A/N: It has been brought to my attention that it's difficult sometimes to read this story with how I've paragraphed it, so apologies! It reads really well in Word, and FF's editor only goes so far-SO if you really have trouble with reading, I think maybe changing the settings in the right hand corner to 3/4 or 1/2 display will help?

Enjoy!

Oh, and warning, some (not a lot) crude language ahead.

Elsewhere (Some Government Agency)

"Excuse me, Dale?"

Dale Matthews shifted the file, lowered his legs, and sat up in one movement. A woman was peering in through the doorway. "Yes, Fran?"

"Director would like a word," Francis told him.

"Okay, thanks, be right—" was as far as his reply went as she hurried off. "There." He finished with a slight frown. He arrived at the director's office within the minute, and knocked. Two quick knocks, any more and Matthews knew Director Stinson would likely be yelling them away. As it were, a muffled voice invited him in.

"Agent Matthews," Stinson gestured at one of the seats in front of his desk upon seeing the agent.

"Sir," Matthews nodded, and took a seat. "You wanted to see me."

"Yes, about an old case, one of yours."

Matthews nodded again, all the while wondering where this conversation might be headed. He'd been an agent for a decade or so now, and it wasn't unusual for old cases to be reexamined, and then reexamined. So far, this was the first of one of his to ever come up, and it got him comparing his casework to that of the agents he'd had to reexamine. He was quite positive he had nothing to worry about… but still.

"It wasn't officially closed, but they didn't keep you on it either," Stinson was flipping through a file. "Your cover on the case was a Dale Matheson."

Matthews remembered the case all too well. It was one of six that he hadn't managed to close, or forget.

"I remember that case," he said. "Human trafficking. Arthur Doyle. I was sent in to infiltrate the Doyle's inner circle, observe and report, as the family doctor. Until…" Matthews paused.

"The wife and children's accident," Stinson finished for him. Matthews nodded.

"Yes, afterward, Doyle shut me out. Shut everyone out. It was more difficult than ever to get anything on him, so eventually operations decided to dial back the whole thing until he slipped up again. He never returned my calls, and I was needed on another case, so I was reassigned."

"Well, apparently, he's been calling you several times in the past two days," the other man told him. "A little late to be calling back, if you ask me, but he's doing it. The case officer, William Harper, wants to know if you want back in. I told him you're in the middle of something and that you might not—"

"No, it's fine. Yeoman can cover for me," Matthews said quickly. "I've got a chance to close this? Hell if I'm not going to take it." In his mind's eye came pictures of the missing children, the parents' looks of despair as he watched through the one-way mirror, and Doyle's face… the man responsible for it all.

Stinson smiled wryly.

"Thought you might say that," he said, opening a drawer and reaching in. He pulled out a cellphone in an evidence bag, and held it out to Matthews, who took it from him carefully.

"This will put me in contact with him," Matthews, taking out and studying the phone, stated more than asked.

"Yes, it's your old number. From what I've been told, though, I doubt you'll ever have to do the dialing."

"That's fine with me," Matthews said, holding up the phone briefly as he stood to leave. "I can stomach having criminal tyrants on speed dial, but I'd rather crank call my in-laws and suffer Anne's wrath, than have to be the one to initiate a heart-to-heart with one of them."

"Tougher than it sounds," the director nodded knowingly with a small smile, and stood up as well. "Well, best of luck then, agent. And say hello to Anne and the kids for me."

"Thank you, sir." They shook hands, and Matthews left his office with a vibrant air. This time, he promised, this time is it for you, Doyle.

Elsewhere (Frank)

Doyle turned to his men as he stood and stepped away from the bed. Frank wasn't listening to what he told them, busy mulling over Doyle's words. The wrong color? He had barely finished the thought when Doyle was gone, and one of the men approached him with a chain.

He twisted to one side instinctively to put distance between him and the man's intentions, but the man simply grabbed Frank's left leg, and pulled. Frank felt the leg of the pants he wore being pulled up to mid-calf, and then something cold clamping over his skin right above the ankle. The man let go of him, and moved away, leaving Frank to take his new accessory.

"Really? Sh-shackles? T-tad out-of-d-date, don't you t-think?" he asked the two men. He sat up straighter, the motion pulling on the chain, and irritating the man who was securing it to something on the floor just beyond the bed. Frank gritted his teeth as the man yanked at the chain from his end sharply, pulling Frank down along the bed. There was a click, and a minute later, the men had gone.

