Title - Little Stars - Part 29

Author - Kourion

Summary: "He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

A/N: I really have to dedicate this chapter to MyBeautifulEnding.

Additionally, I realize some people may be disappointed with the direction that the story goes from here, but this outcome has been planned from the start.


Lisbon's POV


I'm not usually the one to instigate hugs. Not as a kid, and certainly not as an adult.

Jane bristles at first. Just for a few seconds. Then he seems to marginally relax enough to reciprocate the hold.

I can feel his heart pounding through the thin cloth of his alcohol soaked pajamas.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, "I'm always causing you so much stress. So many problems."

His voice still sounds gritty. A hold-over from his screaming bout.

No doubt about it: he's going to sound raspy for awhile.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again. This is nothing that you have to apologize for, Jane." I pull away gradually when he shifts about. "Got it?"

He nods dully at his lap.

Just when I think he's not going to say anything else, he speaks.

"Can you just try to forget what I told you tonight? Can we not make a big deal out of it?"

He's actually begging.

He sounds a shade under what I would call panicked.

And he's begging.

It's an awful, awful sound.

It's the sound an abused child would make

while trying to push away an abuser.

The voice high pitched.

Almost shrill.

My body feels a little prickly at the very idea.

A little foreign and off-put.

"There are certain things that I'm unlikely to just forget, Jane. I think you must know that this has to be one of those things."

He closes his eyes, shifts about awkwardly in his space.

"But I'm also not going to force you to talk about anything. You can talk to me about this if you need to, but I'll never push you on this. You know that, right?"

He starts to speak, and at first his words come out in a tangled rush. Almost a stutter.

He stops, composes himself.

I can see his chest rising and falling even more rapidly than in the previous few minutes.

"I don't know how I feel about you knowing this stuff. Any of this stuff," and he's turning over his wounded hand now, running one finger along the gauze. "I don't think I want you to know, Lisbon. I don't think I want anyone to know. I didn't even... I denied it when she asked. When Angela asked, I always denied what was wrong. Always."

I don't know how to feel about this revelation.

I don't know what it means.

If he's trying to say something more.

Jane certainly trusted his wife.

He certainly loved her with an intensity few husbands ever demonstrate.

As if reading my mind, his eyes close, crease in pain.

He feels guilty.

"I wasn't trying to lie to her, Lisbon. I couldn't remember. Not everything."

I let him back up a few more inches.

I let him put some space between us, if only for his sense of not being watched, or analyzed. I only have to imagine how I'd feel if the situation were reversed to know how I should proceed.

"But you remember more now, don't you?," and I swallow down the lump in my throat that's been there all day. That has been there since we found Moretti.

"I remember enough. Not a lot. Little bits, only," and Jane stops talking for a few moments, probably to breathe more deeply. "It's more than I want to remember."

Even in the darkness, I can see a line of pink well up under the cloth bandages.

The glass has cut him deeply. It's probably going to take several dressings to see a complete staunching to the blood flow.

"But I did lie to her, Lisbon. I told her that everything was fine!"

"You weren't trying to lie to your wife, Jane. You were trying to protect yourself from thinking about something horrible. You were trying to protect yourself, and that's all. What you did was completely normal, and completely understandable."

His gaze has fallen back to his legs, and I suddenly realize that he's been avoiding my eyes all evening.

I entwine my hand around his uninjured limb.

"Leave it alone, Jane. Don't play with the gauze. You don't want it getting infected."

Remarkably, he listens to the request and stops playing with the bandages, leaving his cut hand alone.

"Don't you think you'd feel a bit better if you got cleaned up? Do you have a spare set of clothes for sleeping in that I can grab for you?"

Jane's current pajamas are saturated in what smells like Vodka, and he scratches against the blood stain on his pant leg before responding.

"Not really. I think I'm completely out of clean clothes at this point."

I smile ruefully. "We all are, I think. But almost anything has to be better than what you are wearing right now. I'll see what I can find for you, alright?"

I leave Jane for a few moments, then locate his bags and go through the first bag - looking for anything soft and appropriate for sleep. I finally manage to find the grey sleep pants and top that he'd used at my place during his fever.

