"So she's on a hunger strike, huh?" Shaw took an apple off the undelivered breakfast tray – Root wasn't going to eat it anyhow – and munched it while she gazed at the monitors.

"That's why I told you not to come in," Control answered. "We'll do a tube feeding in a bit."

"That should be entertaining." She eyed the angry scratches on Control's face. "You're gonna need some extra hands."

"I am aware that she'll put up a fight, thank you."

"You figure what, about three more days?"

"About that. Maybe more."

Shaw rubbed her hip absently, feeling the bandage over the tiny incision they've made. "It's too obvious, you know. She'll see right through it."

"That's what I'm counting on it."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Whatever you like," Control answered. "Don't leave town, of course, but enjoy your time off. We'll call you when she's ready to cooperate."

"Okay." Shaw tossed her apple core into the trash can at the far side of the room and walked out.


"Who is she?" Roy Johnson asked, when Moira went off to the waffle bar during breakfast. They hadn't had a chance to talk about her the night before; she never left Susan's side.

"She's from Oklahoma," Susan answered. "Romine put her in my room."

"Do you trust her?"

"I just met her. But she's with us on fracking, anyhow."

"Well, sure," Luke Stratton said. "Anyone with a brain is with us on that."

"Except the ones that work for big energy," Johnson countered. "Is she going to help us?"

Susan thought about it. "I don't think so. She's nice enough, but … I've got a weird feeling about her."

"Sure, but it always takes you four or five years to warm up to anybody."

"You didn't even speak to us for the first two years."

She smiled tightly. "I said I was sorry."

"You thought we were going to hit on you," Johnson said knowingly.

"Weren't you?"

"Well, yeah," Stratton answered, "but not after we met Martin." And then he added, "Sorry, Suz."

"It's okay. But I think we have enough of us. Did you bring the dye?"

Luke's face fell. "I couldn't get it on the airplane."

"What?"

"I'm sure we can buy some here."

"You had one job," Johnson said. "One job."

"I'm sorry, they stopped me at check-in …"

"What was your one job?" Moira asked brightly as she rejoined the group.

The trio shared looks. "Booze," Susan finally said. "He was supposed to bring cheap booze, so we didn't have to pay New York tax all week."

"Oh. That's good thinking."

"Except he screwed it up," Roy said.

"Well, we could still hit a liquor store," Moira suggested. "It would be cheaper than paying the hotel bar prices."

"That's true."

"Anybody need coffee while I'm up?"

"I think I'm done," Susan said.

"Well, I definitely need one more if I'm going to stay awake all morning. The other woman trotted off to the self-serve coffee pot. "One more round!"

Susan sighed and settled back in her seat.


John Reese jogged up the library steps two at a time. He felt good. He'd slept very well, and his hot yoga class had left him warm and loose. There had been no message from Finch, so he'd detoured to get some addictively good cinnamon rolls from O'Phelan's. He ordered and paid for four, but when he got in the car he realized there were six in the box.

He wasn't about to go back and argue. He already knew the rolls reheated very well if there happened to be leftovers.

Reese had never had much luck getting information out of Finch by means of treats, or liquor, or any of a dozen other techniques, so he didn't actually anticipate that cinnamon rolls would get him any information about the Finch/Fitzgerald situation. But it didn't hurt to try.

Bear met him enthusiastically at the top of the stairs, with a tennis ball in his mouth. John held his hand out for the ball, then threw it. The Malnois chased it happily.

"Mr. Reese." Finch was standing at the board, hanging pictures, but from his tone he was stress-free. "O'Phelans?"

"You didn't tell me we had a Number." He set the box down on the desk and moved to the board.

"Oh, we don't. Not as yet, anyhow." Finch knocked his knuckles lightly on his wood desk. "This is just a bit of side work."

John looked at the picture. "I know this guy, don't I?"

"Sam Campanella."

"Chairman of Venture East Financial," Reese completed immediately. He felt his recently-relaxed shoulders begin to tense. They had researched the man way back when Christine Fitzgerald's number had come up.

"Chairman Emeritus," Finch corrected. He went back to his printer for more reports. "He retired in July. And as of mid-September, he'll be the Chairman of the Board of the Carson-Ingram Renewable Energy Initiative."

