Part II

Five days later a thin envelope arrived from the publisher's office. Tim held it up to the light before opening it, to see if he could read the amount on the check for his advance inside. Then he remembered they'd finally switched to safety envelopes last year. With his letter opener he slit it open and popped the letter out. There was no check!

Dear Mr. Gemcity, Fisher's letter to him began, incorrectly. Crawshaw had always called him Timothy.

I have reviewed your manuscript and determined that it does not meet our current needs.

Thank you for thinking of our company, and best of luck in your future endeavors.

Sincerely yours,

Tim stared at the letter, stunned. He read it again and again, and then slammed it down on the table. Getting up, he called, "Jethro! Walk!" and grabbed the leash from the hook beside the door. Jethro jumped and barked, eagerly. Tim snapped on the leash and the two were out quickly, in an attempt to put distance between themselves and that letter.

- - - - -

Work the next day was difficult. For one thing, Tim hadn't been able to sleep at all that night. Repercussions of the rejection of his book flooded his mind, all demanding attention. What did rejection mean? Was it a problem with his manuscript? Something the company didn't like about him? What would this do to his reputation? His cash inflow?

He tried to keep his expression bland, but perhaps it was the matching set of bags under his eyes that called attention to him. That, and his stumbling into his desk. A slap on the back of his head woke him up. "McGee! Try getting some sleep tonight!" Gibbs ordered.

Tim nodded without answering, his mind already drifting. He logged onto his computer and regretted that he'd just purchased a spiffy new laptop for home use. Top of the line. He'd already set it up and installed stuff on it, so he couldn't return it now. And the credit card bill hadn't come in yet.

"Hey, McGeek!"

Tim raised his head to face Tony. Not now not now…

"Aren't you working on a third book along about now? The nobody-asked-for-them-but-nevertheless-still-continuing adventures of L. J. Tibbs?" Tony smirked. "You said awhile back that this was the month…"

Me and my big mouth. Tim glanced around the area. Gibbs wasn't there. Tony wouldn't be on him about the book on company time, otherwise. Darn my luck. "I'm trying to work here, Tony," Tim said in a moderately acid tone that he hoped sounded convincing.

"Glad someone is," Gibbs said, swinging by with a fresh coffee.

Sighing to himself, Tim focused again on his monitor, but he could feel Tony's eyes on him. He knew he wouldn't be able to stall Tony forever, but he'd do it for as long as he could. He didn't think he could tolerate the glee his coworkers would have when they heard that the book had been rejected. And here I was about to make Agent Tommy a bit of a hero in this book, Tim thought. It would have been nice to have the character he'd modeled after Tony come out a better person. Not that any of that mattered now.

- - - - -

Day by day, Tim's world grew bleaker and bleaker. Sure, he was still getting paid at work, but his credit card bills were astronomical lately, and the paycheck barely covered those and his rent. He sat down and made a list of the things he had expected to buy shortly, to see how many he could cross off. Tuesday: Release of new books and new DVDs. Scratch those. New jacket? His shearling jacket was a loss. He could make do with his old trench coat. Thank goodness he hadn't tossed that when he became wealthy. New sound system for the car? Not now. The Italian shoes he'd longed for…he sighed and told himself no. Not yet. Other things, large and small, also dropped off.

Jethro's new dog bed arrived, and it was a beauty. The dog was taken with it immediately, and though Tim longed to return it, in his heart he knew he couldn't deprive his faithful friend because of his own troubles. Jethro bounced and bounced until Tim had it fully unwrapped and set on the floor. Stepping into the bed gracefully, Jethro then turned around three times and then lay down, grinning. That was one happy dog. Tim had to smile. "Good dog," he said, softly.

- - - - -

Checking his finances online confirmed what Tim had feared: his ready cash was evaporating. Worse, his risky investment had tanked. An enormous portion of his savings was gone, just like that, and would not likely come back.

He had some money in certificates of deposit, but nothing close to maturing date. There would be a substantial penalty for early withdrawal. He was reluctant to go that route just yet. In fact, he was growing reluctant to do much of anything that involved leaving his apartment. Driving meant using gas. Going to a store ran the risk of buying something. Since the stunning news from Fisher, Tim hadn't eaten out at all, living instead on what he had at home.