What's he doing with these, anyway?

When I return with the items, he looks confused.

"Trying to steal my ex-boyfriend's clothes, huh?," I say with a smile.

"I can't even recall packing those," he states dully, frowning.

I try to put his mind at ease.

Now is not the time to dwell on something so insignificant.

"Lucky for you, you did," and I toss the items down lightly on his lap, along with a fresh pair of boxers and socks. "Come on - get changed."

I shut the bathroom door behind myself and let him take a few moments to get tidied up.


I briefly consider heading back to check on the others.

I should at least take the cot over. Two beds are not going to be split easily amongst three agents. Not two male and one female.

Jane's exit from the washroom rouses me from my thoughts.

He looks a bit better: his hair has been wet down, and he looks fairly clean and relatively composed. The ruddiness of his features, from his earlier crying bout, is now gone. His face has been freshly washed and the only remaining tells of his earlier night terror are the slight rosy ring encircling his eyes and his somewhat subdued attitude.

I indicate to the bed that he should take, then pull the duvet over top him once he's gotten under the covers. He makes some soft, slightly impish comment about how I don't need to tuck him in. It totally lacks a jesting nature, however, and I resist an impulse to kiss his cheek. I do stroke his head a few times - a little distracted by my own thoughts - and he closes his eyes. Suddenly, as if waking from a dream myself, I realize the intimacy of the action and slowly pull away.

What are you doing, Teresa?

You can't afford to do anything that can be misread.

Not ever.

But certainly not now.

Not when he's this vulnerable.

"I'm going to check on the others," I state primly, still baffled by my own behavior, "I'll be right back."

Jane doesn't say anything.

It doesn't take a mind reader to know he's overwhelmed right now.


I knock abruptly, and in less than five seconds the door is opened up by Van Pelt.

She looks even paler in the moonlight than would be typical; her auburn hair pulled up into a tidy bun, her lips drawn. She's covered up, somewhat - as she's changed out of her previous pink pajama top into a much more concealing green hoody.

"How's he doing?," Grace asks in concern as she ushers me inside. She bites her lip as she awaits my response.

I give a terse smile.

"He's going to be okay. He had been drinking," and I give a nod of acknowledgement to Rigsby. "But he's doing a little better now. He's quite a bit calmer, although I think part of that is pure exhaustion. He's completely sleep deprived and he'll need some time off from the job entirely after this, if you guys want my honest opinion."

Rigsby sits slumped by one of the beds, remote control in hand, and now lowers the volume of the television as I continue to speak.

"He's also a little...embarrassed, I think. Which poses a bit of a problem about sleeping arrangements for tonight, at any rate."

"Don't worry about it, boss," Rigsby quickly states. "We can work it out over here."

Sweet sentiment, Rigs, but not realistic.

Not realistic at all.

Rigsby is 6 ft 4. He'll need one bed, reasonably, to himself. And I can't expect Cho and Van Pelt to share the other bed. It's not even considered appropriate for male and female agents to share sleeping quarters on cases. While I have no worries about anyone on the team reporting me for this, I don't want to break protocol more than is strictly necessary.

"No, that won't work. But we do have a couple options. I can bring Jane's cot over here, or you can come back to the other suite and share with us if you'd like to, Van Pelt. Or else, we can get you a third room."

Grace looks a little uncomfortable.

"Boss, you don't have to get a third room just for me. Seriously. We can work it out here, can't we you guys? I mean, I can definitely sleep on a cot. No big deal."

Rigsby nods automatically. Cho gives an assured "sure."

I don't fail to notice that my youngest agent seems to hedge on the suggestion that she actually share a room with Jane and myself. Cho and Rigsby must have filled her in about the details of what had happened before I actually got to the room.

Because he had been screaming.

And it had been frightening.

Especially when he hadn't roused from his inner world

despite my presence

despite my actions

despite shaking him

calling his name

That had been a very frightening event to witness.

I sigh, but nod in understanding.


It's quarter to one in the morning before every task is completed.

The others are okay for the night.

Jane is relatively calm.

Apparently sleeping.

And because he is, I let myself finally press a chaste kiss to his forehead.