Standing up, Frank walked all the way across the room, his eye on the chain. He walked to the corners and then back to the bed. Great, he thought. Just enough to walk around. Could have been worse.

Ah, big brother, why so optimistic? Joe's voice—impersonating the Joker—rang in his head. That's usually my job.

Frank laughed softly.

Well, in situations like these? It couldn't hurt. Also, his laughter died as suddenly as it had come. You're not here. He tugged at the chain. Still… and I know I'm terrible for it… sometimes I wish you were. He stilled and put his face in his hands, swallowing hard. Please, Joe, wherever you are… please be okay.

Hardy Residence (Fenton, Joe)

Joe sat at the kitchen table, a drawing pad in his lap, and a mug of cold coffee in front of him. A quick glance at the clock told him his father would be home soon. Sighing, he lifted the pad for what seemed like the hundredth time. He had been scribbling and writing—Same thing really when it comes to your handwriting, Joe-any details he could recall from his kidnapping. The blonde sighed again and set the pad onto the table. It had begun earlier that morning, his brother's voice interrupting his thoughts. Joe readily blamed the drugs he was still trying to shake the effects off of, but he couldn't bring himself to really hate the fact. Before he had realized it, he was having conversations with the voice, and it was somewhat pleasant. Pleasant if it weren't for this Frank being a mild exaggeration of the real Frank, and if it would only pick an aspect of his brother's personality and stick to it. Joe decidedly ignored the fact that it was his own subconscious he was putting at fault. But then I suppose when if in solving things and saving lives, detectives come second to doctors, why not in terrible penmanship? Teasing Frank. Joe rolled his eyes, but knew nothing the voice said could annoy him in the slightest. Not now.

"Not helpful," he whispered as he propped the pad up again to look at what he had got so far.

A house. Blue van. Scar. Fake football. Fake bruises. Hmm. You couldn't get a plate number? An address? Detective Frank.

"I wasn't thinking straight. Couldn't," Joe murmured, rubbing an eye.

But… you can now, right? Concerned Frank. Joey? Joe started at that; the nickname wasn't one Frank tossed about lightly, and Joe was pleased that his subconscious got that part right so far.

"Yes, yes, well, better at least," the teen said at last, rubbing the other eye. "Whatever they gave me… it's taking a while to flush it out of my system completely."

Flush. Frank's laughter, light and precious, echoed in his mind. It usually took a lot more than a single word to make his brother crack a grin, let alone outright laugh. Joe frowned. Stoned Frank? Right, like I would ever. Uptight Frank. Am not. It's just… flush sounds funny. Frank was giggling again. Giggling.

"Definitely stoned," Joe said, laughing. Oh, come on, says the guy who nearly went into cardiac arrest after I told you fart was, in fancier terms… what was it again? Flatus expelled from the anus? The voice wasn't laughing, which made sense. The actual Frank had, as usual, been completely serious when he spoke the words, Joe remembered and his laughter quickly intensified.

"Not fair," Joe gasped. "I mean… how can you… be the only person… able… to say… that with a straight face?" He couldn't stop laughing. He tipped far to one side clutching his stomach and before he knew it, he was on the floor, tears inadvertently squeezing out of his eyes.

He didn't know how long it was before he felt hands on his shoulders. He looked up to see a face, distorted from the wetness in his eyes, hovering over him. It took a moment, but Joe knew before his eyes cleared that it was his father leaning over him.

"Joe…" said Fenton, questioning in his tone.

"I… I fell," mumbled Joe hoarsely, wiping his eyes furiously and allowing his father to help him sit up. "I was… I was laughing, see. And then fell laughing so hard that I was crying… Laughing and crying... And then... I don't know."

And then just crying, Joe knew. Worse, he had fallen asleep afterward. He glared at the floor, as if daring it to come into focus. He had wasted time crying himself to sleep. He felt like an idiot.

His father put his arms around him, and Joe leaned into the touch gratefully.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Joe mumbled into his father's shirt.

"Nothing to be sorry about," his father replied, squeezing gently. "Nothing."

