Month Three, Day 29

1:19 pm

The second Michael stepped out of the infirmary, panic washed over him in an all-consuming rush that contrasted his elation of moments before with all the disparity of summer to winter. Of fire and ice, regret sliding through his veins in tandem with the thrill of Sara's requited love, so recently conveyed. What had he done? He was leaving in the morning, and he had just let his perfect opportunity to tell her himself slip through his fingers.

He walked back to his cell block slowly, the image of her smile, lips intoxicatingly parted, graceful fingers curved around the edge of his file as she penned her affection simultaneously warming him and paining him. Somewhere near the guard station of A-Wing, he slowed his pace from a shuffle to a standstill. "I need to see Dr. Tancredi again," he told his C.O. "It's urgent. I forgot something."

The guard only issued him a curt shove in the back. "I don't think so, Con. She's got a schedule to keep. Come to think of it, so do I. Pick up the pace."

By dinnertime, Michael had requested a visit to the infirmary three times, all to no avail. At least, however, with the event of chow, he'd have the opportunity to see his brother. From the moment he entered the line, he scanned the room for Lincoln, finally spotting him at a far corner. Thank goodness. At least he could set things straight with one of the people he loved. He had just turned from the end of the line, his tray still nearly empty in his hands, when he collided with the solid, dark-blue uniformed form of a C.O. He skid to a halt, his eye flicking from the expansive stomach up to the chubby chin. Bellick.

Michael inhaled sharply through his nose, but he shouldn't have been surprised. Bellick had been in his face at every possible opportunity since he got out of the SHU. Still, he picked his words as carefully as he could while maintaining a tone of thinly-veiled distain. "Could you take a step back, Boss?" he requested smoothly. "I wouldn't want to spill."

Bellick snorted, the sound leaving his nostrils in an indignant rush. "I hear you're making noise about gaining an extra visit with our doc, Scofield."

Michael forced his fingers to remain relaxed on the smooth edges of his tray. "Our doc, Boss?" He cocked his head musingly to one side. "They're really cutting corners on the employee health plan around here, aren't they?"

He watched as the corner of Bellick's left eye twitched and his jaw flexed. When he responded however, his eyes found Michael's unflinchingly. "Not much of a chance she's going to see anymore cons tonight, but I could always pass on a message, if you like."

Michael fought the smirk that flirted with the edge of his mouth. Even transferred 150 miles away, he felt quite confident he had a better chance with Sara than Brad Bellick. He shrugged, as if to imply there was precious little Bellick could do for him in this department. As if getting back into the infirmary tonight had merely been a passing whim. "I'm sure I'll be seeing her again before you will."

"I doubt that," he drawled, his own mouth now lifting in a cool, crooked smile, "unless of course The Pope has managed to grant you a field trip to the N.A. meeting on Church Street tonight as a bonus to your upcoming upgrade at East Moline."

Michael froze. N.A.? He's full of shit, he reminded himself fiercely. He's toying with me simply because he can. He forced his voice to remain neutral. "I wouldn't know anything about that, Boss."

Bellick grinned outright. "No? Well I'll be damned. After all your cozy chats in the infirmary-"

Michael opened his mouth to argue, but Bellick spoke right over him, his body leaning further forward, pressing his advantage. "Oh yeah, I see you, Scofield, swapping smiles like you're sipping fraps at a fucking Starbucks. But of course it just makes sense that she would skip the whole, 'Hello, my name is Sara and I'm an addict' opener. Doesn't exactly instill respect with the cons. Puts her too close their-your-level, doesn't it?" He leaned in still closer, lending Michael a view of each pore upon his face. "Probably hard enough as it is, being a chick doctor in a max security." He laughed once, a spiteful, barking sound that made Michael want to take him by both shoulders and shove him to the ground. "Or maybe hard isn't the right word…" he trailed off as though in speculation, then grinned again. "No…no, it is."