"Dear God - please guard and protect your beloved child. Let him feel safe, and secure. Let him feel loved."

I brush away a few remnant tears from his face, before rousing to address my own lack of fresh sleep clothes. I quickly shake out my pajama pants, then roll up my socks, before changing into new ones. Socks also extricated from Jane's bag because - let's face it - at this point, I highly doubt he'll care if I borrow his socks. And I don't want to risk going to sleep and getting a small shard of glass lodged in my foot.

When I hit the covers, I'm out like a light.


Something wakes me up at 3:17AM - according to the motel clock atop the television set. The red square numbers seem almost accusatory in the calmness of the night. The light seems almost insistent and alarmist.

Only then do I realize that I hear running water, and so push back against my blanket covers abruptly. With force.

"Jane?," I call out, before making my way over to the bathroom.

I pound on the door when he fails to respond.

"Jane!," I call even more loudly now, trying to will my heart to beat at a normal pace. "Answer me!"

He's probably just washing up his hands.

Probably just had to use the bathroom.

Don't freak out over nothing, Teresa.

Keep it together.

When the door opens a few moments later, I realize that my concerns are not completely unfounded.

Jane's eyes look wild. Almost unhinged.

At first I'm worried about some sort of duplicate night terror.

It's that, or else some sort of breakdown.

Which would be undoubtedly worse.

But then I realize that he's pacing.

I don't think people pace in the midst of a night terror.

And he seems almost frantic.

"Jane? Why aren't you sleeping?"

Stupid words.

Stupid silly ridiculous words for a man whose gone through what he's gone through in the last few weeks. For a man whose been forced to remember and revisit what he's had to remember and revisit in the last few days.

But I don't know how else to address his actions.

Are you losing your mind? would not help in this scenario.

So I reach out for him instead, help him back to his bed, where he comes to sit down on the edge of the mattress.

"You have to call Agent Carlsson, Lisbon," he says after a few moments of relative quiet. "We have to go back. We have to go back right now. We have to look for her right now!"

Oh god.

Not this again.

I cannot take anymore of this behavior.

It's scaring the hell out of me.

"Jane. We've discussed this. They are looking for her. The divers had to stop when it got dark, but they have the nets down and they'll continue on until they find her. They will find her. I promise."

"No! No no no! We have to go back and check the grounds. We have to do it right now. Tonight, Lisbon! Morning will be too late!"

"Jane. Please calm down!"

I grasp my hands and squeeze. Anything to get the tremulousness in my own limbs to go away. When I feel relatively stable, I reach for his own arms, which he lets me hold.

Calm down.

Please calm down, Jane.

Please don't do this to yourself anymore.

"Tell me what's going on, okay? Take it slowly - make me understand."

But as soon as I release my hold on his arms - Jane is up again, pacing back and forth.

"She can't be dead, alright? That's what's going on! I didn't let her die! We solve cases all the time! Ridiculously backwards cases! But we can't find a little child in time? We can't stop an innocent little child from being murdered? I won't accept that, Lisbon! We didn't fail!"

I try to take regulated breaths. Nothing too shallow, nothing too deep.

"I refuse to believe that she's dead! I refuse to believe that she's in that," and he let's out a sound of near anguish, "in that stream, icy blue - and I'm sleeping in this bed? All cozy and warm and safe? No, Lisbon. I can't just sleep! That's what's going on!"

I feel on edge. I feel like breaking down and crying myself.

"Jane - they'll resume the search in the morning," I force my words to sound clinical, almost detached. Too much emotion is not what he needs right now. He's already choking on his emotions. "We can't take back death, Jane. We can't do the impossible, and as much as you want to change this, you can't," I whisper.

"No, that's not good enough! We need to get those dogs back and we need to search properly. Call Carlsson now. We need Sprocket back, and any-"

I grab Jane's arms forcefully now. My emotional reserves are almost completely used up.

"Stop it, Jane! Please just stop it! I know you're hurting. But going back there is not going to accomplish anything!"

He lets out a growl.