Elsewhere (Frank)

Frank turned the baseball that had been sitting on the bedside table over in his hands once… twice… then placed it back once satisfied that his hands were no longer trembling. After Doyle's injections, it usually took him longer to regain proper motor control, but it seemed his body was slowly learning to counteract the drug. He kept his movements out of view of the camera; if Doyle knew he was improving, the maniac would dream up new ways to fix that. It was bad enough wondering what Doyle meant about his eyes. Standing up, he flexed his fingers, swallowed, trying to rid himself of the fast-becoming-constant feeling of impending doom; it clung to him like a shadow and he was tired of it. He needed something to take his mind off things, a distraction. No, more than that, I need to find a way out of here. The detective in him nodded in agreement, and suggested searching the room.

He carefully walked to the desk that occupied one corner of the room and let his fingers ran over the scattered papers that covered its surface. Homework dated several years earlier, sketches of airplanes, scribbled notes… he read every scrap that he could find. Many of the sketches had two sets of handwriting: Kenneth's and Doyle's. He eyes flitted over the drawings, fists clenching unconsciously.

(approx. 24 hours earlier)

"We used to sing this song on our drives to your grandparents, remember?" Temples throbbing, vision tilting, Frank could not trust what he was hearing. He could vaguely make out something playing in the background, but it was white noise compared to the pinpricks of pain that interrupted what remained of his consciousness and the blood pulsing in his ears.

"Y-y-eah, this is t-t-totally, our s-song," he spat; unaware that his body was automatically tensing for what was inevitable. He heard screaming next, but was too busy trying to uncurl his fingers to realize where it was coming from. Spasms rocked his body, throwing his back against the metal chair enough times to bruise. Doyle only ever touched him with the cattle prod for a second or two, never longer, but… the pain… it made no difference.

"Okay, so you're not in the lyrical mood right now, I can tell. You see? And you say that I don't listen to you, much less understand." Trembling, fighting to stay awake, Frank tried to angle his head to look Doyle in the eye, but it seemed the thing had gained an extra hundred pounds. Gritting his teeth, instead he kept his head down and his eyes shut in as defiant a stance that he could muster.

"How about we work on our plane for awhile?" The words had Frank throwing his head up in a panic borne of his most recent memory of model plane building with a certain lunatic.

"N-n-no. P-please. My h-hands are s-s-still—"

"Now you have no one but yourself to blame for that, Kenneth. You should have known better than to put the stabilizer where you did."

"I-I d-did ever-r-rything that y-you asked m-me to!" Frank cried angrily. "I-I d-did everyth-th-thing r-right—Grrraaahhh!" Doyle removed the prod from Frank's right clamped palm and sighed impatiently.

"The sooner you learn your manners, the sooner we can stop." There was a snip as the zip tie that bound Frank's right wrist to the chair was cut. Hissing through his teeth, Frank resisted retorting, feeling and ignoring the tear running unbidden down one cheek. A model plane appeared in front of him. Doyle could no better hide the eagerness in his voice than Frank could fake his. "How about we start with something easy, your favorite? Point out the aileron, please, and state its function."

Frank swallowed audibly, his heart thudding, and put his arm over his eyes quickly.

"Not now," he ground out. He could not afford to get lost in the memory. His hands were shaking again—he slammed his fists on the tabletop.

"Not n-now, n-not now," He stilled, bent over the desk, for several long moments until his breathing evened out. He turned his attention back to the papers in front of him. Who has favorite airplane parts anyway? Joe's voice again. It's weird. Like having a favorite body part or something. Frank grimaced a little, and then smiled wryly. Okay, don't. Say. A. Word. I heard it as soon as I said it.

"You didn't s-say anything, Joey, I h-heard it in m-my h-head. I think I'm-m losing it in here," Frank muttered under his breath. So what? You're just going to ignore me now? 'Cause I'm not going anytime soon. He straightened as a thought came to him and he glanced behind him at the plane models hanging from the ceiling again.

"Well, those certainly d-didn't build themselves. Kenneth m-must'v-ve kept the tools here som-m-ewhere…" Wow. You really are ignoring me now?

He moved to open the drawers of the desk and hit jackpot. The drawer was full of evidence of the father-son hobby. Ooh, arts and crafts? "Soldering iron, g-glue, tape, s-scissors, spare model parts-s…" He set a few of the items on the desktop, letting himself hope a little as he eyed them. Doyle just made his second mistake, huh, Joe's voice said smugly. It's almost as if he wants you to escape. Satisfied, Frank shut the drawers.

