Disclaimer: I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of the I Own Burn Notice and Its Characters party.

Chapter 2

Michael swam up toward consciousness several times, trying to penetrate the surface, but exhaustion dragged him back again. He was vaguely aware of sounds around him...birds calling, a lawnmower, the clinking of metal on metal...and he was fairly sure he felt a cool cloth on his forehead. Several times someone lifted his head have him drink through a straw, and that exercise was enough to flatten him out for hours. He woke once in the dark, thrashing painfully against some faceless dream assailant, and a quiet voice sent him back to sleep.

It was morning when he drifted awake again. Suddenly, he had the horrifying feeling that something was amiss Down There, even though he knew he hadn't been shot anywhere near That Area. He could feel a heavy weight on his lower abdomen that frankly, scared him. Visions of permanent damage There made his heart race. Finally, he screwed up the courage to raise his head...and met the unblinking stare of an extremely large black cat that was parked squarely on his crotch. As the stare-down continued, the cat narrowed its eyes to green slits and then busted out a purr that sounded as though a flock of pigeons was roosting on the dresser. Unfortunately, it also began kneading That Place with its razor sharp claws...and that's when he figured out he wasn't wearing anything under the sheet and blanket that covered him.

Incredibly relieved that he was still intact You Know Where, Michael took a moment to inspect his surroundings: off-white walls, a collection of Ikea-shabby furniture, a closed door, a window onto a sunny garden scene. To his right stood a desk covered with bloody towels, a bottle of rubbing alcohol and...was that a liter of Jack Daniels? His aborted attempt to sit up resulted in an involuntary moan as his chest and back muscles protested, which woke the person sleeping in the chair next to the head of the bed. The cat (or was it a small panther?) didn't budge, but it did increase the intensity of its purr.

Michael rolled his head to the right, taking in the sight of his rescuer. The woman slouched in the chair next to the bed looked like she'd been through the wringer. Her shirt was covered with blood stains, and her dark brown hair was plastered to one side of her head. She stared at him warily, waiting for him to speak, but a sudden massive yawn disrupted their staring contest.

Michael couldn't help yawning in response and then chuckled weakly."Looks like we could both use some more sleep," he said hoarsely. She gave him a nervous smile and then reached over to the bedside table to offer him a drink of water.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, as he gulped down the glass.

"I've been better," he responded. To be honest, he felt like he was one big bruise, except for the shooting pains front and back in his upper left quadrant. Reaching his hand up to his temple, he found a knot the size of a cherry that hurt like a sonofabitch.

"Sooooo..." the woman started, "um, you're going to have to see a professional, you know. I doubt a few out-of-date penicillin tablets are going to help, after what you've been through. I managed to get all the glass out of you, but I doubt you'll avoid infection."

It took Michael a minute to recall exactly what had happened. The post-shooting chaos was almost a blur. He remembered being in the car with Barrett, grabbing the wheel, but after that...nothing. "How did I..." his voice trailed off as he gestured to the room.

"I, uh, was out walking when your car rolled over, and since it didn't look like that other guy was going to be much help, I brought you home."

"What 'other guy'?"

As she filled him in on his missing memories, he had flashes of recall. Who had taken the case with the Bible? It wouldn't have been Jessie or any of Barrett's men, because they would've still been tied up at the firefight on the key. It disturbed him that there was another unknown player involved. And he was stuck here without any way to start finding out who it was.

Michael stared at the woman, who looked like she was several years older than he was. "Thanks," he said simply.

"Hey, no problem," she said cheerfully. "Next time I'm shot and almost killed in a rollover, I'm sure you'll do the same for me."

"Sp, you're a doctor?" he asked.

"Nope."

"A nurse?"

"No again." He raised his eyebrows questioningly, so she gave him a wicked smile and let him off the hook: "I'm a high school English teacher."

Michael closed his eyes. He'd been patched up by someone who taught writing and literature! His headache intensified.

"How long have I been out?" he asked, his eyes still shut.

"Almost two days."

"Two days!" he yelped. His eyes flew open, and he tried to bolt out of bed. Inadvisable. The entry and exit wounds complained loudly, and he saw spots. The panther on his package took it all in stride, gleefully digging in its claws to hang on for the ride. "Shit!"

"Yeah, I bet you're a little stiff, huh? How 'bout another Vicodin to take the edge off? A chaser would probably help, too." She got up and removed the giant cat, which rowrrred in protest.

Ignoring the pill she held out, he said, "My cell. I need my cell phone." Fiona and Sam were out there somewhere wondering what had happened to him. If they'd followed procedure, they would've checked the safe houses and waited for his call, which never came. As far as they knew, he was with Barrett, who had a reputation for quick rendition flights and lethal information gathering methods. He hoped they hadn't told Ma yet that he was missing.

"You didn't have a cell on you," the woman responded, but you can borrow mine." She unlocked her smartphone and handed it over.

He placed the call.