8AM was as good a time to start as any, Katya reasoned as she threw her duffel in the back of her little electric car and scooted the seat on the passenger side back. Creed's knees were going to bang the dash anyways, but it was the least she could do. He was half asleep on the couch when she rolled him off the side of it and handed him a cup of coffee. He was COMPLETELY asleep when she pulled up in front of her grandmother's farm-house on the western side of Grande Cache.

In the house of Irina Andreiovna, there were two stories, both literally and figuratively. The first story held the kitchen, front room, and Irina's bedroom, plus the entrance to the cellar below the pantry. It was a trap-door. Katya and Sasha had thrown bean-bags and pillows down into the cellar one Christmas, propped the doors open, and jumped the 15 feet down, skipping the ladder entirely. There was also a half-bath, but it was unimportant. The first story, the one Katya didn't know very well at all, was the chronicle of Irina's husband Arkady, his death, and Irina's mad dash to North America. She had never known what drew her grandmother to Alberta, but there it was.

The second story held a study, Pavlov's old bedroom, a guest room, and a bathroom. There was a big claw-foot tub in that bathroom that had always been one of Katya's favorite things about her grandmother's house. The other was the study. Books created a soul. The study was her first taste of what a library should be, and was still the measuring stick she held all other libraries to. The second story was the one she knew. The one where Pavlov and his mysterious mother existed in a small town, learned, loved, and grew.

What she needed was the key to the first story, which, most likely, would be found in the study. Through the front door, across the foyer, up the stairs, first right. It was a small room, floor to ceiling bookshelves, a desk with a decrepit Apple computer still setting like an ancient beast, and two chairs. The carpet underneath the desk was not near so plush under her feet as Katya remembered, and it made her wonder just how much of her childhood she had actually glossed over.

She ran her hands along the frame of the bookshelves, starting on the north wall and waited until the buzz in her head became more resonant. There wasn't a single visual cue to suggest it, but one good rap and the framework along the side of the bookshelf popped loose and allowed her to spin the entire shelf around. This was one of Pavlov's additions, but Katya hadn't found it until she was fifteen. She and Sasha had been hashing over a paper he had due as soon as they got through Spring Break, and it had descended into an argument. Naturally, she threw something (in this case, a glass ashtray). She missed her brother, the ashtray clocked the facing, and voila. There it was.

It became a hiding place—forbidden things like the last of Irina's vodka, a couple of joints, et cetera- but always, forever and anon, it was where Irina's journals lived. There were eight of them. Each hardbound, but the similarities ended there. Katya trailed her fingers over them for a moment before plucking them one by one from the inner shelf and dropping them in her bag. Irina's history was here. So was Katya's.

Logan's largest concern, of late, was fifteen years old. And it could SCREAM like unto nobody's business. It also had red hair and was gonna be cute in a few years. Right now, though…

"NO. BLOCK." He caught Kitty's forearms and flung the howling brat up against the wall across the room.

"What the hell was that?" She was gasping as she dragged herself back up on her feet and brushed herself off.

"BLOCK, Kitty. If you can't grasp that one, kid, then you're just SOL."

She groused. "I shouldn't HAVE to! I should be FAST enough…"

"Honey…." He laughed. "You're never fast enough. And just cause you can walk through a wall doesn't mean you can get past what's on the other side. Kid, there's practical things in life. LEARN'em."

He left the lesson at that for the day. The kid was going to have bruises enough. He didn't need her to break something.

Eating was in order. He had his rare-'Mooing', he requested when Bobby asked him how he wanted his steak-and washed it down with a beer. Things seemed right. They had cooked on the grill one last time for the year in defiance of the falling snow, and the kids were happy. He'd caught Rogue and the ice cube playing footsies under the table a couple of times that night, and the girl was sparkling. Kitty was limping, but still inhaling her food. There was a little girl who could do a lot of cool shit with lights, so the downstairs kitchen was glowing like the inside of a copper kettle, and winter, whatever it had in mind for them, was here.

Now if he could just shake it off.

The brother in his mind. The chewing at the back of his spine that there was somebody out there…a whole PERSON that carried the answers he so desperately wanted. He couldn't go there. It was too much to hope.

That was before he woke up screaming again. Before Cyclops pounded down his door and made the fool mistake of shaking him out of sleep. Before Jean's eyes flew wide and frightened at the sight of his honest rage and the blood on Scott's face.

The professor spoke to him about it the next morning.

"I'm fuckin—"

"No, Logan," Xavier held up a quiet palm. "No, you are not fine."

There was an awkward silence. The professor's gaze did not waver, but Logan found himself staring at the walls, the ceiling, out the window at Kitty hanging one-armed out of a tree, at ANYTHING but the unquenchable stare of Charles Xavier.

Finally-"Yeah."

"So you didn't find anything at Alkali Lake?"

He puzzled. He'd found nothing. An abandoned complex and a scent that should have killed him it was so familiar. The Professor knew this. "What are you sayin'?"

"I'm saying that you should go north, my friend."

"You mean you're scared I'm gonna hurt somebody?"

"I mean that the reason you could harm someone is because you don't have enough understanding of your situation. You've been dreaming more frequently. More…specifically."

He paused, staring at the man outright. "You have no business in my head, Xavier. NONE while I'm asleep."

"I wasn't in your head, my friend. I was merely observing the patterns in your vitals."

He snarled, felt it rising quick and faster than he meant for it to. The Professor cocked a brow and raised the fingers on his right hand slightly.

Logan cooled. Slowly. He couldn't hear his heart for the pounding in his head.

And then he took out. Threw things in a duffel, swiped the keys to Scott's bike off the top of the dresser in their room. Canada bound.