"Yeah, I'm-m almost insulted he didn't take m-more precautions," Frank murmured, and then heard the scrape of metal on the floor and eyed the chain that secured him. You were saying? "Never mind." He sighed, and looked at his reflection in the computer monitor that sat on the desktop with the papers. You look like crap. Frank's eyes traced the wires that lead from the monitor. They disappeared behind the desk and under, so he knelt…and smiled upon seeing the computer's tower hiding beneath the tabletop. Oh, wow. Major nerd alert.

He stood up, and walked slowly to the door. Got the hots for Dell Gx240, big brother? He knew before trying the knob that it would be locked, and a moment later confirmed it anyway. Well, I suppose I can't blame you. Suppressing a sigh, he stole a glance at the camera in the corner, its red light blinking patiently, mockingly, at him. She's steadfast, quick thinking, and down-to-earth. Frank looked down and eyed the metal that gripped him. Only downside I can think of is… she'll never be wrong. Anything and everything that goes wrong between the two of you, will be 99% your fault. User error—

"Got it, Joe, s-she's out of my league," he muttered under his breath. "Hope s-she forgives me for what I'm-m about to do."

The voice in his head knew all too well what he was about to do. Again, wow. And you tell me I take rejection badly.

Hardy Residence (Fenton, Joe)

There was the sound of a throat clearing when Joe and Fenton pulled apart. Joe turned his head to see a man and a woman standing in the kitchen doorway. Any other time he might've been embarrassed at the thought of some strangers seeing him… like that… but he was too tired to care.

"Joe, this is Agent Harper and Agent Casey," Fenton explained as he helped his son to his feet. "They're here about the case." Joe didn't catch the edge in his father's voice right away.

"I'm sorry," Harper addressed Joe. He didn't look too apologetic, and Joe was tempted to ask him what for… Frank missing? Walking in on the sobbing mess that was Joe Hardy? "I don't mean to sound insensitive, but we should probably get started. Your files?"

Fenton nodded, leaving the kitchen with Agent Casey. Joe stiffened with realization and eyed the remaining agent.

"You're not here to help, are you? You're taking over the case," said Joe.

"It was hardly your father's case to begin with," Harper told him. When Joe looked at the agent questioningly, he went on. "We've had an eye on Doyle for several years. It just so happens that one of his projects ended up here, in your city. Local authorities, with your father's help, have uncovered only a fraction of Doyle's crime ring, and seeing as their jurisdiction does not extend past the city limits… It only makes sense that we whose jurisdiction does, save them the trouble of piecing together Doyle's nationwide operation."

"That's… that's not fair," Joe said angrily.

"I don't see how. We have greater resources and years of intelligence on Doyle's entire operation. You've had the local police and a few months to detail—"

" 'A fraction' of it, yeah, I got that. But it doesn't mean we worked any less hard than the," Joe waved his hand at the man, realizing he had no idea which agency exactly he worked for. Then he realized he didn't care. "Than you people! You can't just take over—" Before Joe could get worked up any further, Fenton and Agent Casey walked back into the room, the former carrying a box that Joe knew was full of sheet after sheet of hard-earned intel. Intel that Harper seemed just as inclined to dismiss as fractional as he was intent to get his hands on them. Joe shook his head in frustration.

"Son," Fenton said somewhat tiredly, watching Casey set the box on the table. "Just sit down a moment." After a pause, Joe complied, not taking his eyes off of Harper. "No point in arguing over who gets the case or not."

"No argument. It's ours," stated Harper.

"And you have our word," Agent Casey said, speaking for the first time. She was looking at Joe and Fenton. "We will do everything we can to ensure Frank's safety in all this. Agent Harper and I will personally see to it his wellbeing is a priority." Joe's instincts told him she was sincere, but he couldn't help himself—he was too worked up.

"Right," Joe snorted. "Just peachy. My brother's chances either just shot through the roof or through the basement. And if the likes of him are running the show, you won't blame me for assuming the latter."

"This is exactly why you should not be anywhere near this case, you're too close to it, emotionally. You can't be trusted to make the decisions regarding the case," said Harper, pointedly ignoring the personal attack.

