"We're going back there at four," she told him. John was lying on his back, hands behind his head as he looked up at Joss. She sat next to him, her legs pulled up and crossed at the ankles; her knees blocked his view of her breasts. Like a study of a nude for an art class, John thought, or a statue carved out of wood.

"You're going to hate the photos anyway." His unstated question was so why bother looking at them in advance?

"I just need to know."

He watched her twist her mouth, a rueful acknowledgment that it was more a question of vanity than importance to the mission.

She leaned forward slightly, touching the skin at his hip. Her hand traced the ridge of bone there, fingers sliding across it.

If she moved her hand higher, she would find the scars on his abdomen; lower, and she could touch the scar on his thigh. Snow's rooftop sniper had done his best to disable John without taking the kill shot. Someone hadn't necessarily wanted him dead right away.

"Why did you let me go?" he asked, surprising himself by verbalizing the question that had haunted him for months now. He'd let himself get pulled in by the intimacy of this moment.

"What?"

"Why did you let me go in the parking garage? Was it Finch?" That was his only guess—that somehow seeing Finch there with him had made a difference to Joss.

She frowned. "Partly it was him, but..." Sighing, she said, "Hell, it was a dozen different things, including the fact that I didn't even want to call Snow in the first place." She turned and looked him in the eyes. "You shot out the headlights. You didn't take out the shooter or Snow or me. Just the headlights. And then when I caught up with you, you had this look on your face. Like you wanted to tell me to be nice to the little guy and that it was okay if you bled to death while I tried to arrest you."

She looked away and blinked quickly a couple of times.

Finch hadn't listened when he told him to stay away. John remembered that moment in the parking garage, worried that Harold would get in trouble as well. Feeling his own blood drip down his stomach and leg, knowing he was going into shock. Seeing Carter's face, the stupefaction of having her arms supporting him for a moment before he half-fell into the back seat of Finch's car.

Joss's fingers were still on his hip. She looked at him and then looked down, a tiny expression of surprise crossing her face as she did so.

Surprise indeed. For a moment he pictured this from her perspective—she was in bed with him, naked, talking about a progression of events that had started with him stinking of whiskey and refusing to give her a name.


Tuesday afternoon. Carter was flipping through the pages of her new passport again when John came back to the hotel room. They hadn't had much choice about aliases for the papers, since they had opted to get credit cards as well. That kind of work took time; Sonia was a savvy entrepreneur and created accounts in advance, but the names she'd chosen weren't ordinary enough, in John's opinion.

Carter had laughed when she'd realized he hadn't picked out the common theme among the names: apparently they were all characters from Disney movies. She minded going by Aurora far less than he minded using the name Sebastian.

"We leave tomorrow morning," he told her. He'd been talking to Molinero's local crew. Now that they had the documents in hand, he knew she was impatient to get back to the US.

She picked up an Illinois driver's license with his photo from the small stack on the bed. "That's quick," she said, glancing at him as she spoke.

"They're busy men," he answered. Busy delivering drugs and he didn't know what else to Miami; Reese wasn't going to ask, and neither was Carter, even though she would hate having any tie to it.

"We'll be able to do a lot more now," he added, indicating the IDs and credit cards.

She nodded and then gave him a look that was his only forewarning for her statement. "You know we're going to have to split up when we get back."

He knew nothing of the sort.

"We're too recognizable together," she said when he didn't respond. "Whether it's the Machine or people, both of us in one place is a pattern."

He closed his eyes; this was something that he didn't want to face. And if he let her go... John pressed hard against the irrational fears that edged to the surface. Joss wasn't like Jessica; she wasn't blithely going off to marry a monster disguised as a man.

"We work better together," he said, rallying an argument to her blunt statement. They had different strengths, something he'd appreciated since she had first agreed to work with him and Finch.

"Yeah, but that's useless if all we do is run. And we have the secure phones, so it's not like we'll be completely out of contact."

John took two steps back and sat on the big chair. "It's not just sharing ideas. It's security and protection—basic survival."

"We can survive on our own," she said. I can survive without you was what she meant. "Don't mistake what I'm saying. I'd rather stay together, but we have a goal to accomplish."

She was right about goals. He had his goal of speaking with Finch—face to face now, because her distrust of the man had revived the concerns that John had stifled. Letting Carter go would allow him to accomplish that. He could trust Carter to take care of herself for that time, then go find her again afterwards.

