A/N: I have no expertise in therapy or medicine. The scenes here are intended for dramatic effect rather than medical accuracy. This chapter includes references to end-of-life decisions and "pulling the plug." If that's a trigger for you, you'll want to skip at least the second scene of this chapter.

Burke family cabin, Catskills. Early Thursday morning. March 4, 2004.

It wasn't yet dawn when Peter woke to the sound of Neal screaming. He and Elizabeth left their room to see Noelle in a robe, already heading downstairs. She didn't seem surprised or flustered, but she may have been expecting this. Before everyone had gone to bed last night she'd said Neal hadn't shared all of his repressed memories yet. After everything they'd heard, Peter couldn't imagine what else could have happened to Neal as a nine-year-old child.

On one of the sleeper sofas, Neal rocked back and forth, his arms wrapped around his body, saying, "No, no, no." Henry was talking to Neal, but not getting any response. Satchmo knew better than to jump on a bed, but he watched with distress, and barked at Peter in a tone that demanded: Do something!

Noelle sat on the edge of the bed. "Neal. Neal, can you hear me?"

Apparently reaching his limit, Henry grabbed Neal and pushed him against the back of the sofa, putting an end to the rocking. "Neal, please!"

Noelle took one of Neal's hands between her own. She took his pulse and then rubbed his hand as if to warm it. "Is there another blanket we can give him?" she asked.

"I'll get it," said Elizabeth. Peter was glad she spoke first, because he wanted to keep his eyes on Neal until he was sure the kid was ok.

The warmth of the blanket and Henry holding him still eventually seemed to relax Neal. He pushed his cousin away and rubbed his face. "What happened? Last thing I remember was talking about the EMTs taking me to the ambulance."

"You had a nightmare," Henry said.

Neal ran his hands through his hair. "I thought everything I went through last night was supposed to end the nightmares."

"It will help," said Noelle, "but you need to tell us the rest. There are still memories fighting to the surface."

Neal looked bewildered. "But that was the end. They took Vance away and I never saw him again."

"And they took you to a hospital. You said you passed out on the way to the ambulance. What's the next thing you remember? It doesn't matter if it doesn't seem significant. Pick up the story and don't hold back."

"I was in a coma for 12 days. I wasn't showing any signs of waking up, and they gave me an experimental drug."

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The boy was awake, but lethargic. His eyes couldn't focus yet. He took in blurry shapes, colors and general motions without understanding them. He heard voices, with a long lag between words being spoken and his comprehending them. Movement seemed too complex for the moment. He was grateful he could breathe without effort, although he couldn't quite remember why.

His right arm was heavy, and eventually he realized it was in a cast. And something was wrapped tightly around his ribs.

There were two moving blurs in his room. People, he thought. They were talking.

Ellen. She had said, "The doctor said we have to give it time."

And Mom had said, "Look at him! He can't move or speak. His eyes aren't even tracking. He's a vegetable!"

And Ellen had said, "You aren't being fair. The doctor said it will take hours for the drug to have its full effect. He's still barely awake."

"He'd be better off dead. We should have pulled the plug after the first week. I don't know why I let you talk me out of it. It should have been my decision!"

"Calm down. You know very well why you let me and the doctors talk you out of it. You couldn't go through with it."

"We should have let him die. This is just a shell of my son. A bitter reminder. He'll never be right again. I wish we'd pulled the plug."

That had been a few minutes ago by the time the boy put meaning to the words. There had been more motion and the blurs were gone now. Alone, the boy felt tears fill his eyes and he didn't bother trying to hold them back. Speech was still beyond him, but he made a mournful, keening sound.

And he was wrong. Only one of the blurs had left. The other had gone still in a corner of the room and stepped forward now. She leaned over him, and he could feel Ellen wipe away his tears, and felt her tears falling.

"Oh, sweetie."

Neal frowned. That wasn't what Ellen had said, and it wasn't her voice. Who else was crying? He didn't remember this.

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Henry stared at Noelle, whose tears had left her too choked up to continue. He cleared his throat and repeated what she'd said every time Neal had paused in his story. "What happened next, Neal?"

