Rifiuto: Non Miriena

A/N: The death of Omayra Sanchez was one of the cases we had to study when I was taking medical classes at college- we had to take the facts that we knew about the disaster, the various injuries one could receive from such a disaster as a volcano eruption and mudslide, and using those facts and the footage, determine what happened to her/what organ damage she'd suffered/what diseases would set in from her extended stay in the muddy water/exactly from what she would die of/and what was possibly causing the bloating and whiteness of her skin and the blackness of her eyes.

I remember watching the video footage taken of Omayra, and honestly, there's only one thing I really truly remember about that day in class- that the video made me absolutely sick to my stomach- because, even if you didn't know the facts, you knew that she was going to die.- LIcia

Thanks to Reader aka Sun Samuri for reviewing 8 and 9.

Cambridge,

Massachusetts,

1997

"Hey Penny."

Penelope Langston looked up as her grandson slipped into the kitchen of the brownstone. "Timothy, sweetheart, I didn't hear you come in!" He accepted the hug as his grandmother rushed to him; with his classes taking precedence- especially since he'd been doing double the work and taking online lectures at John Hopkins in Baltimore- there hadn't been much time for him to stop by and visit. But since he was graduating that winter from MIT- a year early- he'd have a little more time; not enough to go back to Israel to visit his family, where Sarah was finishing up school and going to attend university, but time enough to catch his breath before he moved to Baltimore to get his degree in bio-medical engineering.

Penny was John McGee's mother- her first husband, Samuel, John's father, had been a photographer and journalist for National Geographic- he'd been in Columbia when the Armero earthquake hit back in eighty-five, killing twenty-two thousand. He had been the one to film the now-famous video footage of Omayra Sánchez, the thirteen-year-old girl who'd gotten pinned under the debris of her home, and later died after fifty-five hours in the water.

The photograph, taken by French reporter Frank Fournier, a good friend of Samuel and Penny's, showed the child with white hands, a bloated face and black eyes due to internal bleeding; the image sickened those around the world, and the footage Samuel had captured of the child, of her soft voice and silent courage, later drove him to suicide. Though Penny insisted he'd been suffering from depression for years, she knew better; the footage he'd taken of the child, and the guilt over not being able to help her, had driven him to the deserts of Colombia with a handgun and a written apology to her for not having the strength to get past the haunting images captured on his video camera.

In nineteen-eighty-nine, Penny had met and- in a whirlwind romance- married Jason Langston, a professor at Harvard. The two doted on each other, traveling around the world and doing things most grandparents wouldn't even dream of- such as bungee jumping. And when Tim had moved to Cambridge in ninety-six to go to school, they'd delighted in having him over for dinner every couple weekends or so. Tim barely remembered Samuel; to him, Jason had always been his grandfather, not that either Jason or Penny responded to such "old-fashioned terms."

"Come sit, sweetheart! We'll have green tea." She pushed him towards the kitchen table, quickly pouring two cups of tea and setting one in front of him before sitting down. "What brings you here, love? Is school okay?"

"School's fine, Penny."

"And have you talked to your sister? Or your parents?"

"They're doing fine." He replied, sipping his tea.

"And the David sisters, have you talked to them?" Tim shrugged; he hadn't had much chance to talk to Ziva with school- though he did manage to e-mail her almost every day, an actual physical phone call was out of the question with his crazy class schedule.

"They're doing good." Penny nodded, gaze moving down to his hands as he cradled the mug against his palms for warmth. Clucking her tongue, she reached out, taking his right hand and pulling it close. She studied it for several minutes, her eyes going over the simple gold band with the small pearl in the center.

"That's a very beautiful ring, Timothy, sweetheart. Where did you get it?"

He pulled his hand away, curling his fingers to be able to study the ring, and furrowed a brow. It was a very beautiful ring... fairly ordinary in its simplicity, but the pearl made it... unique. Kind of like...

"I don't... remember." He whispered. "I've always worn it, for as long as I can remember. Must have... been playing a game with Sarah when we were kids and... used Mom's jewelry..." Penny raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing it.

"Really? You and Sarah were playing with Kathleen's jewelry and she didn't ball either of you out for it?" Tim shrugged.

"Penny, it was... twelve years ago... we probably did get in trouble, but I don't remember it." He glanced at the ring, as his grandmother's voice broke through his thoughts.

"Timothy."

He met her gaze. "What is it now, Penny?"

"You are aware that you're wearing that ring on your right hand."

"So?"

"James wears his ring on the same hand- has since the day we got married." Her grandson raised an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry... what did you say, Penny?" But before she could say a word, footsteps interrupted her; James entered, on his lunch break, not at all surprised to see his step-grandson having a cup of tea with his wife.

"Hey, Tim, when did you get here?" The younger man looked up; he liked Jason- with his bright blue eyes and ash blonde hair, Jason was a storied intellectual with a thirst for knowledge.

"Half an hour ago." Jason nodded; quickly going through the mail, before stopping. He held a slim envelope out to the younger man. Tim glanced at him, before taking it. "What's this?" He glanced at the envelope, noticing the return address, and his stomach dropped.

Tel Aviv, Israel