He looked down and blinked. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather go live in the jungle or on a mountaintop somewhere? I could go get Taylor and bring him to you."

The question was half-joking, half-hopeful. From her wistful expression, she recognized that. "I've got some windmills to go tilt at," she said, attempting a comical tone but not quite succeeding.

"I guess that leaves me with the role of Sancho Panza." He watched the small smile cross her face.

"We'll let Fusco do that," she told him.


"Do we have ammo for the Smith and Wesson?" she asked, rifling through her duffel bag.

"Getting it now," he told her. He was prying up the floorboards for the last time. Packing tonight; they would be leaving the hotel before the sun came up.

Left to himself, he might have simply gotten up early and packed then. Carter had her moments of spontaneity, but apparently trip-planning wasn't one of those times. He had to admit that they'd both acquired more stuff than he'd realized during their week here. In spite of that, they'd still made a quick excursion to buy a few more supplies after dinner.

Reese pulled out the disassembled Heckler & Koch SP89. They discussed how to divide the weapons; mostly Reese listened to Carter question herself over what she would use. He figured she should take whatever she wanted—and the sub-machine gun—and he would pack what was left.

Carter frowned at his insistence about the Heckler & Koch, but when he held out the pieces, she took them from him, placing them underneath the small pile of folded clothes already in her duffel bag.

The turquoise skirt wasn't in there; he'd noticed it in the discard pile earlier. He was done dictating to her what he wanted her to take now that the weapons were sorted. The abandoned skirt was another reminder that their time here had been an interlude, a temporary respite.

John finished packing long before Carter was done. Watching her pack and repack her duffel bag, he caught himself holding back a chuckle at her indecision. After she finally stowed her bag under the bed, she went into the bathroom.

He undressed while she was in there, putting his shirt in the discard pile and the shorts on top of his bag. They'd both slept nude since they started having sex; he'd told himself that it worked as part of their cover story, but he liked the skin to skin contact, touching the curves she hid under those vests for work, knowing that she was allowing herself to be vulnerable with him.

He'd indulged himself, let himself get distracted from their primary purpose while they were here, told himself that the sex and comfort and familiarity were for her. The truth was that he wanted it—wanted her humor and passion and protectiveness. Wanted her to look at him like he was more than a colleague. It was nothing he deserved, but he'd tried to take it anyway.

She started it, but he'd said yes, he'd let it go on. Starting tomorrow the hiatus would end.

John sat in the middle of the bed, legs stretched in front of him, hands flattened on the sheet just behind him to support his weight. Eyes closed, he listened as Carter she walked back into the room.

His thoughts turned to what needed to happen when they returned to the US. It was important to keep a strong relationship between the two of them. They had a common goal; he shouldn't do anything that would make it more difficult for her to work with him in the future.

The sound of fabric rustling—she was undressing now. The mattress shifted as she sat on the bed. He could feel her watching him.

Apparently she didn't have the patience for his silence. After a few moments she muttered something that sounded like idiot. He didn't know if she was addressing him or herself, but he felt the mattress shift slightly and then her legs were draped across his, her head pressed to his torso.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"Nothing."

Rubbing her cheek against his chest, she made a scoffing noise. You, he wanted to say. Thinking about you.

John wrapped his arms around her. He wanted her to miss him, to think about him when he was gone. It was pragmatic, he told himself, to make this last evening memorable, to ensure that any bond she might feel wouldn't fade right away. (Pragmatic should have said no four days ago.)

It was pragmatic to leave her lips swollen with friction, logical to pin her hands over her head and wait until she was cursing and almost sobbing before pushing into her.

Sensible to encourage her to mark him, to drag her nails down his sides, to nip and suck at his skin, to leave him growling at her urgency.

He'd wanted her wrecked but he felt like he'd been washed to shore as well, clinging to her.

When his heart rate returned to normal, he watched her as she traced a line on her breast, lightly touching the abrasion by his beard. Glancing at him, she leaned over and did the same to him, trailing her fingers down the marks she'd left on his skin.

Finally she laid next to him, curling her back against his side. He turned and copied her curved form; she reached back, took his hand and pulled until his arm was draped across her waist.

John fell asleep before she did, fighting it briefly before letting himself drift.


The next morning he watched as Carter sliced a papaya in silence, watched her eyes at half-mast as she chewed.