"Ahhhh." John let his shoulders relax again. "And you don't approve."

"I do, actually," Finch answered. "At least I think I do. I'll let you know for sure when I've thoroughly vetted the man. Which I have not yet had time to do."

Reese went to the kitchenette and got plates and napkins for the cinnamon rolls. Carefully, he probed the logical if unexpected opening. "Christine seems to know him pretty well. You should talk to her."

"Hmmm," Finch didn't respond noticeably to the mention of her name. "I know that she trusts him implicitly. Her good opinion weighs heavily in his favor. Still, I prefer my own due diligence."

John sat down behind the desk and got himself a pastry. "You should go see her anyhow."

"Miss Fitzgerald? I saw her last night."

"You did?" Reese failed to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"After our respective dinners."

"Oh." Then, casually, "How'd that go?"

"Fine."

"Hmm?" John stuffed a bite of cinnamon roll into his mouth. He wanted Finch to talk more, and he knew leading questions wouldn't work, so he conveniently shut himself up with pastry.

Finch got a roll of his own, took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. "She's quite thin. As I'm sure you noticed. And very tired, when I saw her. Understandably, of course."

"Uh-huh."

"We had a rather … significant … conversation." Harold nodded, apparently satisfied with this phrasing. "Significant and heart-felt. We were able to clear the air on a number of issues."

It wasn't like Finch to grope for words. Reese had gotten pretty good at reading between the lines, but he didn't know what Harold was trying to tell him.

Heart-felt?

John had a sudden urge to grab his partner by the collar and shake a straight answer out of him. But of course he'd tried that before and gotten nowhere. He pointed toward the second board. "What's this?"

Finch scowled gently. "Someone wants to buy one of my libraries."

"You have more than one?"

"I have more than a dozen, as you well know." Finch moved to the board. There were several letters and documents on it, as well as a dozen glossy photos. "But this group would like to convert one of the smaller branches into housing for low-income veterans."

"That sounds like a good cause." Reese rolled to his feet and joined him. The pictures showed various architectural features of the small-ish library. It looked old but well-kept.

"I know. And that's the only reason I'm considering it." Harold sighed. "I suppose I have to accept the reality that the City of New York will never have the funding to reopen these branches."

"Libraries are kinda going to way of the dodo, Finch." At his partner's hurt expression, Reese quickly added, "Everyone reads books on their phones and tablets these days."

"It's not the same," Harold protested. "And besides, libraries provide community meeting space, programs, homework help, internet access …"

"So insist that they set up a community reading room as part of the development."

Finch paused in mid-rant. "That's … quite an excellent idea, Mr. Reese."

"You could sound a little less surprised. I do have good ideas once in a while."

"It will be a shame to lose the building. The shelves are mostly solid oak, more than a hundred years old …" He stopped himself. "Still. It's the right thing." He scowled. "Assuming that this organization checks out, of course."

"Of course."

Finch returned to his desk chair. "When you've finished your breakfast, if you have nothing planned, I told Miss Fitzgerald you'd take her cat carrier back to her."

"With her cat in it?" Reese asked carefully.

Finch smirked. "I think we can officially dispense with the fiction that Smokey is merely on loan to the library. Christine has acquired kittens."

"I checked her bags," Reese protested, partly to cover his relief. "There were no kittens."

"These are domestic felines, I assure you." Finch scratched absently behind his ear. "They were stuck on the roof in the park."

"Chaos Park?"

"Fitzgerald Pa—yes, I suppose we will always call it Chaos Park, won't we?"

"How'd they get on the roof?"

"A larger cat chased them up a construction ladder that was left against the back of the building."

"How'd you get them down?"

"Miss Fitzgerald climbed up and caught them."

"On the roof. In the dark."

"The area is actually fairly well illuminated." Finch raised a hand to forestall protest. "Believe me, I shared your concern. And expressed it. But as you know, she can be quite determined."

John did know, actually. And when something small and helpless was involved … "How many kittens are we talking about?"

"Two." Finch scratched his arm. "She's named them, so I presume she intends to keep them. But they will need thorough veterinary attention."

"Do they have fleas?" Reese guessed.