"You don't understand Lisbon! I've been going over what happened in my mind. Over and over again. Moretti - when I hit him. When I hit him, and we went into the water - right before - his arms weren't wet! His arms weren't wet! All night something has been bugging me. All night. Until I realized that's what it was!"

Moretti was at the water.

Watching the stream.

And he almost seemed to goad us

when I asked what happened to Thea.

"That doesn't make any sense, Jane."

"He didn't drown her, Lisbon! That's what I'm saying! He followed her there! But that's all he did. She might have fallen in, or jumped in-"

"Jane - she was phobic of water! She wouldn't have gone into the water herself!"

"But she was even more afraid of him, Lisbon, and she had no where else to go at that point! No where else to run! Listen to me, please - listen to me! Something has been off - about Moretti, about what he's said. The stream was so fast, and he thought she'd be dead soon anyway. He saw her drink the ethylene glycol. In his mind, it was a matter of time. He wouldn't have had to have drown her, because that wouldn't have mattered in the end. What mattered is that he had to make us believe that she was already dead. We just had to stop looking for her right then. Looking for her until the poison did its job."

I try to make sense of the words. His passion.

"That could all be true, Jane. But it doesn't change the fact that Thea was small. Tiny. And that stream was forceful enough as it is - I could barely pull you out. How would she have survived that current on her own?"

"There was a sand bar under my feet, Lisbon. I could feel it! If she stayed near the edge of the soil, and if-"

"The water would still have been over her head, Jane!"

Jane gets up, and jets over to his satchel bag. Within the next few seconds he's pulled out papers and print outs until he locates the journal of Dorothea's mother.

"Read it, Lisbon! Read this entry! Her daughter was so frightened of the water that she had hired a special instructor who was teaching her to swim in the shallow end. Someone who was specialized in water therapy."

"Water therapy?"

"Thea knew how to swim. She was scared of the water, but she knew how to swim. It makes sense, Lisbon! Moretti's hands were dry when I got to him. So he couldn't have held her under the water. All Moretti had to do was keep us from finding her! In his mind, she'd succumb to the poison before the elements. As long as we gave up searching. Or searched in all the wrong places."

Except this little girl vomits up her food and drink.

When upset or overwhelmed.

And Moretti wasn't likely aware of this behavior.

It wasn't something this child would have willingly discussed.

"He'd have no doubts about the ethylene glycol working," I breath out, horrified. "He just needed to keep us from finding her for a day or so. Probably less than that."

Jane looks equally unnerved, and utterly sick to his stomach.

"She knew how to swim, Lisbon. And if there's even a chance in hell that she could have pulled herself out of that water..."

"Oh my God," I whisper, while Jane pulls off his pajama top, already reaching for his dress shirt. I turn around to give him some basic privacy, though he doesn't seem to care one way or the other.

"I'll call Carlsson," I add, before I likewise pull on my own jacket.


Agent Carlson finally pulls up the to Riding Horse campsite entrance not even 10 minutes later than our own arrival.

When he gets out of his vehicle, I can see that he's brought a different dog with him this time.

Not Sprocket.

Not a blood hound at all.

"Delia takes care of two K-9 unit dogs. She alternates with three other agents on my team," Carlsson says breathlessly. "And since Dell doesn't sleep much, well - I didn't hesitate to call her up. This week, she was looking after this guy here. Gizmo. He's one of our newest, but he's a great sniffer," the bulky man says by way of introduction. He seems rattled, which explains his rambling address at such a time.

Gizmo is a German Shepherd. More puppy than full grown dog, but amazingly obedient, and he watches us as Cho divides up emergency blankets. He passes one over to Carlsson who takes the items with a solemn expression.

"You really think there's a chance we screwed up this badly? Left this little girl in the woods all day?"

Jane crosses his arms across his chest, chin jutted out.

"I think there's more than a little chance. She's in there," he says resolutely, while Carlsson opens up the locks, swinging the metal gates aside far enough so that we can easily drive through in the vehicles.


When we get to the appropriate location, we park the vans as close as possible to the edge of the lake then make our way back to the edge of the rushing water.

