Tim came to with milky light soft on his face – the just-past-full moon, nosing through the trees. Where am I? He hurt, and was in a strange position, on his back with one arm over what felt like a log, but the innate need to orient himself outweighed his other concerns.

What am I doing here, in...a forest? How did I get here?

He tried to move but found that twisting gave him a horrible pain; likewise, his head hurt a lot. Did I fall? It feels like I'm on a hill; did I fall down that?

I must be on a field assignment; why else would I be in woods at night? "Boss?" he called. "Ziva?...Tony?" There was no answer; just the drone of insects and the hoots of an owl. They could be having a laugh, having seen me trip and fall.

Swallowing a little embarrassment, he tried again, a little louder. "Boss?...Ziva?...Tony?...Guys?...I need help...Please...I think I'm hurt..."

Nothing. If the team was out there, they weren't close by. Tim reached into his pocket for his cell phone, but it wasn't there.

How is it that I got called on an assignment late at night, and I can't remember it?...I went to that con, Rockvillecon. I came home and watched Hex on BBC America. Why don't I remember being called out on assignment?

Why don't I remember how I got here?

Why is Hex the last thing I remember?

He touched his aching head, drew his hand away, and sniffed it. Mud, and I think blood. I must have hit my head on something. I probably have amnesia.

Carefully Tim stretched his limbs, one by one. They were sore, but it didn't feel like there were any broken bones.

If this wasn't a field assignment, what on earth brought me out here after being comfy at home, watching Hex? Did I get in an accident? Where's my car?

He heard a car go by, but couldn't tell the direction the sound came from. The moonlight only appeared here and there, limiting what he could see. There must be a fairly heavy tree cover.

If this is an assignment, they may be looking for me. He called again. "Boss!...Tony!...Ziva!...I'm over here!"

I wish they'd come!...Except maybe for Tony. I'm still pissed at him, for, for...something he did. Today? What was it he did?

His hand brushed his shirt. Huh? Why am I wearing a t-shirt, and...and...shorts for work?

I must be at work. I wouldn't go out in woods this late, alone. But with grim realization he knew that merely wanting his team to be close by could not produce them.

It doesn't matter why I'm here. The important thing is, I need to get out.

He rolled over onto his stomach, and screamed with the sudden pain. It whipped his back in waves; after seemingly an eon, subsiding to an ache. Standing was out of the question. The best he could hope to do was crawl. But which way?

Another car went by, somewhere.

If I fell and rolled down here, chances are I started from a road. The road must be up this hill. Cautiously he raised his left arm and grabbed a tuffet of grass on the upward slope, pulling himself up a little ways. But then a spasm hit his back, and in the pain he vomited.

I can't do this; I can't...

"Boss!!" he cried again, in desperation. "Help me!"

What would Gibbs say, if he were here? He'd say, 'C'mon, McGee!' and he'd turn away and walk off with the others. expecting me to follow. That's all.

Tears ran down Tim's cheeks at the thought of abandonment, and then he thought again. No. He might say that at first, but when he saw I wasn't following, he'd come back. He'd come back for me. He would always keep his team together.

The thought was so strong that he could almost see Gibbs next to him, pale, ghostly in the moonlight.

-Problem, McGee?

"I can't get up the hill, boss. I'm hurt."

-You can do it, Tim.

"I need help..."

-I can't physically help you. But you can do it. You've got it in you. Just one movement at a time.

Gibbs, Tim knew, was a motivator. That was part of what made him a great leader. "Every time I move, it hurts. Hurts bad."

-I know. And we'll get you help. But you have to get up this hill first. Come on, one movement.

Tim grabbed another tuffet, this time with his right hand. The mud beneath him squeeched as he rolled over that, grass, small stones, and acorn caps. He gasped as his back thundered its protest.

-That's good! Do it again.

And again he hauled himself, and again. It wasn't getting easier, but he could do it.

­-Keep going, Tim! You're making progress!

A few more moves, and Tim stopped, his back savage and his head pounding like a bass drum. "I – I can't, boss. I can't go on."

­-Yes, you can. But rest a moment, first.

Tim was panting, dew from the grass dribbling into his mouth; cool in his throat. "No. I – I'm sorry, boss. I've nothing left."

-No, that's when you need to find your hidden reserves, Tim. You can do it. I'll be here every step of the way for you. Come on; one movement at a time.

Hidden reserves? He closed his eyes and felt, below his bleeding head, below the agony of his back, down to his still-working knees. My knees! Push! Push! And slowly he moved upwards by pushing with his knees, only using his arms for balance.

-Good, Tim! Good!

Over and over...another car, no, that sounded more like a tractor trailer, went by, the sound loud. He was getting close to the road!

-Almost there, Tim! Keep going!

He struggled as the slope changed a little, but then banged his wrist on concrete. The curb! I'm at the road!

-Great job, Tim! I knew you could do it!

"Thanks, boss," Tim said with a cross between a cough and a joyful laugh. He leaned on the curb, draping himself over it, and then allowed himself to pass out again.