It was their last morning in Belize; he thought about saying something about the moment, about leaving. Instead he watched as she went about her morning routine.

Before they left the room he looked around one last time. The turquoise skirt wasn't in the discard pile anymore, he noticed. Maybe you'll see it again, he thought, and then made himself shut down that line of thinking.

The sun was still edging over the horizon as they left Belize City on Molinero's boat. They headed northeast; John watched as the water shifted from brown to tan and finally back to the clear blue of the Caribbean coast.

They went back to alternating sleeping schedules. Molinero's crew was friendly but Reese wasn't going to trust a group of drug smugglers just because they were likable. During their shared waking hours he and Carter alternated between sitting in their corner of the cargo hold to talk in private—as private as they could get, anyway—or standing on deck watching the horizon.

When they were both awake in their shared space, they worked on memorizing their new ID information and inventing cover stories for them. They also made multiple plans for staying in contact once they got back to the US: times to use the phones he'd stolen from the base, rendezvous points in case of emergency, codes to use in text messages.

The code list was purposely short, to make it easier to memorize. As she stared at their notepad with the proposed codes, Carter took the pen from him and added one more, writing 55 on the page.

"Fifty-five?" He raised his eyebrows.

"It means stay safe," she said.

He blinked once, slowly. "Okay."

Carter shot him a slightly derisive look, as if to question why they wouldn't have such a code.

They didn't have that much time to plan together; the return trip was shorter thanks to a stronger motor and more direct route.

When she stood on deck it looked to John like Carter was trying to will the boat to go even faster. He didn't have the same feeling of urgency; as soon as they arrived they risked being back in the Machine's sights. Belize City wasn't a safe haven, but compared to the risks they would face again, it seemed like a refuge.

He didn't tell her his plan to talk to Finch. Maybe she guessed and didn't say anything, maybe she hadn't even considered the possibility. Either way, it was one more thing unspoken between them.

After docking in Miami again they wrapped things up quickly, going to the stash they'd left here and dividing up the tech equipment they'd acquired before.

No lingering; Carter was ready to leave Florida. She put her hand on his cheek and kissed him, her lips lightly brushing against his. "Fifty-five," she said, giving him a small teasing grin.

He almost couldn't bear to watch her walk away. All of the things he'd told himself about her ability to keep herself safe sounded hollow. The Machine had eyes everywhere. It was all he could do to keep from running after her.

Instead he moved deliberately—that damned slow walk—and found a car to steal for himself. He didn't take a break until he'd made it halfway up the east coast, into North Carolina.


"We need to talk." Apparently Harold had gotten the military phone Reese had sent him through the mail—and kept it in close proximity. Those were the only words John said after he dialed the number and heard Finch's voice. After ending it, John made his way to the bench under the bridge.

They'd had a few emergency plans in place before; John deliberately didn't use any of their codes, since all of those conversations took place either via cell phone or with a cell phone in range. He knew Finch would figure out fairly quickly where to meet him. Where else would they go? This place marked the beginning. It was where Finch demonstrated his continued faith in John by giving him the address of the apartment.

Using the encrypted phone was the only security measure John could take. The Machine predicted human behavior with alarming accuracy; it might guess why Finch was going to that empty stretch of land under the bridge. That was a risk John had to take, though.

Reese made it there first, as he'd planned. As Finch walked toward him, John held out his cell phone, showing the darkened screen. "Is yours turned off?" he asked.

Finch nodded. "I left it in the car," he said. "Though it's not really necessary anymore." The man looked tired, his pale eyes bloodshot. Instead of the flashes of intricate design Reese had appreciated, Finch's tie was a plain blue-gray; no waistcoat or pocket square today either.

Harold's piercing glance made John feel very aware of how things had been the last time he'd been here with a beard. At least this one was neatly trimmed. His clothes, while clean, didn't have the elegance of his usual suit. (Not even fit for an assassin, much less a banker, thought Reese, remembering Finch's comments as he'd altered John's suit.)

Apparently John passed muster well enough anyway, because the first question Finch asked after they both sat on the bench was, "Is Detective Carter okay?"

John nodded. "She's fine." He'd checked with her shortly before making the call to Finch.

"Oh, thank God," said Finch, his body language relaxing. "When I realized what was happening, I—" He paused and took a deep breath. "I could never forgive myself if she'd been harmed."