Jane is the first person out of the vehicles, as he opens his door before I've brought the van to a complete stop. He jogs over to the edge of the stream with an almost hypnotic stillness, then turns and states when I've approached: "She wouldn't have tried to clear the distance of the water width-wise. The water here is way too violent."

And he's right.

Even in the darkness of the night, the water is rushing at a rapid rate.

The force of it could probably overpower just about any adult.

Never mind a child.

"She probably would have half drifted north for about a good quarter mile or so. There's a turn in the river bank...here," and Jane now consults the map of the campsite with his flashlight, crumpled beyond repair, "about half a mile up. If she could have kept her head above water until then, she'd likely have been able to get her footing on the sandbank. Could possibly have crawled out of the water at the bend in the stream."

"So we head north about a quarter mile to a half mile on foot? Should we split up?," I query.

Jane hedges.

"We can't be assured that she's going to willingly reveal herself to our presence. She's scared of the dark, but she's also unlikely to trust us. And why should she, when every person she has ever actively trusted in either failed to protect her or deliberately hurt her? Except for her puppy, of course."

Jane gives an affectionate nod to Gizmo, who sits stoically - ever at the ready, and at full attention.

Van Pelt looks around as if spooked, before stroking the base of the dog's neck.

"What would a little girl do, though? It's unlikely that she got back on the camper trail. The likelihood now is that she's in raw bush territory. Jesus, guys - she must be scared out of her wits!"

Jane nods.

"If she made it out of the water, she's undoubtedly still alive. But she's hiding. She's too scared not to hide. Anyone in her position would hide."

Cho bites his lip. "She'd assume Moretti would still be after her."

I feel chills go up my back, and glance at my watch.

It's 4:22 am.

We arrested Moretti almost twelve hours ago.

If this child has made it then that means that she's been alone in these woods

for almost twelve hours.

Soaking wet, injured.

Possibly badly injured.


We decide to break off into two groups to cover more ground.

In another hour or so, the sun will rise.

But until then, we're in complete darkness.


About twenty five minutes into our walk, Gizmo pulls tautly against his leash. Lets out a slight whine.

We are more than a mile and a half further than the last known spot where Thea would have been located by the stream.

Carlsson pulls Gizmo aside, still whinging, but no longer straining against his leash.

"You got a lead, boy?," Carlsson asks the pup, who suddenly tugs strongly in a direction that takes us cleanly off the trail. We follow, awkwardly maneuvering ourselves around roots and fallen trees.

I should have brought boots for this case.

We keep at our hiking for a few minutes, navigating around deeper and deeper bush until Gizmo abruptly stops his movements. He paws at the edge of a nettle bush, then lets out a whimper as a nettle thorn brushes into his wiry leg.

"Keep him back," I pant, while I hand Carlsson my flashlight. "He could cut himself up quite badly on this plant."

Jane remains immobile behind us. As if rooted to the spot.

I lower myself to my hands and knees and try to catch sight of what's underneath the bush.

If Gizmo's pawing and noises are any indication - the child is here.

Not in the water.

Not any longer.

Jane was right.

My eyes have still not fully adjusted to the darkness, but then - almost as if I am studying a magic 3D photo - Dorothea Castleton begins to form right in front of me.

At first the image doesn't even make sense: all bony edges, and lean limbs curled in distrustfully upon one another.

The child looks like a bundled parcel of sticks. Her torso is concave, her cheeks sunken. Her scratched and oozing legs have been brought up to her chest - out of fear, or a need to keep warm, I'm not quite sure.

Probably both.

"Oh my god," I whisper to myself, before realizing that I have not yet addressed the child directly herself.

Because I have no idea what to say

or how to address this little girl

This little girl who has gone through so much

I always know what to say to criminals, punks, and people on the wrong side of the law. But I have no idea what to say to a bone thin, highly traumatized 7 year old. I just continue to stare for another minute or so - almost entranced by her appearance. The reality that she's alive almost mind boggling.

Part of me distantly realizes that Thea Castleton is an abnormally pretty little girl, or would be - if she wasn't so skeletal. So deathly-looking. Her eyes are the colors of blueberries and exceptionally round and swollen in her shrunken skull.

