Finch hurried down the quiet back street. He was very aware of his limp, of how it slowed him. Made him vulnerable. He felt like prey.

He was not, he told himself firmly, afraid of Mr. Reese. His partner had not meant to hit him, to hurt him. He was drugged and not responsible for his actions. John in his right mind would never …

Which of course begged the question, was John in his right mind now?

But Harold cradled the bananas and limped toward the car anyhow.

Christine was apparently alone, leaning against the corner of a building just across from the car. "What's happened?" Finch called, worried. "Where's Mr. Reese?"

She nodded over her shoulder. When Finch grew closer, he could hear the distinct sound of a man urinating onto pavement.

"Oh."

Christine shrugged. "You look awful."

Finch touched his cheek in reflect. It was very swollen, very sore. Lifting his arm, though, caused a worse pain in his neck. "You can talk." The woman was filthy, and there were deep circles under her eyes. Still, she seemed calm and almost cheerful.

The urination went on for a very long time. Just as Finch was beginning to worry, it stopped, then started up again.

"I'm bored," Reese announced calmly. But he kept right on pissing.

"How much did you make him drink?" Finch asked.

"Everything I could lay my hands on. Flush the system, protect the kidneys."

Reese finally finished, apparently. After a long moment he came to the corner.

Finch was aware that he was holding his breath in anxious anticipation. But his partner, though also filthy, looked better than either of them. He smiled happily at Finch. "Harold!" The smile faded into concern. "What happened to your face?"

"I walked into a door," Finch answered. "I brought you bananas."

"I don't like bananas."

Christine reached over and took one from the bunch. "I don't care what you don't like," she said firmly, herding him toward the car. "You need the potassium. You're starting to twitch already."

Harold wasn't actually surprised, with the amount of fluid that had evidently been run through John's system, that his electrolyte balance was off. He limped back toward the car ahead of them.

"You run your neck into a door, too?" Reese asked gently.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," Finch promised. "For now, be assured that there's no permanent damage."

Christine held a piece of the banana in front of Reese as he walked. Reluctantly, but playfully, he took it out of her fingers with his teeth and chewed it.

At the car, John opened the car door and held it for Christine. "I'll find him," he said softly over the roof, to Harold. "Whoever hit you. I'll find him. He won't do it again."

Finch swallowed hard. John didn't remember. Harold let himself hope he never would. "Thank you, John. Let's get you cleaned up."

The former operative got in the car.

Root watched the tail lights of the town car disappear. She had no doubt – no doubt – that Harold was driving it.

"Son of a bitch!" she shouted at the empty street. "Son of a bitch!" She slapped her hand against the brick wall. Then she did it again. The third time, her palm came away flecked with blood. "Son of a bitch!"

She spun and glared at the nearest surveillance camera. "You think you're so cute, don't you? You think you can protect him? You can't. I'll get him. I will. And when I do, I'll make him tell me how I get to you." She stopped, took a deep breath, and then smiled very sweetly. Her tone changed entirely. "We're going to be together," she explained patiently, calmly. "You and I were meant for each other. I'll find a way. Don't you worry. We'll be together. Very soon."

She gave the camera another loving smile before she walked away.

Nick Malone – formerly Nicholas Donnelly – leaned closer to the screen and watched the encounter again. "Who the hell is that nutjob?" he murmured.

He didn't really expect Asena to answer, but she did, so quickly that he knew she'd had the response pre-loaded. An all-points bulletin came up. One that Donnelly himself, in his former life, had issued.

Caroline Turing.

The woman that the Man in the Suit had abducted. The one who'd almost gotten him caught. The one who had vanished.

He sat back and rubbed his eyes. "Okay. Tell me about Caroline Turing."

The Machine did not answer.

"Mama?"

Carter jumped, suddenly awake. The papers slithered off her chest to the floor. "Yes, Baby?"

"You stopped reading," he accused sleepily.

"You fell asleep. I didn't want you to miss anything."

"Oh." He went quiet for a minute. Then, "Mama?"

"Yes?"

"Am I going to remember this tomorrow?"

Joss considered. "I hope not, Baby. I hope all you remember was that you felt bad, and I brought you home and took care of you, and you were safe and warm and loved. Okay?"

The boy shifted in the bed. His long legs kicked off the covers. "Okay."

He closed his eyes and fell back asleep.

Carter held him for a long moment. Then she reached down and covered his feet again. She kissed him on the forehead – blessedly cool now – and slipped into the hallway to call her partner.

"You know what I'd really like?" John said suddenly.

"What's that?" Christine answered.

"A reuben."

"Oh,"

"Hot. With provolone instead of Swiss. On toasted marble rye. No seeds. That sounds really good."

Finch glanced in the rearview mirror at his passengers. Christine shook her head to him. No reuben at this time. "We'll get you one tomorrow," she promised John.