Turning his torso to look at Reese, he said, "I'm so sorry. I didn't know it would do that. That wasn't why I built it."

Reese let his own posture shift. Confirmation: he wasn't sure what emotion he felt, but to know with certainty that it was the Machine changed everything. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to assimilate the new information.

"What happened, Harold?" he finally asked.

Finch sighed and started talking. "When that woman had me, she—she congratulated me on the Machine's defenses. I assumed she meant the way it fed information to different agencies anonymously. That's what I told myself anyway. I didn't want to think of any other possibility."

This had to be part of the reason why Finch had refused to talk about his captivity with Root; he'd been in denial over things he'd learned from her.

Pulling himself up a little straighter, Finch said, "Before you disappeared, I listened in on your conversation when Detective Carter mentioned knowing about Grace." John's cell phone had been in his pocket; Carter had expected that it would be enough to prevent anyone from hearing their talk. John had known better, and yet it still surprised him.

Continuing, Harold told him, "I realized that she'd been researching me. And then you cut off contact and I knew something was wrong. So I nudged the back door open a little wider and found a list of names. Some of them I recognized."

Finch turned to look across the water. "They were casual acquaintances who probably did something as innocuous as look for one of my identities on Facebook. And because of that the Machine decided that they were a security risk."

Looking back at John, Finch hesitated for a moment before saying anything else. Finally he said, "I never thought about the Machine deciding that my safety was one of its priorities. That simply never occurred to me. But the Machine had even created a list of options for that."

"What were the options?" asked John.

"Monitor, subvert or mitigate."

What did subvert and mitigate mean to the Machine? Finch answered John's unspoken question when he said, "Some of the people on the subvert and mitigate lists were dead." His expression was bleak.

"I tried to alter the programming, but the Machine's defenses wouldn't allow me to change that. Instead I added Detectives Carter and Fusco to the list of assets—level one assets—which allows them access to information about the Machine. And me."

Finch looked at Reese from the corner of his eyes. "Detective Fusco was already on the list of people to monitor."

John wasn't surprised at that. Fusco's research into Finch had been one of the stumbling blocks for Reese in believing that the Machine was responsible for targeting Carter.

"Am I on the list of assets?" asked Reese.

"You are. The Machine never targeted you. Instead you were an acceptable safety risk when the Machine decided that Carter was too dangerous."

It took John a few moments to process some of the information. He tried to guess which events in the US connected to the Machine and which to the FBI's and CIA's ongoing searches for him. The helicopters after his theft at the DSCC—that could go either way. The FBI had plenty of resources, but the Machine could have helped. The Houston apartment break-in was probably a random attempt at a burglary, though.

The drive from Houston to Florida, the phone call to Judge Gates—both accomplished without getting caught. He and Carter had been careful, but that safety might have come from Finch's interference.

He let himself feel a moment of relief at the thought that Carter wasn't in danger from the Machine at this moment. Probably not, at any rate. He'd reevaluate that idea presently.

Other complications mattered more right now. John told Finch, "Calling her an asset doesn't make the other problems just disappear. The FBI still has questions, and Elias's men shot at her."

"I know. I've already started working on that." Finch shifted on the bench again. The hard wooden seat couldn't be comfortable for him, but the man didn't complain. "Detectives Szymanski and La Blanca were able to complete their operation successfully, with a little behind-the-scenes backup."

John speculated on what Finch meant by backup. Maybe the man had hired a private security detail for the police officers, or asked Zoe Morgan to apply pressure somewhere. Whatever it was, Harold didn't share that information. "They chopped off some of the financial tentacles, so Elias's stronghold over certain parts of the city has been lessened." He paused to give Reese a sardonic expression. "The other mobsters have reacted as you might expect when there's blood in the water.

"As for the FBI, I'm still looking for a solution to that. But they never did tell the NYPD that they wanted to talk to Detective Carter, which is a hopeful sign. Their department has been losing personnel to transfers ever since that night." Since Root had taken Finch, in other words. "Plus they appear to be conducting some internal investigations."

Reese looked at Finch, his eyebrows raised.

"I'm fairly certain that Elias's men knew about the NYPD operation because of a leak in the FBI. Someone in their office here gave that information to Elias."

