Stable, Harold reminded himself, did not mean the same thing as good in hospital terms. It meant that they'd stopped her from circling the drain. That she was holding her own, for the moment.

She was definitely not good.

He stood in the doorway for a long time. Christine looked very small, surrounded by all the monitors and equipment. Her face was mostly lost behind the oxygen mask, and despite its hiss she was struggling for breath. Her skin was a peculiar color, white with a hint of blue. Grace would have had a name for that exact shade …

Harold approached the bed with deep loathing. Christine's eyes were closed. She's dying, Harold thought, and despair sliced through him. A few hours ago she'd been laughing in delight at a bright whirligig, and now she was …

"Uncle Harold," Will said quietly. A warm hand landed on his shoulder, squeezed gently. "Try to breathe normally."

Harold glanced at the young man. Will was right; his own breathing had grown short and choppy, synchronized with hers. He made himself inhale deeply. It helped clear the fog.

She was not dying. She was wounded, badly, but she was not dying. She was not going to die.

Because Maddy Enright was going to save her life. Because he and John had saved Maddy's wife's life, and although they had never expected anything in return …

… save the cheerleader, save the world, Christine had told him once, and he'd had to Google it to get the reference …

He took another deep breath. A lifetime ago, in the back seat of a car, she had been nearly this sick and he had touched her hair and it had given her a tiny measure of comfort. He reached out and rested his hand very lightly on her head.

Christine's eyes fluttered open.

Her skin was dead white, her lungs weren't working properly, but her bright blue eyes were as intelligent as ever. Injured as she was, she was still there. "Sorry," she whispered.

"There's nothing to be sorry for."

" … bit Will."

Harold glanced over his shoulder again. He'd assumed all the blood on the young man was hers, not his own. She'd bitten him? If the situation were less serious, he might have found that funny.

"It's okay," Will told her. "It'll leave a cool scar. I think I'm going to claim it's from fighting pirates. Or maybe my mother-in-law."

She started to laugh, which brought on a cough and an alarming jumble of readings on the monitor.

"Stop, stop," Harold said, as if that was necessary.

Christine quieted. " … lot of trouble."

"You are that," he allowed. He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. "But you're going to be fine." He nodded. "And so is Will. With his pirate scar."

This time she smiled instead of laughing. It went much better.

A nurse bustled in, a stout, no-nonsense woman of middle years, and brushed the men back. "Good news," she said, "you're not pregnant." She set to work detaching some equipment, moving other things onto the bed itself.

"'kay," Christine answered mildly.

"We're taking you down to radiology." The nurse glanced at the men again. "We'll let you know when she comes back up."

Summarily dismissed, Harold moved into the corridor with his nephew. "She bit you?" he asked.

Will touched his shoulder and hissed. "I stabbed her."

"You should get that looked at."

"Yeah, probably."

He didn't move. Harold nodded to himself. Christine's care was out of his hands, for the moment. But he could definitely tend to Will. He took his arm firmly and led him to the front desk.

The smaller door at the loading dock was locked. It barely slowed Reese down.

Scrubs were easy to find. He'd brought in his own running shoes from the trunk of his car. He changed quickly, put his own clothes in a patient belonging bag, and hid them behind a laundry bin. The only other thing he needed was an employee ID badge. He couldn't open any of the hospital security doors without one.

It took him almost two minutes to steal one. He was a bit disappointed in is performance.

He went to the Emergency Department and grabbed a laptop out of an empty treatment bay. Then he walked with his head down, his eyes on the screen, his free hand on the keyboard.

As expected, he moved through the secure hospital like he was invisible.

Tracking Christine down took a little longer, but not much. He simply asked a nurse where she was, absently, as if he were filling in forms. She gestured down the hall. "Still in Radiology."

"Thanks."

The route was clearly marked at each hallway intersection. He took the elevator down two floors, turned three corners, and there she was, in the corridor, momentarily unattended.

They had her sitting almost straight upright in the hospital bed, hooked to a dozen monitors and an IV and oxygen, all of which were attached to the rails. Her skin was dead white. Her eyes were closed. Despite the oxygen, she was breathing in short, shallow gasps.

She looked like hell.

Reese said, "Hey," very quietly, and touched her arm.

Christine's eyes fluttered open. "Not a word," she said murmured.

"Not a word about what?" he asked innocently.

"Anything."

A technician came into the hall. "Good, you're here. We're done, she can go back up to ER. Bay fifteen."