As he'd gained clarity, he'd also become aware of the pain. His arm hurt. His chest hurt. There was a bandage around his head, which hurt most of all. Neal instinctively reached up and rubbed the place above and slightly ahead of his left ear, where his skull had cracked. In the current day he could feel the slight calcification where the bone had grown together again.

There in the hospital, several times he'd shuddered in pain, whimpering and looking at Ellen or a nurse or doctor with pleading in his gaze, but the answer was always the same. He'd been in something called a coma for almost two weeks and nearly hadn't woken up. He needed to stay awake for 12 hours to be safe, and that meant no painkillers.

People gathered outside his room, more of them as time went by. He could see them staring at him whenever the door opened. Sometimes someone would ask to be let in, but would be told that they had to wait for permission from his mother.

Ellen told him stories and played games to keep him occupied and distracted from the pain. He wondered where his mother had gone, but dreaded her return because she wanted him to die.

When 12 hours had passed since he'd first come out of the coma, they gave him a tiny dose of a painkiller and he immediately drifted to sleep. It seemed only minutes later that Ellen was shaking him. He moaned but she was insistent. "Your mother's on her way back. She needs to see you awake." He rubbed his eyes and sat up. A nurse offered him a cup of water with a straw and he drank. He could hear his mother now, out in the hall. She was loud and belligerent and arguing with someone. Drunk. Usually she drank just enough to stay buzzed. The boy hated when she let it get this far.

His mother staggered into the room, smelling of alcohol. She stopped at the bed and stared at him. "Still alive, huh?"

He nodded.

"They say you're going to be okeydokey. Bunch of people want to talk to you an' said they needed my permission. I told 'em I'd see if you were really awake." She went back to the door. "Come on in!"

Ellen followed. "Let's try not to overwhelm him. He just woke up from a coma. Miss Taylor, let's start with you. And Mike, of course."

An intimidating Asian man, Mike stood in a corner of the room and watched in silence. Miss Taylor approached the bed. She looked at the boy and then at his mother. "Ma'am, the doctors say he should be able to leave the hospital in a few days, but I can't condone him going home with you. This is my fourth visit here, and you've never been sober. You aren't fit to care for him. He's been through a traumatic experience and he needs more stability than you can provide. I have to recommend he be placed in a foster home."

"She's going to rehab," Ellen said. "She starts Monday."

"You told me that the last time he was hospitalized, and it didn't happen."

"She was doing better after she split up with Vance. He'd been encouraging her to drink so she wouldn't notice what he was doing. She'd been mostly sober until after the abduction. I promise, I'll take her to rehab myself and make sure she stays."

"When she's through with the treatment, I can reevaluate and see if she's capable of taking care of a child. In the meantime he needs foster care."

"He needs stability," Ellen argued. "You said so yourself. He should stay with me."

"You aren't family," Miss Taylor protested. "He needs a licensed foster home."

"I'm his aunt. On his father's side."

"Your last name isn't Brooks."

"I'm widowed. I'm his aunt. Isn't that right, Mike?"

Mike nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I've known the family for years. She's his aunt. We can get proof if you need it."

Miss Taylor conceded that the boy could stay with Ellen until his mother completed rehab, and warned that she would make frequent visits to Ellen's home to ensure the child was getting the best possible care.

After the woman left, the boy's mother said, "He's all yours then. You got what you wanted. I'm goin' home. Need some sleep."

"Yes, you do," agreed Ellen. "Make sure you take a cab. You're in no condition to drive."

"Yeah, yeah." She left the room, still weaving a bit but not as unsteady as she'd been before. It was as if a burden had been lifted from her.

Ellen looked out into the hall and, "Give us a minute." She closed the door and looked at Mike. "You make sure the Marshals provide that proof for Child Protective Services, because I promise you, I'm not letting them put him in foster care now. If you let them try, I'll take him and run."

"Don't worry, Ms. Parker. The last thing we want is for some foster parent to put together two and two and realize the answer is WITSEC. You'll get our full support." He glanced at the hall. "You ready for the next group?"

"Might as well get it over with." Ellen sat in a chair beside the bed as Mike let two more men enter the room. She put an arm around the boy, who seemed to be drowsing. "Wake up. Just a few more minutes and then we'll let you sleep again, ok?"