Michael remained rooted to the spot, anger crashing over him in violent waves until Bellick's face was nothing more than a fuzzy caricature of itself, his features oddly distorted and quite nearly undulating under the thick sheen of his fury. "Of course maybe," Bellick went on, "she just feels ashamed is all…you being an upstanding armed robber, white collar and all that, while she's closer to a crack wh-Michael hadn't even remembered deciding to surge forward, but suddenly his face was less than an inch from Bellick's puffy nose, the C.O.'s breath hot on his skin. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Bellick roared. "Watch that tray, Convict! Why don't you just go ahead and take a step back!"

Michael refused, allowing the edge of his tray to dig into Bellick's belly, knowing that in another second, he would drop it altogether, freeing his hands to ball into fists…to pound the smug grin right off of Bellick's face. Before he could act, however, he felt two hands on his shoulders, pulling him away. He stumbled blindly backward.

"Michael, c'mon, man." It was Lincoln's voice in his ear, his grip firm as he tugged him away. Still, not even his urgent persuasion or even Michael's own pulse pounding angrily in his ears could drown out Bellick's words, each one more taunting-more patronizing-than the last.

From the safety of several feet, he made a show of smoothing the front of his uniform. "I don't really have a drug problem myself, of course, but the ambiance is nice. Lonely, desperate women. You know what I'm talking about." He grimaced dramatically, whistling low under his breath. "But, whoops. I sure hope I didn't cause her any problems. Maintaining doctor-patient respect and all that."

Michael felt Lincoln tug at his arm. "Michael. Let's go."

He looked from Lincoln to Bellick and back again. "Yeah," he nodded to his brother. "Ok." As he turned, it took every ounce of self-control within his possession to keep his dinner tray horizontal; to keep his arms at his sides and his hands occupied. He ventured one last glance at Bellick, still grinning. His stomach gave a lurch. "You have a good meeting, Boss."

The instant he reached the table, Michael sank down onto the bench, his legs rubber. He sat still for what felt like the span of an entire minute, his hands pressed tightly to his temples, a nauseating combination of horror and shock still fighting for prominence in his brain. N.A.? Addiction?

Lincoln sat down heavily beside him. He shook his shoulder firmly, seeking his attention. "That true, man?"

Michael forced his gaze upward briefly before resting his jaw back in the heel of his hand. "I don't know. I guess…it could be. It could, but…why…how did I not know this?" He still felt as though the wind had been knocked out him.

"You didn't know?" Lincoln looked mystified. "But you didn't even act surprised! Did you even know East Moline was a possibility?"

Michael glanced over. Slowly, it dawned on him that they were discussing two very different segments of recent events. What was paramount in Michael's mind was in no way paramount in Lincoln's. "Oh," he said somewhat absently, and then scrambled to sound coherent. "No, I knew. Veronica told me this morning, just as I got out of the SHU. Reduced sentence. Minimum security." He hesitated, then looked sidelong, studying his brother's profile in the artificial glare of the overhead lights. "It should have been you."

Lincoln turned to look directly at him, and then shook his head incredulously. "No," he countered. "You shouldn't even be here, Michael!

"I shouldn't? Think back, Linc! Out of the two of us, who made the deliberate decision to break the law?"

"I did!" Lincoln retorted, his voice an insistent rush of emotion. "I entered that parking garage intending to take a life!"

"But you didn't!" Michael squeezed his eyes suddenly shut, shaking his head fiercely as he argued in a desperate whisper. "In the end, you didn't. You were just a pawn in someone else's game. Not me. I am the game. Everything I did, Linc, was premeditated."

"And you deserve a fucking medal." Lincoln gripped the back of Michael's neck, forcing him to face him, urging both their heads to bend low over the tabletop. Michael felt his grip digging into the soft skin at the inception of his spine. "Are you listening to me? You don't belong in Fox River. You don't belong in East Moline, for that matter, or anywhere else." He loosened his hold on his neck as though just registering Michael's look of discomfort. Still, he pressed further. "I'm serious, Michael. I've regretted a hell of a lot in my life, a hell of a lot, but never have I felt such shame as the day I first saw you inside these walls. This is on my head. This is my debt. If you can get the hell out of here, go."