Harold stopped, his hand half-way to his opposite elbow. "They've been flea-bathed," he said ruefully, "and all the associated gear thoroughly laundered. My itching is purely imaginary, I'm sure."

"I'm sure." John grinned. "I'll take care of it."

"Thank you." Finch wiped his fingers and turned back to his keyboard.

Bear dropped his tennis ball on John's shoe.

"How 'bout it, boy?" Reese scratched the dog's ears. "You want to go meet some more baby kitties?"

The dog danced eagerly.

"Do you think he has any idea what you're saying?" Finch asked drily. "Beyond the word go?"

"Does it matter?" Reese tossed the ball down the long hallway. He dropped a second cinnamon roll onto Finch's plate, then closed the box on the remaining three. He understood the extras now; the peculiar little chef at O'Phelan's had packed them for Christine. He didn't believe in psychics. But he was glad for the extra rolls.

He wasn't pleased that Christine had been climbing onto roofs and chasing feral cats in the dark, or that Finch had stood by and abetted that dangerous behavior. But the story of their late-night adventure convinced him that things were finally and happily resolved between the two of them.

But … heart-felt? he wondered again.

He got the cat carrier from the storage room, and then Bear's leash.


Control brought the breakfast tray herself.

The scratches on her cheek were still bright red.

Root sat in the back corner of her bunk. She had her knees up against her chest, tucked under her shirt, and the thin sheet wrapped tightly around her compact body.

"Chilly in here, isn't it?" Control asked brightly. "You should have asked for a sweater."

"Would you have given me one?"

"No."

The woman set the tray down on the little table. "You have one hour."

"I'm not hungry."

"Okay."

Control left the cell.

Root closed her eyes and settled her forehead against her knees. She hadn't slept. She'd stopped being hungry, mostly, but she could feel how weak her hunger strike her left her. She was cold.

And very soon, now, things were going to get ugly.

But it would be worth it. It was her first step to getting back to the Machine.

She rested and she waited.


The morning began with the first large-group seminar, an overview of new developments in the field of hydraulics.

Moira McAllister stayed right by Susan Holsey's side. It seemed to Susan that the other woman wasn't really following some of the presentation. But maybe she was just bored and not really paying attention. A lot of the engineers just came for the drinking and travel. Hard to resist an expense account.

During the mid-morning break, some of the other flat-state engineers who had heard Moira was from Oklahoma came over and started a conversation with her. Relieved, Susan broke out her laptop and began her search.

She didn't have any problem finding suppliers. The prices were two to three times higher than she would have paid in Pennsylvania. And finding one that she could get to with no car was tricky. She could read the MTA route map easily enough, but she had no idea about the neighborhoods she'd be going into …

"What's that?"

Susan jumped. Moira was right over her shoulder, reading her computer screen.

"Uh … Pot Perm."

"Sounds sexy. What's it for?"

How does she not know what potassium permanganate is for? Susan wondered. That's Water Systems 101. "I was just curious what it costs here in New York. As compared to home."

"A lot more, I bet."

"Oh, yeah." Then playing her hunch, Susan asked, "What do you pay for a case in Omaha?"

"Oh, I, uh, I don't really know. I mean, our equipment guy handles that."

"Oh."

"You have to buy your own?"

"We have a tiny office. I do some of everything."

Moira nodded. She sat down as the next speaker stepped to the podium. "It's Oklahoma," she said quietly.

"Hmmm?"

"You said Omaha. That's in Nebraska. I'm from Oklahoma."

"Oh, right." Susan closed her computer. "Sorry. All those Western states look like of alike to use Easterners."

Moira nodded. "Honestly? They all kind of look alike to us, too. It's all flat."

Susan chuckled uneasily and focused her attention on the speaker.


Reese thought about going into the CIREI offices, but he saw a lot of people through the front window and he wasn't in the mood to share the cinnamon rolls. He went around to the back and let Bear trot ahead of him up to the apartment. The door unlocked just as he reached for the handle. He threw a crooked grin at the overhead camera and went inside.

His phone buzzed as he set the rolls down. The message read simply, OMW. On my way. He leaned down and unclipped the dog's leash. Bear immediately ran down the hall. Reese strolled after him, with the cat carrier.

