Disclaimer: I don't know. I sent them all sorts of brownies, and cookies, and even some scones, but I still don't have the rights to Boromir! Never fear, I shall continue with my quest :) I do, though, own everybody else. Mwahahaha...

A/N: I hope that the lack of reviews on the last chapter was due to the alert system being down. At least….I hope it was! Anywho, on with the story! For, after a long and arduous wait, I have here: a very very very very very long chapter. Well, sort of . I hope y'all enjoy!

The emergency room would have had a much more comforting aura if she was not sitting in a plastic chair made for someone half her side and if the two uniformed officers occupying the equally miniscule chairs across from her had been smiling. None of them spoke, but Caitlin made faces at them (contorting her eyebrows, blowing imaginary bubbles, sucking in her cheeks to look like a fish, crossing her eyes, and those sorts of things) to see if she could make them laugh. No luck as of yet.

"Miss Clark," the older of the officers either tried to smile or smelled something funny—it was hard to tell which, the way that his face wrinkled around his nose like a drawstring bag. "You've been most cooperative," Caitlin barely resisted the urge to pantomime gagging in response to his blatant lie for she had been anything but cooperative, "And we only need to ask you a few more questions."

"Shoot."

"When did you learn that Mr. Dorowsky had been shot—multiple times—in a potentially fatal area?"

Caitlin made a show of pretending to think about it. The whole thing had a rather surreal quality to it, and after everything that had happened to her in the past few days, she would not have been surprised if both officers had sprouted wings and flown away singing Disney songs. "Today," she finally yawned.

"Are you certain?"

She pretended to struggle to remember again and then nodded decidedly, "It was definitely today."

"How long have you known Mr. Dorowsky?"

Caitlin grinned and shrugged. "Know or know-know?"

His eyes squeezed shut and the skin finally relaxed from its pinched position around his narrow nostrils. "Miss Clark, why am I getting the feeling that you're not taking this seriously?"

Caitlin shrugged again and crossed her legs. "I dunno. Why are you?"

He glanced sharply at his partner who shrugged and made a motion with his hands as if to suggest he was clueless. She peered keenly at his broad forehead and big, guileless eyes before deciding that he was definitely clueless. "Miss Clark, I don't want to have to take you downtown for questioning, and trust me, you really don't want me to have to take you downtown. So please, for both our sakes, try to cooperate and answer our questions."

Caitlin blinked innocently. "I am trying. I mean, you should see me on a bad day." She blinked again…and then once more for effect.

He grunted and she almost laughed as she realized his uncanny resemblance to a pig. Except he was wearing blue and pigs were supposed to be pink. Ah well, small problem. Nevertheless, although she had a firm belief that this questioning would never go beyond the comedy it had warped into, she decided not to test Fate—it had been rather ornery as of late. Mood swings, and all that.

"Listen, sweetie, you want the whole truth? Every dirty nasty little speck of it?" he nodded, his face brightening and his hand tightening around the pen in anticipation. "Okey-day: but don't say I didn't warn you!

"Ivan brought Bo and me together—you know, the hurricane Ivan, not the person… I don't actually know anyone named Ivan, you know. Oh, sorry." She grinned at his exasperated frown and resumed the story. She loved stories. "Well, he sort of got hit in the head by a flying branch and I saw him when I was walking the dog. Or at least, that's what I assume happen, because when I saw him he was lying facedown in the street." She was enjoying this immensely, "So I brought him in my apartment, because it seemed horrible to just let him dro-o-own!" she dragged 'drown' out for effect and paused to see how it affected the officers. It didn't. So she sighed and continued, "I'd have called for an ambulance, except that the phone lines were out and…I couldn't find my cell phone." It was plausible enough. And it wasn't as if they'd be able to check and verify, as she was pretty certain that Huan's digestive juices had done the phone in. Poor thing. "So, when he woke up, I asked him who he was, and all that jazz. But he didn't know anything." She leaned forward as if ready to tell them a big secret and then shouted into their ears, "I think it's amnesia!"

They drew back and glared at her. "Fascinating," Pig-face said dryly. "That doesn't explain, Miss Clark, how you two got here to Normal."

"That's my sister's fault!" she said cheerfully. "Hey—is there a criminal complaint for lying and causing unnecessary mental distress?"

Clueless frowned and bit his lip, looking up at the ceiling tiles. "No," he said slowly, "No, I don't think so."

She snickered. "Thanks dear."

"Not a prob." The sad thing was, Clueless seemed completely sincere.