Finch stared at the river and then looked at John. "I can't guarantee anyone's safety," he said, "but she's a homicide detective for the NYPD. She accepted a certain level of risk with the job." The unspoken rebuke was familiar; Finch had made his opinion about Reese's protectiveness of Carter clear in the past.

"Nonetheless, I've tried to smooth the way for Detective Carter's return. Detective Fusco filed the paperwork for emergency family leave for her." Finch had filled in most of those details, Reese was certain. "I doubt her captain is pleased, but the formalities were observed, even if her absence is... somewhat irregular. I also made sure that her bills were paid. When she comes back, she'll still have a lot of questions to answer, but hopefully those difficulties will be surmountable."

After watching Finch adjust his seat yet again, Reese said, "Let's walk by the water." Without waiting for a response, he stood up and waited for Finch to leverage himself up from the bench. They walked toward the river, sunlight reflecting off of the smooth surface, bouncing pockets of light into the shadow created by the bridge. The air here was only slightly cooler than the rest of the city; even Finch, who usually appeared so unflappable and proper, looked bothered by the August heat.

John wasn't sure what to say at first. He knew Carter well enough to understand that she wouldn't come back to the city until the Machine was gone. Not for her own safety, but for everyone else's. And for the laws she was trying to uphold.

After several steps in silence, Reese said, "I appreciate what you've done, but it isn't enough. Teaching the Machine that Carter and Fusco are assets isn't going to keep other people safe from it." He watched Finch out of the corner of his eyes. "Do you even know why some of the names you didn't recognize were on the Machine's list?"

"No, I don't. I could guess about some, but... After I couldn't get the Machine to accept the command to delete the mitigate and subvert options, I tried—well. I tried shutting it down. It wouldn't let me do that, either."

They both stopped walking after that statement, Reese studying the expression on Finch's face.

"I know where it is," Finch finally offered. "I'm not sure how you can get to it, but I can tell you the location."

"Where?"

"Idaho. I have the coordinates."

Reese nodded. Carter had narrowed the probable locations down to three states; Idaho was one of them.

"Tell me about it," said Reese. He needed to know what he was up against.

"I finished work on the Machine in two thousand nine. That was when we allowed the government to take control of it." We—Finch had to be referring to Nathan Ingram with that pronoun.

"Two weeks after shutting it down here in New York, there was a news story about a paramilitary group in Idaho whose leader had made a rambling declaration against the United States government. He had also amassed quite a collection of firearms, which led to the ATF taking an interest in the group."

"I remember," said Reese. Talking heads in the news media had compared the events to what had happened at Ruby Ridge, although this stand-off hadn't escalated to violence. It wasn't even a stand-off in the same sense that Ruby Ridge had been. People came and went, with government agents watching at all times rather than blockading the land. At least, that had been the situation when Reese had last paid attention to it; he'd missed several months of news at various times in the last few years.

Finch nodded. "The time frame made me suspicious. A paramilitary group no one had ever heard of suddenly making declarations and stockpiling weapons? Two weeks after the government took possession of the Machine?"

It took Reese a few moments to start forming the connections Finch had seen three years ago. "So no one can access that terrain—at least not easily." The paramilitary group members would be suspicious and armed, the government agencies involved would be surveilling the area, resulting in land closed off to outsiders, whether casually interested or trying to infiltrate the area.

Reese kept time with Finch's careful steps as they walked along the river. The grassy area running parallel to the Hudson was empty; unsurprising, considering the heat of Manhattan in mid-afternoon.

Finch nodded in agreement with Reese's assessment. "I'm certain that some of the militants are actually government agents. But there are always people willing to go along with radical hate groups. Which means that there are agents inside and outside the compound, true believers, and a plethora of weapons."

He stopped walking and looked at John. "I doubt any of the agents know that the true objective is to protect the Machine. They probably aren't even aware of its existence."

John furrowed his brow. "What's the long-term plan for this? They can't expect to keep up a stand-off, or the pretense of one, forever."

Finch gave him an owlish look through his glasses. "If I were to venture a guess—which you know I hate doing—I would suppose that eventually one of the agencies would raid the compound and the land would become government property by default, tied up in litigation while various lawyers argue over who was at fault."

That would certainly keep the Machine's location well-guarded for years to come. "I'm going to need as much information about the group as you can give me," John said. He couldn't remember their name right now. Something with the word last—last chance, last hope...