He made a small sound of discomfort as sitting up straight jarred his ribs and broken arm. But when Ellen held his left hand he stopped fidgeting in a vain attempt to find a comfortable position and looked up at the two men who had entered his room. They wore suits and held file folders. They introduced themselves and it was long and confusing. They both wanted to interview him about something, and wanted the same information and thought interviewing him together would be easier. The black man said he represented Prosecution and the blond man was from the Defense.

One of them opened a file folder and pulled out a photo of Vance. The boy gasped and leaned away. Ellen stood up and he turned his face into her.

"Do you know this man?" Prosecution asked, and the boy nodded.

"Did he hurt you?" the man asked.

The boy nodded again. Ellen ran a hand along his back in a comforting gesture, and then pushed him away a couple of inches. "He put the picture away. Will you look at him and answer his questions?"

The boy turned and faced the men again.

"Can you tell us what he did to you?" asked Defense.

The boy thought a moment. Then he held out his broken arm. He pointed to his ribs and the bandage on his head. He pushed down the blankets, with some help with Ellen, and pulled his right leg out to show the worst cut on his ankle. It had healed a lot in 12 days, but the signs of the cut were still visible.

"I'd like to take pictures of his injuries," said Prosecution.

"I'll take them," said Mike, holding his hand out for the camera. "The family doesn't want his face in any photos, to preserve his privacy. I can help you get copies of the x-rays." Mike snapped the pictures quickly and returned the camera.

They showed the boy a map of his neighborhood, asking him to point out his school and home to prove he understood how to read it. Then they asked where he had encountered Vance on the day he was abducted, and he pointed to the greenbelt.

"Why did you get into his car?" Defense asked.

The boy shook his head.

"You were in his car, correct?"

The boy nodded and shuddered at the memory of being in Vance's car.

"You told Mr. Nikolov you were in the trunk of the car. Is that true?"

The boy nodded.

Prosecution took over. "You remember being in the trunk?"

The boy nodded again.

"And do you remember how you got in the trunk?"

The boy shook his head and leaned back against Ellen.

"Seems pretty clear to me," said Prosecution. "The doctor said he had signs of a concussion. Probably wasn't conscious."

Defense didn't seem satisfied with that explanation. "Listen, you knew Vance for months, used to play with him in the park and he even lived at your home for a while. He was almost like family. I get that you don't remember how you got in the car, but it seems like you might have gone willingly with someone you knew. Maybe it was getting dark and you saw him there and asked him for a ride home. Maybe you thought riding in a trunk sounded fun and you suggested it. Can you imagine that?"

The boy had a good imagination, but he couldn't imagine that. He shook his head vigorously, then whimpered and closed his eyes at the pain in his head.

"Tell me what you remember about being in the trunk," Defense insisted.

It had been dark and lonely and scary. There was rope and sharp and heavy things. Vance was going to hurt him and he'd never be able to go home again. The boy sobbed and held on to Ellen as hard as he could with his good arm.

"That's enough," said Ellen. "He's exhausted and in a lot of pain. You need to go."

They thanked Ellen and the boy heard them walk away. A nurse with a familiar voice walked over and pushed a button on a machine attached to an IV leading to his right hand. The pain went away and he drifted to sleep. From then on, his only visitors other than medical professionals were Ellen and Mike. He couldn't keep track of the time very well, but it seemed to be a day or two later that he was at Ellen's house. He stayed there for almost two months while his mother was in rehab. He'd missed the last few weeks of third grade, but was able to start fourth grade with his class in the fall. His classmates had been warned not to ask him about why he'd missed the end of the last school year. But it didn't matter. By the time he was back in school, he'd forgotten almost all of it. Ellen had told him a bare outline of the events, leaving out Mr. Nikolov and Sasha.

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Neal took a sip from the glass of water on the table beside the sleeper sofa. He didn't recall who had brought the water or when.

"That first day you were awake in the hospital, did you speak at all?" Noelle asked.

Neal shook his head.

"How much time went by before you started talking again?"

He thought it over. "About six weeks, I think."

"Did you go to any kind of therapy?"

