"Thank you for coming," Carrie said.

"It's not a problem," Otto replied. He was tooling down one of the middle lanes, guiding the sturdy Mercedes Maybach towards Midtown with an authoritative grip on the leather-covered steering wheel.

Not a problem, ha-ha, very funny, she thought. Carrie slumped in the passenger seat, exhausted. He only had to drop everything and fly directly here to help me.

As a businessman and a foreign national, Otto had certainly been somewhat put out. He'd decided to get on one of his private jets to come and pay Carrie's bail. Of course, he could have sent Jonas, or one of his American employees. But frankly, Otto was pleased to receive Carrie's cry for help, and had been quietly excited to come in person and post her bond. There wasn't a chance in hell he'd send Jonas, truth be told. That spießer would never get near her again, if Otto had his way.

"What I can't believe is that they required something other than an I-Bond," she seethed. The whole thing was unbelievable. From being the President's confidant, to drunk-dialing her for help with custody and ending up on the outs again, to back to being on the inside again after the assassination attempt... her luck had run out, just as the Keene's paranoia overtook her common sense. No, once again Carrie was shunted to the Outer Darkness of E-list personalities ('E is for Evicted,' her colleague Rebecca had snorted), and she who'd once held a position of power with the clever, mercurial, and some said, slightly-unhinged POTUS was persona non grata.

"Obstruction of Justice is a serious crime," Otto stated simply. "And I think they knew 500,000 dollars was out of your reach."

"It's retaliation. Pure and simple. Those fuckers," she sighed, unable to put a name on exactly who those fuckers were. Her stomach turned to jelly when she considered it was probably the POTUS herself. Thank God for Otto, because she'd had no one else to call; her sister didn't have that kind of money. Even if she had, Carrie wouldn't have asked her. And now she was shafted - no job, nor any likely past job to turn back to.

Saul was still in custody, his future uncertain. She'd long since burned her bridges with Reda – not that she, considering her current state of legal affairs, would be able to go back to work with any American social justice organization. Not while entertaining criminal charges of her own, certainly. But she had really counted on that job with the POTUS in D.C. She'd put her home up for sale, had arranged to move Franny there. She'd even paid the deposit on the private 4K in the neighborhood she'd been told she would soon be able to afford.

But all of that had immediately gone to hell, the moment she'd been arrested. No matter how completely she managed to expunge her record and avoid conviction on the current charges, there was a black cloud over her C.V., dating from the year she'd met Brody. Because of her brilliance and drive, she'd been sheltered from the consequences of her previous actions and choices by Saul, and… others. At least, at the C.I.A., she had. But now, in the private sector, she needed a clear professional bill of health. Even if all the charges were dropped, she was damaged goods.

She hardly had a friend left in the world, she thought to herself, almost moaning out loud. She leaned her head against the window, and listened to the Brahms playing quietly on the Harman-Kardon speakers in the Mercedes, as Otto tooled along the city streets, clearly not headed towards the Williamsburg Bridge and her Brooklyn neighborhood. He was taking her to his building, then. After her arraignment, hassle with Franny and the foster home, and other distressing details, like finding out that her custody court date was delayed, again – she was so drained, she didn't even try to protest.

"Come to my place," Otto insisted. "Just for tonight. Get your bearings."

"Sure, Otto," she sighed. "And, thanks."

He side-eyed her from behind the wheel, seeming to want to reach out, but then restraining himself, said only, "It is a bad situation, but it was… my pleasure."

She felt swallowed up in darkness as they entered the underground parking for Otto's building. Carrie sighed deeply, and wondered how she'd ever recover from this fiasco.

Quinn stood at the bottom of the long slope, wondering how far up the side of this small mountain his beat-up body would take him. Eight weeks had passed since he'd gotten off the ocean liner, and during that time he'd taken mostly public transport, supplemented by the odd Uber. Funnily enough, he still didn't trust himself to drive. It was strange, but driving on the other side of the road here in the UK was difficult for him now. He'd done it before the Sarin gas – in fact, he'd driven on the other side of the road in Australia and England before his stroke as easily as he did on the right in the US. But now, tasks that required his body to "cross the center line," as his occupational therapist had called it, were difficult for him.

