It's getting dark, and it's a good thing too, considering that the Jeep Sara had rescued him in has undoubtedly been reported stolen by now.

He grabs a map at the front counter of the station, paying in cash while Sara keeps the motor running outside. When he climbs back in, she's still behind the wheel. "Do you want me to drive?"

She shakes her head swiftly. "You rest."

He doesn't argue. He doubts it would do him much good, anyway. Still, he notices she hesitates, one hand on the gear shift. "Back to LA? Or do you want to call your brother?"

He looks at her, watching her watch him, waiting silently for his answer. He recognizes she's being cautious with him, tip-toeing gently around his emotions ever since his revelation on the bridge outside of the mountain retreat, but her eyes give her away, clearly straining to read him through the dark of the car interior. It's not that she doesn't want answers, he realizes. She just won't demand them.

It's an astoundingly wonderful quality of hers.

One he tells himself he won't take for granted. He just needs time. He needs to get his head on straight…figuratively and literally. "Actually," he says, opening the map across his lap and flicking on the dome light, "I was thinking maybe we should disappear for a day or so."

He doesn't have to be looking directly at her to catch the surprise she tries to mask at this unexpected response. She nods, ducking her head as she tucks a stray strand of hair behind one ear. "I think that's a good idea." She follows the path of his finger along the map, both of them gauging the distance-and the ready-made isolation-along windy Highway 18 that will connect them to a chain of sleepy resort towns outside Lake Arrowhead. Still close to the city, yet a world apart. He hears her release a breath; it's the first, albeit tentative sign of relief he's noted in her in days. She's still cautious, but now, perhaps, she's graduated to cautiously optimistic.

It's not exactly a no-tell motel, but it's close enough. The Knotty Pine in Cedar Glen boasts faux wood paneling on the walls, a hideous oil painting of a meadow over the dinette table, and a cheap quilt on the bed. "Nice," he intones.

She can't help smiling at his liberal dose of sarcasm. "Don't be such a snob." She steps into the room before him, dropping the room key onto the dresser before turning, nearly bumping directly into him as he closes the door. She steadies herself with a hand on his forearm. "We've spent time together in worse, if you'll recall."

He raises his eyebrows. "Oh I recall. Not plotting to ditch me while I'm in the shower this time, are you?"

He watches her sober. "I wasn't planning on it, no."

He swallows. It's been awhile since they've flirted like this. Of course, it's been a while since they've done anything in this close proximity. He closes his eyes, focusing on the simple pleasure of her hand on his skin before he reaches out for her, cradling the back of her head and drawing her face down to his chest. He feels her sigh again.

"You and I…we're ok, right?" he asks.

She frees her arms to wrap them around his waist. She's quiet for a bit too long. "The other day, the General asked me whether it was the cause I believed in, or the man," she ventures, and he feels himself tense. She must feel it too, because she lifts her head to regard his face. When she speaks again, her voice is no longer muffled in his sweater. "I do believe in the cause. I understand what's at stake, what we can accomplish. But Michael, you should know…" She hesitates for so long, he feels as though they're barreling toward Chicago all over again. "You should know it's the man I put my life on the line for."

She has the ability to devastate him. It's as simple as that. "Sara-"

She cuts him off. "You know how you need encouragement…support…to pursue what you believe in? So do I. I need…something. I need more. From you."

He reaches for her upturned face. His palms come to rest on her cheekbones. "I've been-"

She pulls slightly back. "Sick. I know. God, I know."

He looks at her steadily. "I was going to say, I've been missing you." He reaches again for her cheek, feeling the first crease of a self-conscious smile under his fingertips. "And I've been needing you, too."

She releases an abrupt breath through her nose, but this time, she doesn't pull away. He runs the pad of one thumb over her lip before kissing her.

There's something dizzying about his touch. Is it because she's missed it for so long? Is it the recent absence of him-their many enforced separations-that's making the graze of his fingers on her skin so acute? Or has it always been this way? She closes her eyes, kissing him slowly, shivering at the trail of his hands down her spine, encircling her waist, rising under her shirt.

Yes, it's always been this way.

Because Michael has always pursued her the same way he does everything else: passionately. Thoroughly. Perhaps even….premeditatedly? And there's this contrast that abounds, this paradox that separates Michael-in-love from Michael-at-work. In his interpersonal relationships, in his planning and dealings with people, he often withholds. He breasts his cards. He's almost minimal in his need for others. In his lovemaking, he's the opposite. He's heart-wrenchingly generous. His alliances are laid bare. His desires transparent. She wouldn't say he's rough precisely, but he's definitely raw; it's the only time she ever feels she knows exactly what he's thinking. What he wants.