"And you can? With the investigation in your hands, my son becomes collateral damage! A second priority!" Fenton burst out angrily. It caught Joe by surprise, and the two agents even more so; the detective was renowned for his calm and level-headedness, not… this.

"Like you said, detective, there is no argument—"

"Well, that was before I realized you were going to cut us out of it," Fenton growled. "I'm not going to sit back and let you—"

"Dad," Joe interrupted, and stood. Frank's absence was affecting Fenton worse than he let on—not that Joe was too surprised. His father and brother were alike that way; burying the feelings until a more appropriate time allowed them some emotional hashing out, but sometimes the right pressure in the right places… and that shell people call calm and level-headedness would crack enough to let a little bit of that mess of emotion through. And boy was Harper hitting all the right places.

"Butting heads is getting us nowhere closer to finding Frank… or Doyle." He added, with a glance at Harper and Casey. "I don't see why we can't work together on this one. Or at least not cut my father and me out completely. We all know we deserve that much at the very least." He looked from one man to the other, to Casey, but could see that they had seen this coming from the start and couldn't help but try to take the reins on the investigation anyway.

"Fine." "Alright." "Okay."

"Okay, good," Joe said, vaguely wondering how he became mediator considering he had been ready to take on Harper a few minutes earlier. "It'll take you hours to go through all the police files in that box, and even longer to go through my dad's notes—they look like doctor's prescriptions written backwards." Joe smiled, remembering the voice's words. Casey echoed the sentiment, Harper frowned, and Fenton's scowl softened considerably. "We can tell you everything you need to know right now… if you tell us what you've got on the case so far."

"Joe, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but they've already got us at a disadvantage. They already know what we do," Fenton said in a low voice. He turned to Harper. "You must've kept tabs on this investigation from the start, and we've lured Doyle out just enough for you to swoop in and—"

"Alright, alright, home rules then," Joe intervened firmly, seeing the veins in his father's neck strain and knowing all too well what that ensued. "You came here, agents, you came to us. Why don't you fill us in first?" He crossed his arms expectantly.

"Well…" Casey looked to Harper to begin.

"Well," the man said stonily. "I have a man on the inside. Well, at least he's going to be on the inside… again. Four years ago he was working undercover, and by the time the whole case fell through, had integrated himself into one of Doyle's innermost social circles. He's had no contact with Doyle, not since the wife and children's deaths. But beginning two days ago, several calls were placed repeatedly to his cover id's number from the case. All numbers previously and currently used by agents are monitored and they are to use these phones strictly for their covers. Our man ever only had one regular incoming caller the entire time he was undercover."

"Doyle," Joe voiced, and Harper confirmed this with a nod.

"We've traced the calls' source, we have an address, and we're waiting on our man—"

An address? Joe was about to explode; why the hell hadn't he mentioned this earlier—? But his father beat him to it. More than beat him to it. Before he could voice his anger, Joe watched the blur that was his father lunge at the agent.

Elsewhere (Frank)

Frank made a point to pause at each model plane that hung from the ceiling in case they were watching him. He touched them, poked them gently so that they swung around the little circles afforded to them by their ceiling tether. He finally reached the one closest to the camera and set that one swinging about particularly fast and hard. As expected, the string snapped from the strain and the plane fell. Frank caught it quickly.

"Whoops," he voiced. He reached upward, keeping his movements wide to keep them from becoming suspicious, but not too obvious that they figure out what he had done hadn't been accidental. His planned to tie the plane back in place, but in slightly different position, one that would block the camera's line of sight to the desk. He did this now as quickly as he could, breathing hard from the growing ache in his arms. At last, the plane was in place.

Not giving the camera a second glance, Frank moved quickly to the desk. He knelt and dragged the dust-covered machine out from under the desk. Grabbing one of the screwdrivers he had earlier discovered, he made quick work of the screws that kept the tower's side lidded. He pulled off the cover and grabbed another tool to free the DVD drive from where it was docked. Sorry, girl, he thought with a sad smile. Joe's voice had not returned after he had taken a nap, and it left him feeling lonelier than ever. Once unscrewed, the drive was quickly eased out and then dropped gently into one of the drawers. Frank nearly jumped at the sound of murmuring behind the door. Wow. That was sooner than I expected. Trying to keep his hands steady, he quickly re-attached the lid and replaced the machine. He grabbed the plane that he had earlier set on the desktop and hunched over it with the tools, just as the door was unlocked and was pulled open to reveal one of Doyle's thugs.