"Can't we get one now?"

"Everything's closed," Finch answered. "At least, all the places with really quality sandwiches."

Reese slumped back, disappointed. "But I really want one."

He sounded remarkably like a petulant, hungry child.

"Tomorrow," Christine promised again.

"Oh, fine."

Reese was dozing by the time Finch parked the car behind the new building. Christine herded him gently inside, the way one would a sleepy child who's just a little too big to carry. John was calm, compliant.

Finch went ahead of them as quickly as he could, with all their gear and cast-off clothes and the bananas. He shut Bear in Christine's front office before Reese came in. While the dog was exquisitely well-trained, there was every chance that John would consider him a threat.

Christine didn't hesitate when she got inside, but shepherded John directly to the hidden bathroom. "Can you get him some sweats and a t-shirt?" she asked Finch over her shoulder.

"Of course. But I can …"

"I got this." She pushed the door mostly closed. Beyond, Finch could hear her gently persuading Mr. Reese to take off his clothes.

It was – unseemly. Unchivalrous, to let Christine see his friend naked, to ask her to … but John trusted her. He was obviously still under the influence, to some extent; he might turn on Finch. Or he might become frightened or combative and hurt himself, slip in the shower …

Ashamed of his fears, of his inability to help, Finch hurried to get the clothes she'd requested.

Then he waited.

The shower started. After a few minutes, Christine opened the door a little and took the pile of clothes he offered. She had stripped herself down to her tank top and panties, and she was wet enough to have climbed partially into the shower with Reese. Harold quickly averted his gaze. "I'll get your pajamas," he said.

"Thanks," she answered simply. "On the back of my door."

When he returned, the door was mostly closed again. He reached past it to put the dry clothes on the bathroom counter. The movement was agonizing. "Can I help in some way?"

Reese laughed happily – like a child.

"We're okay," Christine returned. It sounded like her voice came from within the shower itself.

"I'll … stay here then. Just in case."

"Okay."

Reese laughed again.

"I'm glad your boy's better," Fusco said, "but Jesus, Carter, could I use you right now."

"What's going on?" she asked.

The detective turned and paced a little ways from the gathered crowd. "Slumber party. Five girls, twelve, thirteen years old."

"All of them high?"

"As the Empire State Building," Fusco confirmed. He glanced over his shoulder. Four of the girls were in zipties, under the watch of a single uniform. The fifth one ... "Apparently they got to playing Truth or Dare."

"And one ended up dead?" Carter guessed sadly.

"Not yet she didn't." Fuzco turned the rest of the way. The fifth girl was standing on the narrow railing that separated the roof from a six-story drop. "She's on the roof, trying to walk the rail." Her parents were standing close by, begging her to come down. So were two more uniforms.

"You call the fire department?"

"Yeah," Fusco answered. "They'll be here in an hour." There had been more than thirty fires in the city so far, most set by people who were baked on Perk, a few by people trying to take advantage of the chaos.

They'd called in Fusco because when she did go over, it would be another Perk homicide. And because the dispatchers were assholes.

He could hear Carter breathing. He knew she was trying to come up with solutions for him. "Look, I don't want you to beat yourself up over this. You're where you need to be, with your boy. It's just one of those situations where up here asking myself, what would Joss Carter do? You know?"

"I know. I'd … well, try to talk to her, but we know that won't do much good."

"Nah. One minute she's crying about a boy she had a crush on three years ago, and the next she's laughing about something she saw on Sponge Bob. I swear, Joss, there's no getting through to her. I don't know what to do." The kid was going to go over the edge, Fusco thought, and splat on the street right in front of her parents, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He didn't say that to Carter. "I just keep thinking, what if she was my kid?"

Carter took a sharp breath. "What if she was your kid, Fusco?"

"What?"

"What would you do? If she was your kid, Lionel, what would you do?"

"I guess I'd …" Fusco stopped. "Hang on a minute."

He didn't let himself think about whether it was the right thing. It had to be. There was no other option. He dropped his phone into his pocket and marched over to the railing past the frantic parents and the startled uniforms. The girl looked at him, wide-eyed and giggly. He didn't pause, didn't speak, until he'd grabbed her by the waist and pulled her down from the railing. "We're not falling off the roof tonight," he said sternly. "You got that?"

He set her on her feet on the rooftop. Her parents hurried over, wrapped her up in their arms.

Fusco backed away.

"Well?" Carter asked from his breast pocket.

Lionel got is phone back out. "Yeah. That was the right answer."

She let out a long relieved sigh. "Think about how much paperwork you just saved yourself."

"Myself?" he snorted. "Think about how much paperwork I just saved you."

When the bathroom door opened, Reese was clean and dry and wearing fresh clothes. Christine was damp and dirty and still half-naked.