Michael nodded. It was all he could do, and yet, the sickening nausea still churned in his stomach, a deep-seated misery coloring his every thought. Lincoln sat back, releasing a long, pent-up breath, and Michael waited a moment before changing the subject. "Linc?" he prompted. "I need a favor."

His brother's eyes found his over the trays of untouched food, his Adam's apple bobbing once as he nodded. It was a strangely encouraging gesture. "If I don't get in myself…tomorrow morning…I need you to make an appointment in the infirmary. After I go. Right after, if you can."

Lincoln looked at him unflinchingly, then shook his head once, his lips suddenly a tight line. "Michael…"

"It's all I'm asking, Linc. I can't go without knowing…" he trailed off. A look of guarded wariness was blanketing Lincoln's features, unnerving him. He took a bracing breath. "This is important to me, Linc. I need to get a message to her."

Lincoln slowly lowered his hands from the table to his lap. It was a deliberate motion that suggested to Michael that his brother was just barely reigning in his frustration. "Michael. You know I've never asked…" He paused, frowning, and then started over. "I have watched you continue to show up at that infirmary every day, even though we both know you no longer need to be there, and I have never asked. I see how you look at her-hell, even Bellick sees it!-and I have never said anything, but now? Be straight with me. I need to know what we're dealing with here."

Michael swallowed a sudden upsurge of anger. Lincoln sounded so damned condescending it made him draw his own hands into a tight clasp in front of him. "It's none of your business."

Lincoln shook his head much more vigorously. "Well, you just made it my business, so you hear me out!" His voice wavered on the brink of an easily overheard hiss, then lowered again. "Whatever you've got going, it's a piss poor idea. You got that? It's a shitty, shitty plan. I can guarantee it."

Michael answered him in the only way he could. "It's not a plan of any sort," he admitted, his own voice a nearly inaudible whisper. He looked at Lincoln, silently pleading with him to make eye contact. To understand. "It just is."

Finally, Lincoln did look over. Michael heard him sigh anew, but this time, the sound, coming from deep in Lincoln's chest, suggested defeat. "I'm not passing along messages that I shouldn't be hearing in the first place, Michael."

Michael shook his head again. "I'm not asking you to," he reassured him. He wavered, trying to weigh the likelihood of Lincoln's cooperation, and then plunged ahead. "I just need you to ask her for her cell phone number."

Lincoln let out an incredulous laugh. "Shit," he said. "Sure. No problem. You want her address too? I bet she gives that out to inmates all the time."

Michael was suddenly way too tired for games. "I already have her address."

Beside him, Lincoln blinked. "Shit," he repeated. Michael felt him studying him intently, but now he was the one to keep his gaze stubbornly trained on his tray. "This is why you don't want to go," Lincoln said slowly. He issued a bitter laugh. "You'd rather be locked away in maximum security than go one day without your dose of-"

"Don't finish that sentence, Lincoln." Michael's voice was a whisper, but it left no room for misinterpretation.

Lincoln stopped speaking abruptly, clearly surprised. "You're serious."

Suddenly, the cavernous room, nearly deafening a moment before with the sounds of cutlery on plates, trays stacking, and men shouting, seemed nearly silent. Michael could hear only the sound of his own thoughts reverberating loudly off the inside of his skull. "Yes," he said simply. "More serious than I've ever been about anything in my life. Do you understand that?" Lincoln nodded, but Michael continued as though he hadn't. "Think about Vee. Contemplate her, separated from you, day after day, and then you think about whether you'd like me sitting here, cracking jokes. Is that funny to you, Lincoln?"

Lincoln was looking at him oddly. "No," he breathed. "It's not." He stared at Michael for another second, and then whipped his head around, nearly flinching as another inmate sat down heavily directly beside him, taking up the rest of the room at the table. Michael waited, trying to read the look of sudden, awestruck awareness that was now stretched across Lincoln's features. He couldn't determine whether it worked in his favor.