"You got it," Reese said. He moved to unlock the wheels of the bed. The tech, satisfied, went back into the other room.

John moved back to the foot of the bed and pushed it toward the elevator.

"I bit Will," Christine announced as the door closed.

"You bit him?"

"He stabbed me."

"Sounds like a hell of a party. I'm sorry I missed it."

"He's gonna fix the world."

"Really." She'd been there for a moment, but John was pretty sure she was drifting out of consciousness now. "In that case, you probably shouldn't bite him anymore."

"Million," she murmured.

"I thought it was billions, with a B."

"Million. Windmills."

The elevator stopped. Reese backed the bed out of it. "He's going to fix the world with a million windmills?"

"Uh-huh." Her eyes closed.

John had heard worse ideas, actually. "Okay."

"He just needed a … needed a … rubber ducky."

Now he was certain she was drifting. "Okay, kitten. Just rest." He reached over the end of the bed and rubbed her foot through the blanket. She wiggled her toes at him.

They moved through the doors and back into the Emergency Department. He wheeled her back to the treatment bay, lined up the bed, and set the locks again.

"John?"

He looked up. Over the mask, she regarded him with her bright blue eyes. For the moment, at least, she was completely aware. "That's a good color on you."

"Thanks."

"You should play doctor more often."

Reese felt his cheeks go hot. He made a little noise, so caught off guard that he couldn't form words.

"Now get out of my hospital room."

He grinned at her, more reassured than he would have thought possible. "See you later."

Madeleine Enright switched on the light board and stuck the x-ray films up. "I have an answer," she announced, "about why the right lung collapsed."

"You don't sound happy about it," Will observed. Enright had collected him from another treatment bay, where he'd gotten his shoulder stitched, and summoned Harold from the waiting room.

"It's not as bad as it could be," she answered. "It looks like there is some residual lung damage, but it's not nearly as extensive as I thought it might be. And it's not what caused the pneumo."

"Then what did?"

She took out her pen and pointed to a bright white line on one of the ribs. "This is a remodeled fracture," she told Harold. "You can see that the ends don't line up quite right."

"What does that mean?"

"It means the fracture was never treated, and didn't heal properly." She cupped her hands and laced her fingers together. "Normally the pleural space – the interior of the rib cage – is fairly smooth, like this. The lungs expand and contract, pushing the ribs out and back, without much gap between them."

Finch nodded his understanding. He was very aware of Reese's attentive silence in his ear.

"The ribs should have lined up end-to-end and knit back together," Enright continued, "but in this case the ends overlapped." She bent one of her fingers inward. "So one end of the rib protrudes into the space inside the rib cage. It keeps the lung from inflating completely." She nodded to Will. "You said that earlier today she wasn't profusing fully. She probably never has, since this injury. I can't tell for sure from these views, but my guess is that the bone end is jagged. The right lung doesn't inflate to avoid being punctured. So her O2 capacity is chronically diminished."

"Can a person do that?" Harold asked. "Just decide not to breathe fully on one side?"

Maddy shook her head. "Not consciously. But this injury is very old. Her body's learned to compensate."

"When her left lung collapsed," Will said, "the right lung tried to take up the slack, by fully inflating."

"And punctured and collapsed, too," she confirmed. "You made the right choice, by the way. If you'd tried to drain the right side, it would have just collapsed again without suction." She shook her head. "She was damn lucky you were there, and that you woke up."

"Someone called me," Will answered.

"What?" Harold asked.

"Someone called me. On my cell."

"Who?"

"I don't know. Some man. His voice wasn't familiar." Will frowned, remembering, then shrugged. "He said I should check on her right away. That she couldn't breathe."

Finch stared at him.

"I'm guessing from your silence," Reese said quietly in his earpiece, "that it wasn't you. It wasn't me, either."

Harold huffed out a brief, alarmed breath.

Enright shrugged. "Whoever it was, he saved her life. Him and you. You did good, Doctor."

Will colored slightly, then gestured to the images. "So what do we do?"

"First, we repair the bleeding from the bullet wound and drain the remaining blood out of the left chest cavity," Maddy answered. "Then we have a couple of options. We can put a suction tube on the right side, get the air out, let the lung re-inflate, and monitor it. Or, while we have her sedated, we can re-break that rib, remove the excess bone, and pin it properly. I have a very good ortho surgeon on call; I'd want to have him review the case first, of course. But it should be a relatively minor procedure."