One of these tasks was shaving. Quinn managed that by shaving with his left hand on his left side, and vice versa. He found that this forced ambidextrous behavior, amongst others, was increasing his fine motor skills and grip strength on both sides. The hemiplegia that had come along with the stroke was less of a bother, as he continued with a routine, and practiced the daily care activities as the V.A. team had showed him. There were other difficulties, but he found as he got more physical exercise in the outdoors that his crippling fatigue and poor sense of balance were less pronounced. His speech was also less slurred, and choosing words when speaking was becoming easier for him. He was almost afraid to admit it to himself, lest he be disappointed in the future, but there were days when he felt almost normal.

The main problem, honestly, had been all those drugs. And the alcohol. He understood that now. Some had been prescribed by doctors, but some he'd sought out on his own. That had changed since he'd left the US. Since stepping foot on British Soil, he'd had a grand total of 2 pints, both of those insistently paid for by fellow pub patrons, when they found out that "this young man" was a veteran of war. At that point, Quinn had been pleased just to be perceived as a young man, and hefted a glass of bitter just to be polite. But other than that, his drinking had been nil, he'd not had any tranquilizers, and his illegal drug consumption had stopped completely. When he'd gotten away from Clarice and those dirtbag pimp friends of hers in NYC, he'd lost his source. It seemed like too much hassle to find another, although he was certain they were around. He felt pretty good, most of the time, so there was no great urge to check out.

Instead, he set his mind to finding places to hike out of doors, places he'd only read about in books. Locations that had nothing to do with war, but which had significance in movies he'd seen or literature he'd read. Places that showed up in the King Arthur stories, and even the more distant past. England and Wales were so full of history, with rich detail around every corner, that he didn't know where to start. Even the smallest landmark sometimes had huge historical significance.

Quinn started slow, and put himself in positions where if he tired out, he'd not have a long and painful walk back to a bus stop or to his B&B. Over the following weeks, it got easier. He hadn't had this much deliberate exercise in a long time. His limp got less pronounced, and he unconsciously started walking with less of a slouch. He'd taken a train from Southhampton to London, and changed trains at Paddington to head to the West country. He took a train to Somerset and then buses and Uber the rest of the way out to Tintagel head, and stared at the sea some more. He'd moved on from there, walked around Cornwall and Devon, and found his way around the hiking trails at Dartmoor, stopping for a cream tea in a village on its borders.

That night, he slept all the way through from 9 PM to 6 AM, with no nightmares. The following day he remembered a New York cabbie who'd cussed him out for his slow, irregular stride in the crosswalk, shouting, "Go take a hike!" Quinn grinned as he remembered his good hand shooting the finger back at the guy. You're fuckin' A, pal. I'm taking hikes, alright. He almost laughed to himself at the memory. It was getting easier.

He'd abandoned the quad cane and purchased a long, plain walking stick at a hiking shop in Taunton. Taking public transport up from Devon through Wiltshire, he stopped at Stonehenge, which in his opinion was an utter tourist trap and a complete waste of time, despite the uniqueness of the stones themselves. The gift shop had been elbow to elbow with tourists from Pac-Asia, and he'd almost gotten claustrophobic while packed in there with them. He'd boogied as soon as possible.

From Stonehenge, he moved on to Avesbury, which was most definitely not a waste of time. The incommunicable sense of history around the place, in the huge stones that circled the village and the nearby Silbury Hill Fort brought him back to himself, in ways he could not have described to anyone. He found after an evening in a pub reading flyers that he'd been walking an ancient trail that month, so ancient that it had been in used in the Bronze Age. It was called The Ridgeway. He wasn't into religion or supernatural presences, but the terribly old surroundings made him feel better in some way. He thought it was significant, but he couldn't say how. It might have simply been that this is something that had been missing all of his life – a search for meaning outside of the next job. Even if that meaning was something as straightforward as "seek beauty."

He hadn't had enough of the sights, not enough beauty or happiness, he thought as he got out of the Uber at the base of the hill. It was probably madness to try to climb this one. It looked like a long way up. But once up there, he'd be able to see the famous White Horse in the chalk cliffs above Uffington. It had been in another book he'd read, on a job at some point. He couldn't remember which book. Maybe it had been more than one?

