JOHN:

Reese is sanding. Around and around, bare hands and coarse grit paper, working out splinters in the deck, the flecks of old paint. He works with his left hand, arm burning from the repetitive motion, and doesn't look up when Russell suddenly asks, "What's a number?"

Reese keeps scraping.

The second time Russell tries, he hangs off Reese's shoulder for emphasis, incumbering the work.

"John."

"A numeral."

"No, a number."

"Pretty sure," Reese replies, pausing mid-scrape and rolling his shoulder. He leans back on his heels and raises a single eyebrow as Russell shuffles in front of him impatiently. "What grade are you in?"

Russell lets out an exasperated breath. His shorts and legs are covered in flyaway paint chips, his cheeks flushed from the little bit of scraping he had participated in. His work gloves are too big; they start to fall off his hands when his arms hang at his sides.

"Johhhhn."

Bear rises from the corner and noses the boy's hands with a soft whine. For a minute the question seems forgotten, the dog receiving full attention.

Silence. Reese resumes sanding.

"When I asked your friend about her hand, she said a number."

"Did she?"

Russell is not happy with this. "John!"

Reese stops again and sits back.

"A number," Russell emphasises, as though he wasn't clear earlier.

Reese hears a sharp whistle from across the marina: Russell's father.

His boss.

"You've been summoned," he tells the kid, starting back at the decking; the conversation is done. He tries his right arm for a minute and then switches back to his left. He shrugs his shoulder again, this time to roll out the ache.

When he pauses and looks up, Russell is still standing right there. Staring at him.

Stubborn little-

Reese tosses aside the sander and gets to his feet.

"Are numbers people?"

"Maybe," Reese allows, grabbing Russell under the arms. Hoisting him over the side of the boat and onto the dock below. He lets the kid catch his balance before stepping back.

Looking up at Reese, Russell nods, thinking it over. "Only people hurt people," he reasons.

Reese tilts his head to the side. He considers Russell for a second and then shakes his head.

"Don't keep your dad waiting."


FUSCO:

"And then Marcus passed it to me, and pow! Score!"

Fusco chuckles, steadying a glass on the table in defense to Lee's sweeping gesture. "I know, buddy, I was there, remember?"

"Yeah." Lee grins through a mouthful of cheese pizza. "I know. It was awesome."

Returning the smile, shaking his head. Watching Lee score the winning goal was pretty awesome.

"You must take after your old man," Fusco tells him. He raises his glass in toast. Lee rolls his eyes and then crosses them as he picks up his own glass, blowing through the straw until bubbles of Coca Cola threaten to spill over. "Clearly."

When Fusco glances at his watch, Lee quickly scrapes his chair back.

"Just a little more?"

Fusco hesitates. It's a school night.

"Please, dad?"

"Twenty minutes." Lee grins and races off to the arcade games.

Fusco leans back in his chair, sipping his own soft drink and keeping Lee in his general vision. Skee-ball. He reaches for the last slice of pizza and finds an empty plate.

"Hey, Lionel."

Looking up. "Seriously?"

Shaw smiles through a mouthful of cheese and crust. He makes a face.

"That's rude, you know that?"

She swallows. "No toppings?"

"Seriously?"

Fusco watches her as she drops into Lee's abandoned seat, staring across at him, elbows on the table as she takes another bite.

He scans the arcade for Lee as she chews. Still skee-ball. He looks back at her. The pizza slice half devoured in her hands. He shakes his head.

"You know I didn't invite you, right?"

"That's okay. I don't need an invitation."

"Yeah. I should know that, huh."

There's a silence between them.

He looks to Lee. Still skee-ball.

Shaw reaches across for some French fries and he gives her a look. She ignores it.

Fusco sighs, leaning back in his chair. "How's Operation You-Know-Who?"

"I haven't tried," she says bluntly, and he just looks at her. "What."

He gives her a stare. What?

She rolls her eyes, but there's a tightening to her jaw. "Look," she says. "I just don't… He's not ready."

"Ready?" Fusco repeats. "Sameen. He's sitting in a boat, drinking, hoping to cross someone who'll end for him as a favor. If he doesn't do it first."

"That's a little exaggerated, don't you think?"

Fusco just stares at her.

She huffs a breath. "He's fine, Lionel."

"We could use his help."

"We're fine." She takes another bite of pizza, this time a little aggressively. Fusco frowns.

"You okay?"

Lee interrupts any response she might have had. "-Dad!"

Fusco braces the drink glasses instinctively.