Now he surveyed the contents of his refrigerator and his cupboards. They were nearly empty. After feeding Jethro, Tim decided to walk, rather than drive, to the grocery store. It was only about 1.5 miles away. He returned with a sack full of ramen noodle pouches: cheap nutrition (though a little high in sodium). Ah, memories of his college days. From here in, his belt would tighten.

- - - - -

Tim called the phone company and canceled his landline. Most people called him now on his cell phone, anyway. The next thing to go was the cable TV account. Tim winced at that, but he'd be needing the money. Then the gym membership. He could stay late at work or come in early and use NCIS' facilities. Several other little things, like the wine-of-the-month club, would not be renewed. He hadn't yet booked a plane ticket home for Christmas. Somehow, he would come up with an excuse for that, though his parents wouldn't be happy.

The one thing he couldn't give up was his internet account. That, like Jethro, was too much a part of his life. Besides, he sometimes did work from home. At least that was one little pleasure he'd have.

- - - - -

For the first time in his life, Tim bounced a check.

It wasn't done deliberately, but Tim was embarrassed enough to want to die. It was the rent check. The landlord was pretty good about it since Tim had been a good tenant, but Tim apologized profusely and promised to make good on it right away when the phone call came at work.

He left work early and went to his bank, his hands shaking as he filled out the form to request liquidation of his oldest CD. "Are you sure you want to do this, Mr. McGee?" asked the teller. "If you just wait another…57 days—"

"I know, but I want to do it now."

"But we'll have to impose a penalty—"

Tim felt his face grow red as he tried to hold back the tears. "I know. But I need the money now."

The teller gave him a sympathetic smile, making him feel even more embarrassed. He counted the cash she gave him, and then turned most of it into a money order for the landlord. There was about 300 dollars cash left over. He would stretch it until it screamed for mercy.

- - - - -

The next day, his car broke down on the highway on the way home from work.

Tim popped the hood and guessed that the problem was a broken belt, but he would be the first to admit that he was no mechanic. He was sure he didn't have the money to get it fixed, so he had the car towed home. There he sat and fretted while absently playing with Jethro. Taking the bus again wouldn't be so bad, although the direct bus to M Street cost more than the Metro did. So, the Metro it would be. And if necessary, he could hitchhike home in the evenings.

Jethro nuzzled his hand as they sat in the park, willing him to throw the ball again. Jethro. That was one area in which Tim couldn't see any way to cut back. Jethro's dogfood was already on a discount delivery plan. He was walked by a college student every day, part of a dog-walking service. Obviously Jethro needed the exercise; Tim couldn't give that up. And he wouldn't, no matter how many sacrifices he had to make. If he had to, he would find a new home for the dog…but it would break his heart to see him go.

- - - - -

That night, in the laundry room of his apartment building, Tim was putting quarters in the washing machine's slot when one fell to the floor and rolled away. Frantically, Tim dove for the rolling coin. It went under the machine, which was elevated about an inch off the ground. He scrambled to get it out, though he couldn't even see just where it had gone. It wasn't within his hand's reach, nor within the extension of a pen to his grasp. He looked around the room, wildly. On a hook on the wall hung a broom. Tim grabbed it, and for about 20 minutes swept under the washer with the broom handle, until out came a quarter (actually, three quarters at once!). He laughed and shook with relief just this side of terror. He'd never thought he would be in straits this desperate.

- - - - -

At work a week later, he found it hard to concentrate. This was not too surprising; he'd felt that way yesterday, though not to this degree. Slightly warm, slightly light-headed. I must be coming down with something… He took another sip of water from his coffee mug. Blessed water. Not the bottled water that his parents disdained (" 'designer water', for people too cowardly to drink tap water," his mother said), but plain, cold, decent enough water from the faucet in the break room. Thirst-quenching, and best of all: free. He could drink it all day long, and was, in fact, doing that. If only his stomach didn't hurt from the ever-present hunger.

"McGee! The Milano case. I need those files!" Gibbs barked.

"Uh, yeah, boss. I'll bring them right over." Tim stood, only to find the floor unsteady. He made a grab for the edge of his desk, but someone turned the lights down to gray and unidentifiable sounds swirled around him as he fell.