Harold looked to his nephew.

Will nodded thoughtfully. "It would keep it from happening again."

"I don't actually expect Miss Fitzgerald to get shot again," Harold protested.

"It's not just trauma that puts her at risk," Enright said. "Anything that compromises her breathing could be a problem – allergies, a cold, certainly pneumonia."

"Pregnancy," Will added. "Even high altitudes. And it will become more of a risk as she gets older."

Maddy nodded. "Right now she's young, in good health otherwise, and the lung's already collapsed. Out of the way. This should be routine."

"As opposed to trying to do it when it's an emergency again," Will agreed. "And she's going to be laid up with the bullet wound anyhow, she might as well heal from a broken rib at the same time."

Harold nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose …"

"Do it," Reese advised in his ear.

"I'll need you to sign the consent form," Enright said. She nodded toward the next room. "I don't think she's conscious enough for informed consent."

"Yes," Finch said. "Of course." He still hesitated. "If she was Am … if she was a person you cared about, would you authorize this surgery?"

Enright smiled at him gently. "If she were my wife, I would absolutely do this right away."

"Then let's proceed."

"I'll call in the ortho surgeon. If he agrees with my assessment, I'll scrub in, make sure the procedure goes as planned and her lung re-inflates properly."

Harold nodded. "I appreciate that, Doctor."

She hurried out of the room.

Will moved back to study the x-ray again. He traced his finger over it, first the white line that Enright had pointed out, then others. "I hate to ask, Uncle Harold, but Christine wasn't a rodeo clown or an MMA fighter or something, was she?"

"She was an abused child," Harold confirmed quietly.

"I figured." Will continued to find spots. "I see six, seven fractures here. I'd hate to see what would show up on a full-body scan." He shook his head. "Is that why she was so insistent on helping that girl today?"

"Mostly, I suppose." Harold touched Will's arm. "I'm glad you were there tonight. I can't even … thank you."

"Uncle Harold," he said warmly, with gentle reproof, "she's important to you. I don't care how. She's family, I can tell. Family to you makes her family to me. And family takes care of each other, right?"

Harold felt as if the boy had reached under his ribs and touched his heart – in all its squishiness –but gently, lovingly. "Yes," he managed to say. "Yes."

He leaned briefly into his nephew's embrace. Family, he thought again, and the word filled him with warmth. Despite his anxiety, his fears for Christine and his deep loathing of hospitals, Will was right. They were family, and they would get through this.

Will chuckled. "And that was before we bled all over each other."

"Family," Harold murmured, and hoped that Reese would know that he was a part of it, too.

Dr. Enright watched closely while Harold signed the informed consent documents. She looked around. There was no one else close. She leaned in and whispered anyhow. "Just one question, Mr. Crane or Wren or whatever your name actually is."

He looked up at her cautiously.

"When she wakes up after this surgery," she gestured toward Christine's room, "when she's fully conscious, is she going to have any idea who you are? Or is this like … what you did for Amy and me?" She looked around again. "Because if it is, I'm okay with that. I probably shouldn't be, but I am. I'm glad I can help. But if I'm going to cover something, I need to know."

Harold smiled, small and reassuring. "I assure you, Doctor, that Miss Fitzgerald and I are genuinely friends. She will know me when she wakes up. And she will not object to my having made decisions on her behalf." He hesitated. "On a limited basis, of course."

Maddy nodded. "Okay."

"And I do deeply appreciate your assistance," he continued. "The matter of my name I know is somewhat confusing …"

She raised a hand. "Not my concern."

"Thank you."

"I'll take good care of her," Enright said. She gathered up the papers. "I'll let you know as soon as we're done."

She looked at him for a long moment. He knew she was thinking back to those long hours in the operating room, with a terrorist in her ear and her wife's life on the line, when she'd been forced to rely on two utter strangers for help. She'd been very determined, and very brave.

He remembered what she'd looked like, only her eyes visible above her mask, strong and absolutely confident with a man's heart lifeless in her hands. Coaxing it back to life with knowledge and skill and certainty …

There were no plans to crack Christine Fitzgerald's chest open. No need for anything but a few relatively small incisions, a repaired rib and a few stitches. It really was all very minor, compared to the miracle he'd seen this doctor perform. But if things went wrong – as that already had once tonight – there was no one's hands he would rather have her heart in than Madeleine Enright's.