Quinn started slowly up the path. He'd been building his stamina for weeks, and it seemed to have paid off. The day was mild, and all around him the great, dreaming hills of Oxfordshire spread far and away. He felt tiny, dwarfed by the loveliness and rolling hills all about him, and took his time making the hike, watching the grass waving like a green sea. He did see a few people along the way, but mostly they seemed like locals, older folks walking dogs, for the most part.

He reached the ridge of the hill, and cautiously touched the end of the horse, carved deep into the chalk, so large that it could only be seen completely from the air. Another Bronze age tribute to the animal? Or to a person or tribe? No one could be sure. There was no touristy feeling to this place – just a sense of quiet and decades, even centuries piled up together, one upon another like pages in an ancient bible. The English Heritage group who preserved the site didn't charge admission for this, so maybe they tourist bus groups didn't think it was worth it. But it was profoundly moving, and he had it nearly to himself.

Quinn spent an hour sitting at the top of the hill, looking in all directions. A few people came and went. A woman walked up from belowgrounds, sat downslope, and pulled out a good-sized sketchpad. She turned her back to him, and pulling a pencil case from her backpack, began to sketch the countryside. His fellow tourist was a brunette, but her silhouette put him in mind of Astrid. He thought of their long friendship, and her eventual sad ending. In some ways, he felt more than responsibility around her death – he felt survivor guilt. It should have been me. But, it hadn't been, and now it was too late. What was he supposed to do with that feeling?

He'd been knocking around the world, doing a job that required anonymity. Doing it for so long that he hardly felt like he had a friend in the world. He rattled around his new life like a pea in a shoebox, without a thing or person to keep him anywhere, and no place that remotely felt like home. He didn't even know what a "home" should be like anymore - it was an abstract concept to him. Once, he thought he understood that Carrie could have been a part of what felt like home. He'd trusted that her feelings were strong enough to guide him. But as he'd written all those years ago, that had clearly been a false glimmer.

He stood, stretching, and held his arms out to the wind. Then, looping the leather strap from the walking stick around his wrist, he began to tread the path slowly down towards a place called Wayland's Smithy.

A few hundred yards down the hill, Quinn had fallen into the less watchful state that had started to become habit, now that he was an ordinary citizen living a normal life. So when a voice yelped out behind him and he heard a thud, he jumped as if shot. He turned quickly, keeping a grip on his walking stick. He almost grabbed for a sidearm which wasn't there anymore.

A hundred feet or so behind him on the path lay the woman who had been sketching. She had dropped her pad and backpack, and was holding her ankle. Quinn limped quickly back up the Ridge to stand near her. Her shiny brown hair was drawn back into a ponytail that flopped forward over her shoulder as she leaned down to inspect the damage. As he approached, she looked up at him, eyes full of pain, but a grimacing smile on her face.

"Oh, ouch! I can't believe how clumsy I was. Can you help me? I think it's twisted."

Not wanting to show infirmity, Quinn said nothing, just lowered his healthy arm to the young woman. She gripped his forearm with both hands, and he managed to lift her to her feet with only his "good side." He felt a feeling of accomplishment burnish his insides at that, but said nothing about it.

He was used to completing objectives silently, moreso than making conversation. He realized he was expected to speak, perhaps give comfort, but had no idea what to say. Finally he asked. "Can you walk on it?"

The woman tested her weight carefully on the twisted ankle, and then smiled at Quinn. She was almost as tall as he was - maybe 5'10", with ravishing feminine proportions - he couldn't help but notice. And he saw he'd been wrong about her age from a distance. He'd thought she was a student, but she was somewhere in her late 20's. Maybe 30. And her brown eyes were kind.

"I think so," she said, her voice accented with a charming mix of the US and the UK. "Maybe it would be easier if we went together." She squatted and quickly collected her drawing materials, which had been scattered in the fall.

Quinn transferred his cane to his strong side, and held his elbow out to the young lady, who took hold of it. It was strange, and he had no idea why, but he felt taller than he had in years.

"Yeah, let's do that. It would be easier for me, as well," Quinn said.

With that, they started down the trail together.