They stopped with their banter when Pig-face cleared his throat sharply and glared sternly at them. "How is your sister to blame?"

"Well, she called and told me that my parents were dead, and that I needed to come home!" she exclaimed cheerfully, "So I did, and then Huan—that's my dog y'know—ate my cell phone and my truck died, trying to take us down with it. So me and Bo trekked across this unending field, and then a farmer in this ginormous tractor took us to his house and then his wife brought us to Normal." She paused, "Got that?" Pig-face nodded. "And then I took Huan to the vet and called my sister for a ride. Except that my dead dad picked up the phone, and then I figured out that it was a lie. Apparently it was supposed to be a surprise birthday party—I dunno." She took a languid sip from her bottled water and scratched the side of her head. "Where was I?"

"Birthday party."

"Oh yeah: thanks. So Bo and I rented a room to stay in until my dead dad drove down—" she faltered, "down…can you think of any other words that start with a 'D'?" Clueless shook his head helpfully and she shrugged, "Oh well. That was when I noticed that he seemed to be in pain, so we came here. See—I had nothing to do with it!"

She sat back proudly and grinned at the officers. Sometimes, her storytelling abilities amazed even herself.

"Okay, we've made some progress," Pig-face murmured, "But this does nothing to explain why you've been calling Mr. er, the patient, by a false name. Care to explain?"

"Boris Dorowsky has much more flavor than John Doe," said Caitlin helpfully.

"Mhmm. And why did you not check him into a hospital, knowing that he had 'amnesia'?" Pig-face frowned at her, beetling his eyebrows in a way that was both a little bit creepy, and fascinating at the same time.

She pretended to take offense. "Forgive me for being a little preoccupied! I mean, my parents had just 'died'!" she held up fingers to mark the quotations around 'died.' "Sorry if I didn't follow procedure!"

Poor Clueless seemed genuinely concerned at her apparent distress and he hastened to reassure her. "Oh, don't you worry none, Miss Clark. Ain't nobody mad at you!"

Forget Dr. Chan: Clueless looked Cuddly as well. Especially with the, well, clueless expression on his face and the rather blank look in his eyes. She had to grip the seat with her hands to keep from jumping up and giving him a great big hug. Can I keep him?

Pig-face glared at Cuddly Clueless and then stood, bending slightly in a manner that suggested bowing. "Thank-you for your time, Miss Clark. If we have any further questions, is there a way we can contact you?"

She frowned, "Erm…the hotel? I'm at the Holiday Inn, room…20 somethin' or 'nother."

"I'm relatively certain that room twenty-somethin'-or-'nother is not an actual room number," Pig-face observed dryly, "Could you be a bit more specific?"

"You have my name," she said slowly, grinning stupidly. Seriously, who bowed anymore? Besides Boromir—and obviously Pig-face.

They left her perched alone on the little plastic chair, waiting for Boromir to come out of the urgent-care room. After a few minutes of sitting there and growing ever more lonely as she stared at the closed doors and the two empty chairs across from her, she noticed a friendly presence approximately ten feet to her left. A plate of warm, gooey, chocolate-chip cookies that some lovely woman in scrubs had just brought into the waiting room.

She waited for another moment or two, her mouth beginning to water so heavily that her tongue was practically swimming in the cavern that was her mouth. She peered to her right: empty. She peered to her left: two nurses were deep in conversation, and no one was watching the cookies. So she stood slowly, scanning the room suspiciously. As she tiptoed-limped to the cookies' side, she had the ridiculous urge to hum the James Bond theme. (She restrained herself.)

Two cookies now, and—chocolate exploded across her tongue—and two more good luck, and then three cookies for later. Well it wasn't as if anyone else was eating them! Later came very soon, because she just could not abide the thought of those cookies in her purse, all by themselves, with no one to appreciate them. Caitlin loved chocolate chip cookies.

It didn't take long for Caitlin to notice that her face felt unusually warm. And she was sweating. And her eyes were puffy—and watering. A queasy feeling clenched her stomach and she wondered what exactly had been in the cookies? That would be quite the obituary: "Caitlin Clark, mysteriously dead after eating killer cookies." Her stomach grumbled, and she gingerly touched her face. Interesting….

"Surprise!" A familiar voice echoed in the emergency room.

Caitlin looked around the room, puffy red eyes blinking rapidly in protest to the bright light spilling through the open double doors. Then her spasming eyes caught sight of Isabel, struggling to hide a smug smirk. Her eyes narrowed and she lunged forward, almost falling flat on her face. "Isabel I'm going to KILL you!"