She guided him to the chair in front of Finch's computer and sat him down. "You stay there," she commanded. "You," she told Finch, "watch him. Give me two minutes."

She went back into the bathroom, but left the door ajar.

Finch regarded his partner warily. "Mr. Reese."

"Mr. Finch." A playful smile pulled around the edges of Reese's mouth. "Who hit you?"

"We've already covered that," Finch huffed.

"Could we make popcorn?"

"What?"

"When you were all high on E that time, you made popcorn. Can we make popcorn?"

"She made Jiffy-Pop in the microwave in an attempt to burn…" Finch stopped himself. There was no point in arguing with John in his current condition. "Yes. When Christine's done showering, I'll ask if she has any popcorn."

"Thanks, Harold."

"Are you hungry?"

John gave this question a lot of thought. "I don't know. I'd like a reuben."

"Tomorrow," Finch promised again.

"With provolone instead of Swiss."

"So you said."

"I did?"

"Yes. In the car."

"Oh." Reese considered this answer for a long time, too. Then he cocked his head. "When were we in the car?"

Finch blinked. "A little bit ago. You may have been sleeping."

"Oh." Reese ran his tongue over his teeth. "Why does my mouth taste like bananas?"

"Christine …"

"I don't like bananas."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I don't like cotton candy, either."

"Really. I did not know that about you, Mr. Reese."

"I like the taste. But I don't like the texture. I like those little maple sugar candies, though. They taste almost the same, sorta, but they're solid. You can bit them."

Finch's phone chirped. He ignored it. It would be Donnelly, with another outlier for him to track down. He couldn't take that on yet.

The shower shut off. Finch took a deep breath of relief. He reached past Reese – it hurt to reach; he tried to hide that – and turned his computer on.

Reese glanced over his shoulder. "Are you working?" He sounded deeply disappointed. "I thought we were going to make popcorn. You got to make popcorn when you were high. I want to make popcorn."

"I'm too hot," Reese complained as soon as Christine tucked him into her bed.

"Okay." She stripped off the comforter, leaving him covered only with the sheet.

"My legs are hot."

She obligingly helped him take off his sweat pants. Finch was glad he'd added boxer briefs to the pile of clean clothes.

"Can't I take my shirt off?" he whined.

"No," Finch said firmly. It had finally occurred to him that perhaps the best way to deal with Mr. Reese when he was acting like a child was to treat him as such. "Now go to sleep."

"Fine!" Reese huffed. He rolled over on his side to face the wall. "But I'm still too hot."

Christine patted his shoulder. Then she moved into the hallway with Finch. "He's through the worst of it," she promised. "We'll be okay."

"I believe you said that several hours ago."

"Yeah, but now I actually believe it." She reached out to touch his bruised jaw. "Speaking of still too hot. I'll get you an ice pack."

He wanted to refuse on principle, but he resisted. "I'll get it. Can I bring you anything?"

She shook her head. "It's your neck, too, isn't it? You bring any pain meds?"

"I'm alright."

"You're not."

"I can't risk any narcotics. I have to get back to work."

"You're trying to find out who drugged John?"

"No, I'm …" He hesitated, then pulled the door mostly shut and led Christine a few feet down the hall. Reese was probably not sleeping, and in his current condition it was hard to predict how he'd interpret what he might hear. "The whole city's been drugged."

He explained, briefly, about the Perk and the mayhem it had created. He outlined the steps the authorities had taken to prevent more people from being effected. He left out the part about Donnelly's involvement. She still thought the F.B.I. agent was dead, and this was assuredly not the time to discuss that.

There would very likely never be a time for that, Finch reflected absently. Given the choice, Donnelly had elected to let her continue to believe he was dead.

"The Machine is giving them the names it can trace," he told her. "I'm getting the numbers of the outliers – people who don't have permanent addresses, things like that."

Christine nodded. "You can use my computer, if you're rather."

"I'm faster on my own system."

"As you wish. I'll make you some tea. And get my acupuncture needles. That may help some."

"That won't be necessary," Finch snapped in alarm. More gently, he added, "I don't like needles."

"You can't move your head. And you're clearly in pain."

"I'll be fine. Just …"

Behind the door, Reese said clearly, "I'm freezing my ass off in here!"

Christine sighed and went in to cover him up again.

Finch took Bear out for a quick walk – more pain, but it needed to be done – then put him back in the front office and returned to his secluded computer space to resume his work.

Taylor began to cry.

Joss hurried to his side. "What's wrong, Baby?"

The boy was still asleep. Sobbing, but asleep.

Carter went to the bathroom and wet a washcloth. Then she returned to the boy's side. "Taylor, Baby, wake up. Come on, wake up."

She stroked his cheeks with the cool cloth. His sobbing slowed and he opened his eyes. For the first time since she'd picked him up at the school, his gaze was completely alert. "Mom?"