Lincoln glanced swiftly from the other inmate, now digging obliviously into his food, back to Michael. "I'll get a number from your doctor," he finally said evenly, and then rose. When he spoke again, Michael could detect the faintest tremor in his voice. "Let's go."

*****

Day 30

7:55 am

As Sara arrived in the Fox River staff parking lot, the sun was still low enough in the eastern sky to cause her to squint as she swung into her space, groping a bit blindly for her travel mug of coffee. She was well ahead of schedule for her first appointment of the day, but even so, she made her way straight from her car to her office. She had left early the night before, and she was already mentally cataloging the amount of work that had undoubtedly stacked up in even that short of an absence, not to mention the number of messages from both Mercy and General she could expect and whatever new complaints had popped up on the cell block during the night. She quickened her step.

Forty-five minutes later, she felt marginally more organized, and ventured down the east bank of stairs toward the small staff break room off of Visitation to refill her cup before her first appointment. She met Katie on the way, taking the steps up to the infirmary as she came down. She took one look at Sara's mug and pivoted on the spot, offering a tired smile in greeting. "Good idea."

They walked together toward the break room, taking a shortcut through the visitation lounge with a wave toward the security detail. "So you never told me how this weekend went," Katie prompted, pausing to type her security code into the pad next to the set of double doors leading from Visitation to Conjugal and the break room beyond. "How was Springfield?"

"Basically uneventful," Sara answered, flashing her ID to the C.O. standing outside of the conjugal room. "Just the way I like-"

Suddenly, she froze. The double doors had opened before her, admitting a tall brunette in designer acid-washed jeans and a metallic-hued crop top. The guard in the opposite doorway looked over at her with a grin, but she crossed directly before him, Sara, and Katie without a glance, heading straight for the sign-in station and metal detectors, stopping only once she'd reached the desk to dig into her purse for her wallet.

Nika. The sight of her hit Sara with the force of a ton of bricks, and even after the fact that she was standing stock still in the center of the room sank into her consciousness, it was at least another five seconds before she managed to force her legs to move.

"Sara?" All the way across the room, Katie was holding the door to the break room open for her. She suddenly looked very far away. How had she gotten there so quickly? "Coming?" she asked, and Sara had to force her eyes away from the desk before managing the remaining distance to the door. What was Nika doing here? Michael had sworn to her…he had said there was nothing more to say between them, and she had believed him. God, she still wanted to believe him. She shook her head forcefully in an attempt to clear it. She did believe him, she told herself. She did.

There was no point hiding her surprise, but she could at least try to dial it down from outright shock to mild curiosity for Katie's benefit. "I wonder what she's doing here today," she posed once they were alone in the break room, but the second the words left her mouth, she knew her attempt at indifference was falling far short of the mark.

Thankfully, Katie was engrossed in locating creamer packets and barely seemed to notice. "That was Scofield's wife, wasn't it?"

Sara could barely swallow, let alone alter her tone to match Katie's air of breezy speculation. "Yeah."

"Well that makes sense, then. Ah, here we go. Irish Cream?"

Sara blinked. "Uh, sure. What makes sense?"

Katie finally paused to regard Sara, her coffee mug swinging precariously from one finger. Sara's eyes were instantly drawn to the white ceramic, watching it sway back and forth twice before Katie's next words caused them to snap instantly back to her face. "Next of kin is always called the day of a transfer," she said. "You know that."

If Sara had thought the mere sight of Nika had thrown her off balance, she now knew what it meant to be thoroughly disoriented. "The day of a transfer?"

"Well, yeah." Katie's eyes widened as she leaned forward, suddenly sparkling with the thrill of imparting breaking news. "You didn't know? Scofield's outta here." She raised her eyebrows. "Word is, Pope filled out the request himself."

"Pope?" What? "When?" Where?

Katie dumped the contents of her creamer packet into her coffee and reached across Sara for a stir-stick. "Yesterday morning, I guess. Probably got tired of seeing his architectural consult beat up all the time." She cast Sara a knowing look. "God knows I did. That boy is way too pretty to be a punching bag for the Italian mob."