"Thank you," Harold said again.

She nodded, her cheeks pink, and went off to fix Christine.

They had the surgical waiting room to themselves. Julie and Will slumped together on the couch. Harold chose a wingback armchair. He settled into the corner and let his head rest against the wing; it eased the strain on his neck.

He was in considerable discomfort. He'd spent much too much time on his feet, and much too much time tense. He made himself breathe deeply, willing relaxation into the muscles in his neck and shoulder. He closed his eyes for a moment. Then he remembered, opened them, and drew out his phone.

He glanced up at his companions. Will had his eyes closed. Training in the trenches, Harold mused; the young man could probably sleep and wake at a moment's notice, much like Mr. Reese, but for different reasons. Julie was relaxed at his side, but awake, alert.

He could sleep here and Julie would keep watch.

He knew John was lurking about somewhere as well.

But there was no threat here. Only Christine was in any danger, and she was in the best possible hands. The surgery shouldn't take long. He should just rest.

Instead, he thumbed his phone on and checked on Grace Hendrick's e-mail.

She had a dozen new messages since he'd last checked, but there was only one that he was interested in: The one from Gregg Everett. I really enjoyed meeting you today. I hope you won't think I'm some kind of weirdo stalker, but I asked Melissa Keynes for your e-mail. I am going home the day after tomorrow and I was hoping I could see you again. Could we get together for dinner? Let me know – or just tell me to go away and I promise I will.

Everett was hopelessly un-poetic. But Harold had to admire his straightforwardness.

Apparently Grace had read his message the same way, because she'd agreed to the date and sent him her phone number.

Harold leaned back. He could check her phone records. Or Everett's. He shouldn't. And he shouldn't hack into the restaurant's security feeds and watch them. He needed to let them go, to let the relationship develop naturally or not at all.

Gregg Everett would be good for Grace.

He closed his phone, and then he closed his eyes. Yes, he would be good for her. But Harold had done all he could. He had put them together. He needed to let them go.

The Machine had led him to Grace …

He took a deep breath. It hurt to remember. Her smile, that first time he'd spoken to her. So naïve and trusting. So delighted with his unconventional offer of ice cream in the middle of winter. The laughter in her eyes. The joy.

It would never not hurt to remember her. And it would never not hurt to think of someone else sharing that smile, that laughter. That love, that had been his life.

A hand touched his shoulder. Harold opened his eyes, looked up at Julie Carson. "She'll be okay," the young woman said earnestly.

She was talking about Christine, he knew, but it applied to Grace as well. He put his hand over hers, smiled wanly. "I know. Thank you."

John Reese wasn't entirely sure it was a good idea. He guessed that Finch would say it wasn't. But as things stood, it seemed inevitable that he would run into her eventually. It seemed best to choose the time and place himself rather than leaving it to chance.

There was a well-stocked kitchenette just to the side of the waiting room. John waited patiently, in the certain knowledge that all operatives, active and retired, eventually seek out coffee. He wasn't wrong. After the surgery – simple, successful, uneventful, Dr. Enright reported – Harold and Will were allowed back to the recovery room for a brief visit with Christine, and Julie Carson walked into the kitchen. He followed her.

"Hello, Julie," he said as non-threateningly as he could.

Julie jumped anyhow. She did kind of a mid-air spin and came down facing him. She recognized him immediately. Without taking her eyes off him, she took two steps backward and reached for the coffee pot. But she didn't pick it up. "What are you doing here?"

Reese stayed where he was, a comfortable distance from her, but in front of the door. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Julie still had her hand around the handle of the pot. It wouldn't make a great weapon, Reese thought, but it was the best of her available options. "Are we in danger?" she asked.

By 'we' he gathered she meant all of them – her, Will, Harold, Christine. "No," he promised.

"Then why are you here?" She looked him up and down, taking in the scrubs and the ID badge. He could all but see her realize that he'd been prowling the hospital for hours.

"I thought this would be a good time to talk." He gestured to the coffee pot. "If you're not going to hit me with that, could I have a cup?"

She thought about it for a long moment. Then she relaxed a notch and picked up the pot. There were mugs on a decorative little tree; she got two down and poured for both of them.

"Thank you," Reese said. He took his mug, gestured to the little table, and sat down. After another thoughtful little pause she joined him.

"Are you following me?" Julie asked bluntly. "Again?"

"No. I'm checking on Christine."

"You know Scotty."