"Oh, hey," Lee says, a little quieter, almost shy when he see Shaw at the table. He recovers quickly. A routine fist bump. "High score," he boasts to her brightly.

"Psh," Shaw remarks. "For you, maybe."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I can beat you any day!"

"Bring it, punk."

Fusco watches the exchange in amusement. It wasn't long ago that Lee had equated Shaw's presence to something bad about to go down at any time, and the relaxed banter was a welcome change.

Lee races away to choose the competition medium as Shaw stuffs the last of the pizza crust in her mouth.

"Ten minutes," he tells her.

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever, dad."


HAROLD:

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Oh, Harry." The Machine sighs. "I would do anything you wanted. And you wanted a fresh start. With Grace."

Finch stares straight ahead, his hands trembling around a cup of tea he'd ordered and let turn cold. Through the cafe window, dozens of strangers stream by every second. Every minute.

"After some thought I respected your wishes... to move on. To have the life you'd desired for so long. Without the numbers. Without… me."

A pause.

"Was I mistaken?"

No, not mistaken.

Not entirely.

"No," Finch says, and then lets out a little huff of a hysterical laugh. "I just…"

Of all the people outside; somewhere, there was one.

"How."

There's a heaviness in his chest now, a different weight than all the past months.

"You can thank Odette and Vasily Mikhaev."

Finch frowns at the unfamiliar names.

And then, it hits him.

"Ms. Groves."

"Yes. Let's just say, she had contingencies."

Finch takes a sip of the cold tea. Cup echoing against saucer as he lays it back in place.

He stares through the window. Minutes pass.

"Where is he?"

There's a pause.

"I can postulate two likely neighborhoods. He's been… elusive."

At that, Finch's mouth quirks slightly. "He's avoiding you."

The Machine hums in an almost human hesitation.

"I was respecting your wishes, Harry. To do so… well. Human nature is to make assumptions."

Through the cafe's large windows, the blur of pedestrians swims in his vision. Finch steeples his fingers around the tea cup.

"Find him."


JOHN:

Tinny classic rock fights static as he comes to. Lifting his head up from his arms, he's groggy. Disoriented.

He stares at the empty whiskey tumbler in front of him, blinking down at it and then back up at the familiar white-haired man before him.

His voice is gravelly as he says, "Mike?"

"Johnny. Been awhile."

Reese reaches for the glass in slow motion, feeling tired and dull. Keeping his eyes on Mike and frowning, squinting slightly.

"Was starting to think you'd gotten it together."

At this Reese's frown deepens. "What?"

Mike tilts his head, thought lines appearing between his grey eyebrows. Considering him.

The bottle of whiskey is within reach; Reese helps himself to another pour. Taking a quick swallow, he tries to piece together his night. Scrutinizing the room: the tin ceiling, the scarred wood of the bar top.

Back to Mike, who gives him a curious look and then snags the handle of liquor, sliding it back onto a shelf.

He tries, for a moment, to remember. He glances toward the door. Tries to collect coming through it.

The bar is empty tonight, save him.

"How'd I get here?"

Mike looks up from where he is now wiping down the other end of the bar. "What?"

Reese looks back to the door.

When he turns back, Mike is no longer there.

Reese starts to stand. He feels heavy, sluggish. The radio crackles.

A hand clamps on his shoulder. He swings around blindly.

"-John?"

Reese squints. Shaw?

He twists back on his stool, in the direction of the Mike's departure. The bar blurs in front of him and he feels a sudden rush of disequilibrium.

The shaking of his shoulder doesn't stop.

"John," she says again.

"Shaw?" He mumbles her name and pushes her off, righting himself (he's somehow lost his center). Only the stool shifts with him and he feels the loss of gravity at the same time he hears her, "Jesus," and his back hits the floor with a thud and the crash of the stool with him.

If he loses consciousness it's only for a moment; he opens his eyes and she's still shaking him. Bear is licking his face and he feels underwater. Everything is slow and far away.

Shaw's face is hovering too near to his. "You were barely breathing," she says, but he's staring past her. To the tin ceiling of the galley kitchen and the near empty handle of whiskey that spins in his vision. The old radio next to the piled up dishes on the worn wooden countertop.

Beneath him, the sail boat gently rocks.

"John," she says sharply. Then, "Jesus. Do you have a death wish or something?"

He closes his eyes, feels the waves beneath him. Considering her words.

Maybe.

And then he feels suddenly sick. Pushing past her, off the floor, he makes it to the tiny bathroom just in time.