Yesterday morning? "When is he leaving? Where's he going?" God, her stomach hurt. Was her face on fire? It felt burning hot.

Katie brought her coffee to her lips, then back down again. "I guess he's leaving right away." She took another sip, her eyes catching Sara's over the rim of her mug. "Listen, Sara. I know you have a soft spot for the guy." Sara opened her mouth to object, but Katie spoke right over her. "Before you give me your obligatory spiel about convicts and professionalism, let me just say, believe me, I understand. And why shouldn't you relate to some patients better than others? But when it comes down to it, even you have to admit it's probably for the best that he's going." She set down her mug to reach again for her purse. Sara's own mug sat unattended and forgotten on the counter, and Katie pulled it closer, tipping the carafe to fill it for her. "And anyway, he's going to East Moline," she continued conversationally. "Reduced violence, work study…hell, they've got down comforters for all I know."

East Moline. What did she know about East Moline? Sara nodded numbly, following Katie out of the break room.

"Oh, and hey. Reduced sentence, too, I hear. So cheer up…you may bump into him on the El before you know it." Katie raised both eyebrows with a laugh. "Can you imagine?"

Could she? Sara felt hot and cold both at once, and even though she was now gripping her mug, she couldn't feel the tips of her fingers. They re-crossed the conjugal waiting area where there was no sign of Nika-was she already inside? Was he?- and pushed through the far doors back to Visitation and then the staircase. Sara let Katie lead the way, punching in her ID at each juncture. Sara doubted she remembered hers.

He hadn't told her. He had sat a matter of inches from her for ten solid minutes yesterday, and he had let her talk of love-love!-without halting her. He hadn't even seemed upset, or, to be fair, had she simply been too elated, too fucking giddy, to notice? His ability to completely deceive her, to play her-intentionally or not, maliciously or not-absolutely terrified her. She felt like putty in his hands; it didn't even matter whether he was present. Even here, even now, he had the ability to completely shake her to the core. Her legs felt weak, her fingers still numb to the heat radiating from her mug, and never, not even under the influence of her most destructive high, had she felt so completely out of control. So completely torn apart and at a loss.

When she and Katie re-entered the infirmary, the morning orderly was already waiting in the hallway, poised to hand her the chart of her first patient. Three more inmates followed directly on his heels, and it was past ten before she had enough time to slip into her office and close the door. She hesitated only a second before picking up the phone and dialing Henry Pope's extension.

His receptionist gave Sara the information she needed. "I have it right here," she said, and Sara waited while Becky shuffled through some papers on her desk. "Michael Scofield…yes. He's scheduled for transport at 1 pm."

1 pm. Of course. Sara sat back in her chair, taking a moment to let the irony wash over her before thanking her and hanging up.

She checked the current time again on the wall-mounted clock. 10:24. He had almost three hours. She could call him in. She should, in all actuality. She usually did perform a final check-up on departing inmates, when time allowed. It served as a chance to answer any last minute questions and to make sure charts and files were up to date for the next facility. Suddenly, her heart sank in such a quick rush it left her reeling. His chart.

Immediately, Sara was on her feet, opening the door to call for Katie. "Has the D.O.C come by to pick up Michael's chart?" she asked paused in the doorway to Exam 2. "Yeah. About an hour ago."

Sara closed her eyes tightly shut, one hand coming to rest at the bridge of her nose. Shit. She had of course pulled the page with the scribbled I love you from the file, but had yet to figure out a way to explain the gap in sequence, not to mention the fact that the chart still listed Michael as a diabetic. As of this time tomorrow, he would be resuming his daily dose of insulin.

Once again, her hand reached for the phone. This time however, it remained poised just above the receiver while Sara deliberated. Again, she stood up and went to the door. At the threshold of Exam 2, she caught Katie's eye again. "When is my next appointment?"

Katie paused prepping a tray. "You have a lull…I don't think you have anything scheduled until 11."