There was a pause as the guy took in the scene before him. Frank knew he must've done it right, looking like he was just tinkering with a model plane. The man sneered at him, grunted, and then walked over to the camera mumbling.

"Leave the planes were they are on the ceiling," the man growled as he yanked the model plane from its anchor and tossed it to one side.

"Sorry," Frank offered meekly, but the man was already leaving, Frank's words unheeded. Frank turned back to face the desk, and with his back to the camera, smiled.

Elsewhere (Doyle)

Arthur Doyle sat, staring steadily at the phone that sat on the end table next to the couch. Beside it sat a calling card that he had a few days ago pulled out of his wallet. He sighed and pressed the redial button. Maybe… maybe the call will go through this time. Ringing in his ear indicated that it had. He couldn't help but smile excitedly.

"Hello, Matheson speaking," answered a deep, cultured voice.

"Dale, how are you? This is Arthur. Arthur Doyle."

"Arthur?" There was a pause. "I'm surprised to hear from you. It's… it's been awhile."

"Yes, it has been, hasn't it?" Doyle cleared his throat, unpleasant memories of the months following the accident that robbed him of his family rushed to the forefront of mind. He shrugged off a shiver. "I was wondering if you would be willing to make a house call today?" His tone suggested his words were more a demand than a request, but if the doctor noticed, he made no mention of it.

"Well, I have a pretty full schedule today, but I'm sure I can squeeze you in somewhere… How is five tonight?"

"I'm afraid this is rather urgent…"

"Four, then?"

"Dale, you don't understand—"

"Arthur, I was your family doctor and while I realize that you took your family's passing hard, and that you need someone to talk to, this is entirely out of my field; there are several properly qualified professionals who know how to deal—"

"I need you to just… come. Over. Please." All pretension of mere friendship with one another suddenly fell, giving way to a deeper connection between the men on both ends of the line. This pause was longer than the first.

"I tried to help you. We got nowhere, and you were an even bigger mess afterwards. You stopped returning my calls. I couldn't help you then, how can I now?"

"You were my friend before you were ever our family's doctor, Dale. As a favor to me, please?"

"After four years… Well, what sort of favor exactly?"

"There's someone here I need you to look over. I need you to… I…"

"Arthur?"

Pause.

"Hello?"

"It's Kenneth—Dale. Kenneth! I found him, and I need you to take a look at him. His eyes aren't right. I'm going to try to fix it, but I'm not sure if it will be enough. Please, come here, and help me to fix him, Dale. I need your help, Dale, please."

Pause. The hysteria that had exploded from Arthur Doyle seemed to reverberate almost physically through the lines and to the other man.

"Dale, please, it's the only way..."

Pause. Heavy breathing. Swallowing.

"Arthur… what the are you talking about? You're in denial? Still? Kenneth's gone—No. No, that's it. You know what, I will come over and we are going to settle this once and for all."

"Yes, Dale, please come," Doyle's voice suddenly light and almost excited—desperately so.

More exasperated than accommodating, the doctor sighed. "I'm coming, Arthur. Now, the address?"

A/N: It's been forever, I know. I would go on about how I never have enough time, but I lie! I do! It's inspiration I never have for long enough to write things in one sitting. But there you go, after several edits, and re-edits, and re-re-edits!

(So, the agency Matthews, Harper, and Casey work for is called Some Government Agency right? —Yes. Its SGA for short and—Haha, no, not really. I just didn't want to name a real one, and stress about the technicalities, hee hee. Literary liberties, yay! And while we're at it, plausible deniability, yay! If you like, just fill that in with whatever secret government whatnot you prefer.)

So to recap!

(This is the actually the outline I had written out for this portion of the story, so not exactly a recap but…)

Intro Matthews/Matheson,
Frank is going to try and MacGyver his way out,
Joe thinks the word flatus is hil-a-rious,
Evil Doyle is evil (flashback)
Frank suffers Joe's nerd-computer-love puns,
Agent Harper (big) butts in,
(inside man, address, etc.)
Fenton gets violently angry,
Doyle calls for help, somewhat desperate,
Agent Matthews/Dr. Matheson plays hard to get over the phone

And even with outlines as great as this, I continue to wonder why I cannot write consistently and in sequence…?

TBC