"I'm right here, Baby."

"I had an awful dream, Mom."

"You've been sick. But you're okay now." She wiped his face more firmly now that he was awake. "Better?"

"There was a petting zoo."

"In your dream?"

"Yeah. And there were clowns. They were chasing the car."

"Just a dream," Joss assured him. "Just a bad dream. Try to go back to sleep now."

He nodded. "Will you sit with me a minute?"

"I'll sit with you all night, Baby."

"No, just for a minute. I'm not a little kid."

"Of course not, Baby. Taylor," she corrected herself quickly.

She smiled softly as the boy fell back asleep.

Fusco paused outside the warehouse. "Tally Distributing," he said to himself. He'd seen their trucks all over the city, frequently in their way. "What do they distribute?"

Little placards to each side of their main sign indicated that they distributed Anheuser-Busch and Coca-Cola products.

He shrugged and went inside.

Right there in front of the main door were three pallets of boxes garishly marked as Perk.

"Shit," Fusco muttered. He nodded to the uniform who'd apparently been tasked to guard the stash. "Is that all drugged?"

"No idea. They're sending a truck to get it."

"Good. Where's my body?"

"Bodies." He gestured toward the metal stairs up to the office. "Fed are already up there."

"Oh, joy."

He trudged up the stairs, flashed his badge at the goon at the door. Special Agent Moss waved him in. "Detective Fusco."

"Moss. What are you doing here?"

"They're the distributors. We wanted to see who had access to the product."

"And?"

"And they're not being very helpful."

Moss gestured. In the inner office there were two men, one in a suit, one with his jacket off but his tie still on, and a woman, in a dumpy brown dress. All three of them were dead. The jacketless man had taken one in the pump. The others had each been shot in the back of the head, execution-style.

"Huh," Fusco said. "Actual homicides."

The F.B.I. agent nodded grimly. "All the records are gone. Computer's trashed."

Fusco looked around the office. It had clearly been ransacked. "Who manufactures this Perk crap?"

"Zuse Bottling," Moss answered grimly. "Z-u-s-e."

"What, they can't even spell Zeus?"

The agent shrugged. "They don't exist."

"What?"

"Blue Ridge Bottling got the product in bulk and packaged it for them," Moss explained. "Tally picked it up and distributed it. Both are known, established companies. But the originating company, this Zuse? No such company. No plant, no patents, no bank accounts, nothing."

"How is that even possible?" Fusco asked. But he already had an idea, and he didn't like it. "Didn't they check? These guys, the bottlers? Somebody?"

"We haven't been able to reach anyone at Blue Ridge. We sent agents out." He gestured. "But I've got a notion they're going to find something a lot like this."

"Yeah," Fusco agreed grimly. "I've got a notion you're right."

Reese sat bolt upright in the bed. "Christine!"

"I'm right here." She moved from the chair by the window to sit beside him on the bed.

"Where … we're at your place."

"Yes."

"We were somewhere else."

"Yes." She took his hand lightly. "You were drugged."

He reached up and touched the back of his neck. "Someone hit me with a taser."

"Yes." She picked up a glass of milk and held it for him to drink.

He drank. All of it. He was wildly thirsty. "Milk," he said when he was done. "For the calcium."

"Yep."

"That bad?"

"Pretty damn bad."

He took three deep breaths. "I don't feel right."

"There's still some drugs in your system."

John looked at the woman. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her skin was pale and dry-looking. She was exhausted. But calm.

Look at me. He remembered her saying that. Remembered that it had been terribly important. But he couldn't remember why. Only that as long as she was calm, he was okay. That she would judge the reality when he could not. "I'm gonna go under again, aren't I?"

"Probably a few more times," she agreed.

He closed his fingers around her. "Please don't let me go under." He remembered being happy. He remembered crying. "Please."

Christine leaned and kissed his forehead. "Listen to me. Being this high is like being on a rollercoaster. The first hill is the biggest. It has to be. Pure physics. After that it's mostly momentum. Smaller hills, some twists and turns, but nothing anywhere close to that first hill. Okay?"

Panic rose in his chest. "I want to get off this ride," he said.

"You're most of the way through. Just a few little bump hills left to go. Almost done."

Her voice calmed him. A little. "Don't want to go back under."

"You're okay. I'm right here with you. Try to rest."

Reluctantly, and because his head was swimming again, Reese lay back down. Then he remembered. "Where's Harold?" he asked, starting to sit up again.

"He's here." She pushed him back down, gently. "Across the hall in his computer nook. Working."

"Working on what?"

"We'll talk about that tomorrow. But he's not going out anywhere. He's right here. Safe."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

The dark was creeping up again. "Christine."

"I'm right here."

"Thank you."