Over a half of an hour. Enough time to call him in. Enough time to hear him explain his transfer and Nika's presence. Also? Enough time for him to talk his way right past her defenses. Enough time to spin this whole thing in some manner that stripped her of her anger. But, she thought, clenching her jaw tightly to keep the knot of frustration and hurt that was aggressively rising in her chest and her throat at bay, her anger was justified. She returned to her office almost blindly, but once there, she did not reach for the phone. Instead, when she crossed to the window, leaning out to stare at the parking lot and the stretch of road leading away from the prison, she found that her hands were shaking-no doubt a side-effect to her sudden, blinding indignation-as they gripped the windowsill. She stood there for some time, acutely aware of the minutes ticking by, making her decision for her, until the scene out her window seemed to distort and blur, and then she blinked, realizing she was crying. When her intercom buzzed and Katie's voice announced her 11 am appointment, she took a full minute to pull herself together, and even then, as she left her office, a single, self-pitying thought was echoing in her mind, threatening to send her back into tears. It would seem that even a convict who was locked in a fucking cell could manage to leave her.

After her 11 am, the appointments just kept on coming, one after the other, in wave after wave of a typical chaos that Sara should be accustomed to, but which instead left her feeling edgy and unnerved even at the best of times. Today, of course, was even worse, as the thought of Michael preparing to leave continually pushed its way to the forefront of her mind, the image of him almost literally swimming at the periphery of her vision as she mended wounds and called in medications.

The next time she had a chance to glance at the clock, it read 12:30, and her waiting area was still full of patients. She stood in the hallway, looking from the slew of inmates stretched out in folding chairs to the clock and back again, suddenly feeling horribly trapped. Horribly behind. What had she done? She had had time to see Michael, and she had thrown it away. Every reason she had for keeping her distance today was still perfectly valid-he had lied to her, he had entered the conjugal room with Nika (yes, she had checked)-but now, standing in a surreal isolation amid the bustle of her infirmary, Sara realized none of that mattered. She was in this with him all the way, and she owed him more than cowardice. She owed him the benefit of the doubt. Because if she really trusted him so little, what the hell was she doing?

She looked almost frantically down at the stack of charts in her arms, thumbing through the manila folders while rapidly trying to deduce which ones could wait. Which patients she could put off…just for a while…just for a half of an hour…so she could make room in her schedule for Michael. She turned toward her phone in her office, but then Katie was calling to her, the sound of frantic voices and quickened steps echoing down the corridor toward her. An inmate from Psych was being dragged in with a shank wound, and before she could do anything more-before she could think-she was drawn into Exam 3 to extract a shard of glass from the man's kicking, flailing thigh.

Michael was kept in the Pope's office all morning-evidently the warden intended him to finish their little project before jetting off to East Moline-and it was after noon before he was led back to his cell to gather his belongings. Sucre was there, only making matters worse with his questions and his despair over Michael leaving, and by the time he had talked him down, reassuring him that he, Sucre, would be out-and in Maricruz's arms-in no time at all, it was 12:40. Surely, Sara now knew. She had heard-God, how? When?-that he was leaving, and his need to explain…his need to see her face, to tell her this turn of events would compute to one year of separation instead of four, that it would mean freedom and a fresh start and his chance with her much sooner than either of them had hoped was pounding through his veins with an urgency that had him nearly jumping out of his skin with impatience.

Why hadn't she called for him? He had listened for the buzz of the intercom in Pope's office all morning, to be honest, but now, he couldn't wait any longer. Out of more reasonable options, he stood at the bars of his cell and yelled until a C.O. got annoyed enough to come investigate.

"Jesus, Scofield. Shut the fuck up."

He didn't waste time mincing words. "Am I going to get my infirmary appointment today?"

"I dunno. I doubt it. You're outta here in 15 minutes."

"I need my insulin shot!" He took a breath, trying to sound sane and reasonable instead of like the desperate lunatic that lurked in his head. "Before I go. I have to get my insulin."