He drank more water and then put the glass back down. "I think the art lessons were intended as a combination physical and emotional therapy. They were supposed to help me regain fine motor control in my arm and to give me a means to express myself. But I didn't want to express what had happened to me. I wanted to forget it."

"Can you tell me about when you started talking?"

"Yeah." Neal sat up straighter, crossing his legs in front of him on the bed. This was venturing into more comfortable ground. "Ellen took me to an exhibit at the St. Louis Art Museum. They had a Van Gogh on loan and it fascinated me. I leaned in as close as I could to see the brush strokes, trying to figure out how he'd achieved the effects of that painting. And I asked, 'How did he do that?' An art professor was there and heard me. He took my hand, as if I were holding a paintbrush, and showed me the technique so that I could feel how Van Gogh had done it. I was so fascinated that I kept asking him questions for about an hour. Finally he had to leave but invited me to join his weekend art lessons for children. I attended his classes for years, and painting became one of the areas in my life where I was least inhibited."

Henry yawned.

Neal chuckled. "Am I boring you?"

Henry stretched. "Every city we visited, you had to check out the art museums. Not really my thing, but watching you paint was kind of cool, when we could afford the supplies."

"What time is it?" asked Neal.

"A couple of hours until dawn yet," said Peter. "What's next on the agenda, Noelle?"

"Sleep, I hope," she said. "We could all use some rest."

Neal was about to protest that his mind was too busy to let him sleep, but he was distracted by Henry picking up his guitar. Henry sat right next to Neal, letting his body heat seep into his cousin as he strummed the guitar. The strumming gradually turned into a song, and then Henry was softly singing "Nothing Else Matters."

"Hate that song," mumbled Neal.

"Because it always works," Henry said in a break in the lyrics. And then he was singing again.

"Thanks," said Neal, grateful for once that his cousin knew how to make Neal's mind slow down and relax. He slid down onto the bed, resting his head on the pillow and closing his eyes. Back when he was a teenager, he'd quickly realized that Henry was using the song as a lullaby. He resented it, of course. What self-respecting teen would admit that he wanted or needed or a lullaby? But there was something so comforting about knowing Henry cared and worried about him enough to make an effort to send him to sleep that it almost always succeeded.

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Mid-morning, Elizabeth woke up, got dressed, and went downstairs. Peter had been up more than an hour ago and left for a long walk. Not surprising that he'd want exercise and fresh air to clear his head after everything they'd heard about Neal's childhood.

Noelle was sitting at the kitchen island, holding a cup of coffee and looking sadly at Henry and Neal as they slept.

Pouring her own cup of coffee, Elizabeth thought Noelle looked like someone who needed a confidante. "You know, there are some spectacular views from a picnic area a few yards from here. You can see into the valley and catch glimpses of the lake. It's very serene. Would you like to join me?" She smiled at Noelle. "I think you could use some serenity. And maybe a friendly ear?"

"I'll get my coat."

In coats and snow boots – which were kept in a variety of sizes at the cabin – El and Noelle walked in silence. The snow had been brushed off the picnic table, telling El that Peter had also spent some time in contemplation here. The women sat beside each other, taking in the view. Wanting to ease Noelle into the topic that was bothering her, El said, "I've never met Neal's girlfriend, Kate. But from I've heard, sometimes I wonder if part of her appeal is being unavailable. He's a romantic, in love with the idea of being in love, but not ready for the reality. She's an ideal on a pedestal, teasing him into doing what she wants."

"An interesting theory," Noelle responded. "It isn't unusual for someone his age to be drawn to an unrequited love. But we haven't talked about his ideas on romance."

El nodded, jumping to the topic she really wanted to bring up. "You'll want to talk about his mother first."

"Not exactly want to," Noelle said. Leaning forward, with her elbows on the table, she rested her chin on her hands. "I feel like I should apologize to Neal for my sister. She was frightened and overreacting. It's hard to imagine what it must be like, with a child in a coma and being asked when you want to pull the plug. Obviously she didn't want him to die, but it's understandable why a child his age, hearing what he heard, would think that."

"Obviously?" El questioned. "How can you know with that much certainty? Forgive me, but it seems pretty obvious that Neal still believes she wanted him gone. I'd think that would have affected their relationship from that point on. Wouldn't she have corrected that perception in all of the years following if it weren't true?"