They find the bed. Rather, the backs of her knees find it, and then she's sinking into the overly soft mattress on her back, pulling him with her. He's relieving her of her shirt altogether, his hands on her breasts in a slow, circular caress that has her biting her lip, but his most intimate touches are to her face. His hands are somehow both tender and possessive, both a plea and a demand for her to look at him, yield to him, be his in one accord. He traces her lips, cupping her jaw with his palm, tipping her chin to him and capturing her mouth with his without warning again and again, as though he can do what he wants, when he wants. He can, of course, and she's not sure exactly when she turned into that woman, nor does she care. He kisses her deeper as his hands reach lower, as he settles one leg over her, letting it rest between her thighs. She feels pinned. She feels blissful. His hands are stroking her. His tongue is plying her mouth, her skin.

"Michael."

Her bra is off. His mouth is lower. "Michael."

"Shhh."

"How does your head feel?"

"Shhh."

She shushes.

The ceiling of the motel room is a mottled cream, stained with traces of cigarette smoke and God knows what else. Still, Sara is cradled to him in the bed, her back to his chest, her body warm and soft and naked, and if it weren't for this living nightmare that consumes him, night and day, he'd be content to stay here-or anywhere else in the world, for that matter-forever.

But the nightmare marches on, whether he wakes or sleeps. Whether daybreak has come or whether the woman he loves is beside him or not. Right now though, she is. He runs his fingers through her hair, separating the strands idly where they splay against his shoulder. She arches backward into his touch, turning to press her mouth into the hollow of his throat; as she shifts her weight, her hips rise and her bottom presses against him with an accuracy that leaves his mouth dry.

He wraps his arms around her, holding her tightly against him; if she moves even an inch, surely it will be more than he can nobly stand. They lie together for some time, talking softly, his breath warm on her cheek, until they both fall silent, the only sound that of his fingers grazing the sheet as he lightly rubs her exposed arm. After a while, she wiggles free and rolls to face him.

"You said you think your mother is alive," she prompts softly, just as the sun enters the room through the thin curtains with full force. "Let me ask you…is this something you truly believe, or something you want to believe?"

He shifts to his side to regard her. They've discussed this since the bridge; he's already given her what details he can bear. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, back in LA, when we were first discussing your tumor, you told me Lincoln was 13 when your mother died. That would make you about seven, right? This…evidence…the Company is providing you. It contradicts that fact, doesn't it?"

"In the photos I was shown, we were older than that, yes."

Her face softens, even in the harsh light. He gets the impression she's trying to tread lightly. Her hand curves over his shoulder. "And does that make sense?"

He concentrates. He was seven when his mother died. He was at the funeral. Linc was beside him, both of them wearing the first suit they'd own. And yet: "For some reason it seems to." He catches her quick frown. "Why? Do you have a different theory?"

She's definitely choosing her words carefully now. "Your surgery, Michael. The doctor told me you may lose some aspects of memory." He rises swiftly on one arm, and she's quick to reassure him. "She said any loss-only minimal-would be from the subconscious reaches of your mind, never missed, but I think…it may be possible the Company had more than one agenda when they selflessly offered such exceptional medical care."

"You don't think she's alive."

"I think…things are not always what they seem."

"He's calling again."

"Don't pick up," he instructs, but it's too late. Due to habit alone, she's already flipped the phone open.

"Linc."

On the other end of the line, he wastes no time on preliminaries. In his defense, small talk hadn't worked for him last time he called, either. "Where are you?"

She hesitates. She glances at Michael, reaching for the car keys. He looks healthier than he has in weeks. "He needs rest, Lincoln."

"Where the fuck are you?"

She holds her own. She's thankful Michael, still across the room, can't hear the tone his brother is taking with her. "He needs to recuperate."

There's a pause, then Lincoln's voice lowers to a hiss. She hears anger in his tone, but the bare desperation underneath is what keeps her on the phone. "Call it what you want, Sara," he tells her, "but the honeymoon's over. You'll let my brother know."

When she hangs up, it's to see that Michael has materialized at her side. "Did you get that?" she asks wryly.

He nods, his face drawn.

She can't help bringing one hand to her forehead, the pressure point of her temple suddenly throbbing. "So what do we do now?"

Michael doesn't have an immediate answer, but at least he doesn't appear to have a headache himself for a change. Instead, finally, his confidence seems restored. "For now," he answers slowly, "until we can separate the reality from the fiction, I just want to put as many miles between myself and the Company…"-he swallows tightly- "…between myself and my brother, as we can."

When she climbs back into the Jeep a matter of minutes later, the promise of distance- the promise at least one more day of the rubber meeting the road beneath her, Michael at her side-is enough to make her feel almost safe for the first time in months.