The C.O. shrugged. "Ok, ok. Hold up." He sauntered over to the guard station several yards down the line and picked up the phone. Michael watched him dial. "Yeah, get me Dr. Tancredi." He waited, and Michael waited, watching him pick up a pencil and spin it idly across the desktop. After a moment, he straightened. "Uh yeah, Officer Bennett here. I've got Michael Scofield, saying he needs his appointment today before transfer?"

Another pause. Michael forced a tight breath out of his nose. "Alright. Yep." The C.O. hung up, and Michael tightened his grip on the bars as he returned as slowly as he had left.

He shrugged again. "Her schedule's full today."

The air left Michael's lungs in a violent rush, and he nearly staggered backward. Sara. Don't do this. "But," he finally managed, "I need my insulin. I can't leave without my insulin!"

The C.O. had already dismissed him. He was several yards away, making his way back no doubt to his coffee and his gossip with the other guards, but Michael kept yelling anyway. He yelled for his appointment until the representatives of the D.O.C. came to lead him away.

Sara had heard the buzz of her intercom, but with her hands both undeniably occupied dressing the now-cleaned shank wound, Katie had crossed the room to pick up the call. Listening to the short exchange while ripping tape from a roll, she caught Katie's eye as she hung up. "Who was that?"

Katie was already rushing to the next room. "C.O. in A-Wing. Scofield wanted his shot." She must have misinterpreted Sara's despairing expression for apprehension, because she was quick to reassure. "Don't worry. I told him we were buried here."

Sara gripped the edge of the exam table, barely registering the man before her shifting uncomfortably. He moaned, but she stared only straight ahead. "Oh," she managed, nodding numbly to Katie. "Right. Ok."

She finished dressing the wound before her with shaking hands, then exited the room as quickly as she could, nearly forgetting to strip off her gloves at the door. In her office, her clock was reading 12:54. Too late. Definitely too late. She bit her bottom lip fiercely, determined not to break back out in tears.

She was also determined not to see him go. She took her lunch in place of Michael's blocked out 1 pm appointment, and while she didn't go far, she was at least a mile away, sitting in her car in the parking lot of a run-down coffee shop at the moment she knew Michael was stepping into a van and being driven from Fox River.

By the time she returned to her office for an afternoon of appointments, her head ached from crying and her stomach hurt from reliving over and over her decision to deny Michael his chance to say goodbye. Regret slid through her gut, but even so, she couldn't help but wonder, even had she seen him today, whether she would have been mentally or emotionally prepared to hear whatever he wanted to say. She wondered whether her longing for him would have colored her thoughts, whether her love for him would have rendered her far, far too weak to allow herself to objectively assess the situation. She felt almost physically tender to the touch, her defenses stripped to the bone, and the thought of him looking at her right now, of his touch on her skin, nearly made her ill…simply because she wanted it so, so badly. She had learned-the hard way-that when she craved something that violently, it was best to avoid it.

By four pm, she was beyond ready to call it a day. She found Katie in the sick bay and told her just that, her heart sinking when Katie made an apologetic face. "You have one more," she said. She handed her a chart. "I'm sorry, but I thought with his brother leaving today and all…"

Sara flipped it open. Lincoln Burrows. Oh, God. "Uh, yeah." She swallowed, drawing one hand upward to toy nervously with the pendent of her necklace. "Where is he?"

"Exam 3."

She went straight there. At this point, she just needed to get this day over with. When she entered the room, however, it was with a deep sense of foreboding. "Lincoln," she acknowledged guardedly. She forced herself to look him in the eye.

He looked at her almost quizzically before shifting his own gaze toward the wall behind her. "Hey doc."

She didn't sit down, nor did she pull on a pair of gloves. She highly doubted Lincoln was in need of an examination. Instead, she waited, but for almost five seconds that felt like five hundred, he said nothing. "Tough day for you, I imagine," she finally ventured, each word lodging painfully in her throat before being spoken, and eventually, his eyes returned to hers.

"Yeah."