In response, Finch pulled a long envelope from his inside jacket pocket. "Here are articles dating back to two thousand nine. This isn't everything about them, but it's a good start." After adjusting his glasses, he said, "As you would suppose, the group's alleged ideology follows the same patterns as a lot of white separatist groups, and as such is a cesspool of humanity's worst xenophobic tendencies."

John hadn't remembered that from the reports, although it didn't surprise him. Plenty of groups were paranoid of the government; for some of them, it went hand in hand with a deeply embedded racism.

Finch paused near the concrete barriers blocking access to the river while John considered what going undercover within the group would entail. That was the obvious route: the government agencies involved might be stepping over each other's feet in the field, but they would figure out too quickly that he wasn't one of them. Unless Finch could somehow help to incite them to go ahead and raid the land, thought John, and then he realized that there were too many variables. That could serve as a back-up plan if he couldn't make his way inside posing as an anti-government white supremacist.

Parroting the lines and swallowing his revulsion; John could fit in there. The lies he'd told, the lives he'd worn: he knew how to do this.

Carter couldn't, though. Even without the racist rhetoric as part of the group's cover, as a woman she would be an unlikely infiltrator in a group dominated by men of this type.

Joss had said it herself anyway—she could bluff someone, but long-term deception wasn't part of her makeup. Thanks to the convoluted protections built around the Machine, this wasn't a get-in, get-out job.

"I want you to keep an eye on Carter," John told Finch. "Not just throw numbers at her—make sure she's okay."

Finch turned and looked at Reese, an indignant expression crossing his face, quickly followed by an indecipherable look. "You're assuming that Detective Carter will be coming back here without you, then." He raised an eyebrow at John.

Not assuming, thought John. Hoping. Finch waited a moment longer before saying, "Of course I'll do my best to make sure she's safe, John." Harold looked ready to add caveats to his statement, but instead he pursed his lips and nodded.

Reese decided that it was Finch's best effort at looking reassuring, something the man didn't often try; he nodded back, resisting the impulse to repeat himself.

Holding the envelope up again, John said, "We'll talk again after I read through this." He knew he would have questions. Getting ready for immersing himself in deep cover meant learning as much as possible before leaving.


He called Joss that evening, looking at the flickering light from the bedside lamp as he keyed in her number. Another anonymous motel; the careful behavior was routine for him.

How much care to take was the question, of course. He believed in Finch's good intentions. But the Machine had proven itself to be a greater danger than Harold had ever dreamed, and there wasn't a magic off button anymore.

Carter agreed to meet him in Kansas City. He kept the conversation short, planning to tell her all that he'd learned face to face. The one piece of information he made sure to sure was that the Machine was temporarily neutralized.

If she didn't make it to Kansas City, he would know that Finch's reprogramming attempts had failed. And then John would go and find her, but for now he had to shut off that trickle of fear; there was nothing else to be done about her situation at this moment and he had work to do.

After the phone conversation, Reese met with Finch again. It still felt routine, in spite of his month-long absence: a late night talk, Finch tapping away at a keyboard and shooting down Reese's theories with occasional sarcastic comments. John had missed the blundering camaraderie.

Finch created a larger digital footprint for one of the IDs Reese had acquired in Belize. 'Sebastian' now had a history of minor infractions related to a belief in white supremacy as well as a username on various message boards—one that Harold had stolen from someone who was, in Finch's words, "safely out of the picture." It gave the cover identity an established pattern, one that ostensibly went back years.

Later John went back to the motel room and slept for a few hours, then spent the morning collecting supplies to load in the truck of one of Finch's cars. Most of it was weaponry and explosives.

The last time he'd used these types of explosive, he'd still been with the Army. He'd already left Jessica, telling himself that she would be better off without him.

Maybe they would have been happy if he'd stayed. He'd carried around a mental picture for years, a rose-tinted vision of Jessie and him and maybe a kid or two. But they had always been slightly out of synch: Jessica had been hesitant when he'd wanted more, had finally been demanding after he'd already gone too far down another path. Maybe he'd made her feel safe when they'd been together, but it might not have been enough.

Didn't matter though. When she'd asked him for something he should have been able to give her, he'd failed.

He couldn't let that happen to Joss. Or to her son. Maybe she would be angry at him for pushing her away, but that didn't matter as long as she was okay.

Time to start the drive to Kansas City.