"We're friends. How is she?"

"Out of surgery. Out of danger. She should be okay."

"Good."

"That's it?"

"Yes."

The young woman sipped her coffee. "We never talked about … who you were. Why you were there."

"Do we need to?" John asked easily.

"Your friend and my fiancé bled all over each other tonight. So yeah, I think we probably do."

Reese eyed her t-shirt. There were tell-tale little splotches on it, now dried and rust-colored. Will's blood or Christine's, it didn't matter. She wasn't even aware of it. But in his mind it earned her an explanation or two. "I thought you'd probably see it that way."

"You work for Harold." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"Doing …what?"

"Investigations. Security. Other duties as assigned."

"What does a successful insurance executive need with a CIA operative?"

"Ex-operative," he corrected easily. "The aspects of Harold's business that you know about — that Will knows about — are exactly what they appear to be. But he also insures less conventional clients. Less … visible."

"Criminals?"

"Not generally. Not if he can help in. But occasionally his clients are threatened by criminal elements. Or they are not precisely what they represent themselves to be. They are more high-risk then his normal clients. Some require security services. Or other specialized attention."

Julie studied him for a long moment. "I'm supposed to believe that you went from working for Mark Snow to working for Harold Wren."

Reese shrugged. "Working conditions are better. So's the pay. He's dead, by the way."

"Snow? I heard." She didn't let herself be distracted. "Why were you following me last year?"

"I was following Will, initially. After he was kidnapped, the first time, Harold asked me to keep an eye on him. But it became evident pretty quickly that you were the target, not him."

"Did you tell Harold that?"

"Yes. And he asked me to follow you instead."

"Why?"

"Because Will was in love with you, and Harold cares about his happiness. Because you'd saved Will's life." John shrugged. "Maybe just because Harold likes you. Does it matter? Once he knew you were in danger, he wasn't about to leave you to the wolves."

"He could have just told me."

"By the time we knew about Rudy Gund, Will had already been taken. Again."

"Will doesn't know? Any of this?"

"No." Reese sipped his own coffee. It wasn't bad. "And if he did, it would very likely do significant damage to his relationship with his uncle."

Julie rubbed her forehead. "And I'm just supposed to believe all of this."

"You could ask Harold."

She looked at him. She still had an op's instinct; he could read in her expression that she knew Harold would lie to her, too, and probably better than John could. "You called him. The night we went in to get Will. That's why he was there."

"Yes." Reese's mouth twisted a little. "He was supposed to wait in the car."

She nodded. "Civilians." Then she smiled wryly. Technically they were both civilians now, too. "But you're here for Scotty now."

"Yes."

"Will's not in any danger?"

"That bite might get infected."

She smirked. "And you know her, Scotty, through Harold?"

"She does some freelance work for him. Occasionally our assignments overlap."

"You could have just called him for an update."

"I did. And I've seen Christine. But if you and Will and Christine are going to be tight, I thought it might be better if I didn't surprise you some time in the future."

Julie nodded slowly. Snow's dead, but I doubt the CIA has stopped looking for you."

"No."

"You're taking a pretty big risk being here. With all the security and cops and all."

"Not as big as you might think." He gestured to the scrubs.

"Are you a thing?"

"A thing?"

"A couple. You and Scotty."

"We're friends."

"You and Harold?"

"Friends."

"Scotty and Harold?"

"Just friends, as far as I know."

Julie sighed.

"You're in love," John said. "You want everybody to be part of a couple."

"I suppose so." She slumped in her chair. "I have had a hell of a long day." Then she smiled wryly. "I'm not bleeding, I suppose I shouldn't bitch."

"You can bitch to me. I'm not bleeding, either."

"Well, thanks." She smiled grimly. "What do I tell Will?"

Reese nodded to himself. Julie Carson was on-board. He wasn't surprised. She was a sensible, practical woman. "John Randall. Security and investigations."

"For both of them."

"Yes."

"That makes sense." She looked at him again. "You're not telling me everything, are you?"

"No."

"Figures."

"But I'll tell you what you need to know. You and Will are important to Harold. So you're important to me. I will never willingly put you in danger, and if there is a threat, I will do everything I can to protect you. Understand?"

"Why?"

"I have my reasons. But the only one you need to know is this. I used to work for Mark Snow." Reese smiled tightly, a little crookedly. "And working for Harold is better."

Julie half-smiled, shrugged. "I'm sure it is."