"Assuming she knew. He repressed so much. Maybe he never let anyone see that fear."

"You sound very invested in proving your sister innocent. I can certainly understand that. But I wonder if that's what Neal needs. I mean, it's like you're taking her side, and she isn't your patient."

Noelle stood up and walked a few steps toward the scenic outlook. It appeared she was taking in the view, but El suspected she wasn't seeing it. After a few minutes, Noelle turned around and said, "She's my sister. My identical twin. We've always been exactly alike. I don't have to be there with her to know what it was like, what she was going through. Of course she wanted her son to live. She needed him."

El took a sip of coffee and asked as casually as she could, "Why do you say that?"

"You have to understand what things were like when they went into WITSEC. Her husband confessed to murder. She'd recently had a miscarriage. And on top of that she's supposed to relocate and cut off all ties to a close family. Neal was her anchor. It's like… It's like when I realized my marriage was floundering. Sometimes I felt like I was going off the deep end. I wanted to deny the problems, or run away and hide from them. But Henry was my anchor. His presence reminded me that I needed to be adult and responsible. I needed to be stable to provide the stability he deserved. Having my son with me made a huge difference when I was going through that. If someone had taken him away from me, I don't know how I would have managed. Taking care of him made me better and stronger than I thought I could be."

"And your sister is exactly like you?"

Noelle looked taken aback. "Of course. I told you, we're identical twins. We switched places all the time and could fool anyone."

"So Meredith is a psychologist, too?"

Noelle smiled. "No. I knew for years that psychology was my path. My sister bounced around from college to culinary school and then to business classes when she found her place at a catering company, cooking and eventually helping manage the business. Nothing made her as happy as preparing and serving an elaborate meal. I'm a good cook, but preparing Thanksgiving dinner for 30 people is never going to be my idea of fun."

"So you aren't exactly alike. In fact, your differences sound big enough that I have to question your assumption that your sister would react to WITSEC the same way you reacted to your divorce."

There was a silence for a while. Eventually Noelle sat beside Elizabeth again. "A basic tenet of therapy is that it's a bad idea to treat people who are close to you. You tend to assume you know their situations and issues, rather than asking what they need. When the Marshals recommended Meredith to go into WITSEC, she asked my advice. But I never asked about her fears or concerns. I thought I already knew. And that may have led her to believe that any issues outside what I expected weren't valid, or were shameful in some way." Noelle shook her head. "I was so arrogant back then. Everyone from my professors to the leaders of Win-Win and my parents were telling me I was an incredibly talented psychologist. I never questioned that I was right in my advice to my sister. What have I done?"

"I don't know. Tell me."

"I knew in her situation, I would have needed Henry with me. As I said, my son has been my anchor. But perhaps Meredith…" She paused and drank her coffee. "She was always more of a free spirit than I was. With her life falling apart, perhaps she didn't want an anchor. And if that's true, she may have considered Neal a burden. I thought… I thought I was helping her, helping both of them, by insisting he go into WITSEC with her. I argued vehemently against my brother taking Neal with his family to the Air Force base where he was deployed in the South Pacific. And I swear she never… I never saw any signs of a drinking problem before she went into WITSEC. I never would have sent a child into… Would never have subjected Neal to…" She took a ragged breath.

"I know." El reached over and put an arm around Noelle. "Don't hold back. You know you need to let it out." And Noelle sobbed.

A/N: The story of Rip Van Winkle was set near where this chapter takes place. That was a story of a man who slept for many years and on awakening had to adjust to a new reality. In this chapter, Neal describes awakening from a coma and his memories of that time are also awakening. Meanwhile, Noelle is awakened from a little self-delusion, too. I've put Noelle through a lot, forcing her to remain professional and detached while dealing with family issues, and I was glad for a chance for her to break free from that restraint with Elizabeth.

I hope everyone observing Labor Day enjoys the holiday. My amazing beta Silbrith and I are both taking advantage of the long weekend for writing activities – bliss! Next week's chapter will give the characters a chance to relax and play in the snow, and the week after that we'll get some focus again on the father/son relationship between Peter and Neal.