Bear darted into Christine's bedroom. By the time Reese got there, the dog was whining, with his front feet up on the suitcase that blocked the bathroom door. "Easy, boy." John rubbed his ears while he looked over the divider. A small black kitten was similarly paws-up on the other side, eagerly trying to reach the dog. Finch had said there were two, but he didn't see the second one. It was probably in the box that was set on its side in the corner.

At least this kitten looked big enough that it was probably weaned. Smokey had been hours old when Bear had rescued her, and Christine had bottle-fed her for weeks.

The little fluffball meowed, louder than Reese would have expected. Bear barked softly, just once.

The kitten panicked and scrambled back into the box.

"You scared him," John said. Bear looked up at him, worried. "It's okay. He'll get used to you."

The kitten emerged from the box, carefully and deliberate. It stopped two steps from shelter and studied both John and the dog with narrowed green eyes. Bear whined again and the kitten's back arched, but it took two more steps toward them. A second kitten peered out of the box, meowed loudly and nervously.

"Ah," Reese realized, "you're the other one."

The kitten stopped and stared at him.

"We won't hurt you."

Bear whimpered his agreement.

The kitten continued her careful walk toward the divider. She paused, then stretched upward to touch her nose to Bear's. Unimpressed, she dropped to all fours and strolled to the food bowl.

The louder kitten apparently took this as an all-clear signal. He trotted out of the box and jumped up to see Bear again.

"Good morning." John leaned and scooped up the kitten. It was very thin. It was also curious and athletic; it immediately began to climb up the front of Reese's jacket. Bear danced around eagerly. John sat down on the bed and detached the kitten so he could hold it in his lap and let the dog sniff it.

The kitten arched its back and hissed adorably.

Bear ignored the hissing and licked it anyhow.

"You might not want to let them get too close," Christine said from the doorway, "until we get his worms cleared up." She took a second bite of the cinnamon roll she held.

"Probably." Reese stood up, moving the kitten out of the dog's reach. Bear danced happily at his feet. "Later," he promised. "How's work?"

"It's ten o'clock. This is breakfast." She gestured with the roll. "Thank you, by the way. This is really good. I'm drowning in stuff to catch up on. If it wasn't for Taylor Carter I'd be drowning and also buried under an avalanche."

"I could take these guys for you." The kitten climbed up to his shoulder and perched there. It looked down at Bear, then decided to climb to the top of John's head. "Ah, no, ouch," he said, plucking the kitten off again. "Settle down."

"I'll go. I need a minute to strategize anyhow."

"I'll drive."

"No Number?"

"Not yet." He plucked the kitten off his jacket again – Finch was going to have a fit about all the little snags – and tucked it into the cat carrier. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Some. I think."

"So no. You know, this is the second time I've told Fusco to drive you home and then found out you were running the streets."

"I had to make sure my city was okay."

Reese snorted. "We took care of it while you were gone."

"I know." Christine stepped over the suitcase awkwardly and reached for the second kitten. It ran back into its box. She reached in and pulled it out, its claws still tangled in a towel. It growled, hissed, bit at her bare hands and tried to rip her arm open with frantic back leg kicks. John opened the carrier door for her. Kitten and towel went in together and he locked the door behind the vicious little beast.

"Let's see." He took Christine's hands. She had seven freshly-bleeding scratches, all thin and shallow, as well as more than a dozen slightly older wounds that disappeared up her sleeves. He could see a deeper scratch that started at her collarbone and went down the front of her shirt. "You sure she's worth it?"

"She's just a fighter. She'll be okay once she gets used to being safe." She smirked. "And Will already wrote me a script for antibiotics."

"Did you get it filled?"

"Yes, dear. Let me go rinse these and then we'll go."

"Put some bacitracin on them."

"Yes, dear," she repeated.

Inside the crate, the kitten continued to growl fiercely. Bear peeked through the grating from a safe distance. "What do you think, Bear?" John asked. "You want to go see the vet with us?"

The dog dropped to his belly and looked pointedly in the other direction.

"And Harold think you don't know what I'm saying," Reese chuckled. "Okay, you can stay here, but out of the bedroom. I don't need you eating the kitty food. Or anything else."

He gestured and the dog followed him out.