She studied his face, but if he knew how hard this day had been for her as well, he didn't reveal it. She waited again, watching as he shifted on his seat. "I, uh, nothing's wrong," he said, vaguely sweeping one hand over the length of his torso, and Sara nodded silently. She waited again. The silence in the exam room lengthened to ten seconds, and then twenty. Finally, Lincoln spoke again in a rush. "I promised I'd ask you for something."

She mentally braced herself. "What is it?"

"Uh, well, I'm reasonably sure this is going to put me directly into the SHU, but…" he took a breath, and once again locked his eyes directly on hers. When he spoke, he sounded awkwardly apologetic. "Your cell phone number?"

The request hit her like a slap. She felt her face close into a hard mask, and she turned away abruptly, reaching out to grip the countertop for momentary support. How could he send his brother in to ask that? And oh God, how could he not? Standing at the counter, feeling as though her legs would give way beneath her, she recognized that it was this paradox that tortured her the most. The fact was, she couldn't decide whether she was furious or relieved by Lincoln's request. She wanted Michael to have her number, and yet, she didn't. The conflict tearing through her mind was excruciating.

Her reluctance to reveal even the slightest glimpse of her impropriety with Michael fought against the stab of sympathy his request drew effortlessly from her. She loved him. God help her, she loved him, and he needed to contact her, and oh, why hadn't she allow him to see her this morning? Suddenly her dozens of carefully constructed reasons made no sense whatsoever.

"I'm sorry," Lincoln was saying. "Forget it. I'm sorry."

She turned back, shaking her head to stop him. "Um. No, just…one minute." He blinked, his eyebrows raising ever so slightly in surprise.

She grabbed her prescription pad and wrote down the number; when she tore the paper from the pad, it sounded near-deafening to her in the quiet room. She looked at Lincoln again before handing it to him. She didn't know how much he knew, but as he returned her gaze, his eyes were soft, his expression closer to sympathetic than judgmental. "I trust," she said softly, "that this will get into the right hands, and none other."

Lincoln nodded, taking the paper almost penitently from her hand and slipping it into his pocket. He rose, and she didn't stop him as he crossed the room to the door. At the threshold, he paused. "He never belonged here," he said.

"No," she agreed softly, and then he was gone.

*****

Month Four

Day 1

East Moline Correctional Center was absolutely nothing like Fox River. Everything from the guards to the visitation hours were dramatically more relaxed; Michael was assigned to a bunkhouse instead of a cell, given a work detail in the prison library instead of the manual labor of P.I., and yet, after just over 24-hours, he ached for maximum security, if only because the knowledge of Sara's anger of the day before sat so heavily on his chest he feared it would smother him. He needed her. He needed that contact…those ten precious minutes in which he could relate to her, comfort her, draw strength from her, and know her. He needed to speak to her.

He had to wait until five pm, when his evening free time allowed him the freedom of phone privileges, and then he made two in rapid succession. The first was to Veronica. He answered her questions, listened to what new information she had about his sentence, and then cut her off as gently as he could. "Did Linc give you a phone number for me, Vee?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Veronica sighed. "Yes," she returned, "but Michael? Is this a good idea?"

He couldn't discuss this with her. He couldn't begin to explain any of it without incriminating-oh, the irony!-Sara as well. He sighed apologetically. "The number, please Vee?"

She hesitated a moment longer, but if she intended to say more, she thought better of it. "Do you have a pen?"

*****

6:20 pm

She had kept the phone with her all damn day…waiting…anticipating…and even so, when it rang, she literally jumped. She had just stepped in the door from work, and now, she sank down onto the couch, cradling the phone in her palm, her heart pounding as she flipped it open. As she had predicted, the words 'Inmate: East Moline Correctional Center' were scrolling across her screen. She took a breath, and then with one shaky finger, she accepted the call. "Michael."

"Sara." He sounded breathless. He sounded tired and wary and desperate. The sound of it tore her heart into a million shreds even while it caused her breath to tighten painfully in her lungs and tears to spring instantly to her eyes. "Please don't hang up on me."