"Hello Thea," I whisper, "my name is Teresa. Teresa Lisbon. I work with the police. We've been looking for you for a long time now. Me, and some other police men and police women."

Those doll-like eyes blink, then turn and stare back at the ground. I can see a crusty ring of red-black around the girl's mouth.

She's obviously brought up blood recently.

This little girl should be in the hospital.

She should have been in the hospital weeks ago.

"Other police people and some nurses and an ambulance are going to be here soon. Everything is going to be okay now."

'Okay now'?

What a lie.

But I'm bad with kids at the best of times.

And 7 is such an awkward age.

"We're going to help you get out from under there, alright, Thea?"

I start to stand up when Thea lets us out a tangled shriek, quickly muffled back down into a raspy shuddering breath. The nettle bush rustles as she tries to back up further away from us.

"Dammit," I hear Jane curse quietly before he comes over, also lowering himself down to our section of space.

"Shussssh. It's okay, it's okay, Thea. You can stay under there if you want, kiddo," and his voice is soothing, and kind - like it always is when he's talking to children - but this time it also has enough of a jittery edge to give away his long standing exhaustion. His emotional turmoil. "No one is going to force you to come out from under there, okay honey?"

The movement of escape abruptly stops, the bush stops rustling, and for a single moment all I can hear is horrid gulping.

Horrible wheezing breaths while the child sucks in huge droughts of air.

Then I realize...

She's panicking.

She's having a panic attack.

"Not too fast," Jane says so lightly, so barely above a whisper that even I have to strain to hear him. "Little breaths. Just little ones. That's it, Thea. Baby breaths. Teensy little baby breaths. Just like this. Here, follow what I do, honey."

He mimes what he wants the child to do, and she follows along until her breathing diminishes back down into something that isn't so audible to the entire team.

"You're okay, see? You're okay, and you can breathe just fine. That's it, low and soft, little baby breaths, just like that. All that fear, all of that fear is rushing out of your body, leaving through your mouth, every time you breathe. Every time you breathe, a little more fear decides to leave your body. Can you feel it leaving your body, Thea?"

Those huge eyes are now trained solely on Jane. He gives Thea an encouraging little smile, then carries on.

"Can you feel that light? All around you? The moonlight? There is a soft light, all white, and it is slowly filling you, and where all the fear was before - now there is only a soft moonlight, and your whole body can feel it, and now your heart feels better and every part of you knows that you are going to be fine. You're going to be fine, and no one is going to hurt you. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you ever again, sweetheart."

His words are low and hypnotic. A gentle rolling hill. A deep but gentle thunder, from miles away.

A few moments pass, and then: "My name is Patrick. I work with Teresa. We know you are very scared, Thea. We know that, and we know you must be very cold and thirsty right now, too."

The little girl is shaking. Even in the darkness, with the ambient light from the flashlight, we can see the muted color of her skin. Her lips look drawn - cracked and dry. She looks like an unwrapped mummy. One whose wandered away from her tomb and now finds herself back in the land of the living. Confused. Afraid. Completely out of sorts.

"I hate being cold myself," Jane says softly, gently. "And thirsty. Two of the things I hate the very most in the whole world, I think," he tries again, some of the shaking now gone from his own voice.

Jane quickly unzips his satchel bag and pulls out one of the emergency silver thermal blankets. The plastic wrap crinkles loudly in the relative quietude of the forest.

"I'm going to pass this to you. It's just a blanket, so you won't feel so cold once you wrap it around yourself, alright honey?"

Jane starts to push one edge under the small patch of the nettle bush. After a few moments, Thea tugs the rest inside, and the rustling of the bush is heard once more. Within a very short period of time, she has the entire silver blanket completely wrapped around her body, covering her head. Her face is suddenly plunged into darkness and I am reminded of a snap turtle.

"I also have a juice box here. It's grape. Grape was always my favorite when I was little," Jane replies softly, opening up the straw and pushing the straw through the thin foil opening until juice plumes up into the plastic bendable portion. "I'm very thirsty though. Can I have a sip first? Do you mind?"

Those huge eyes just continue to watch.

I distantly and sickeningly realize that Thea has not yet uttered a single word yet. Save for the mangled and rapidly repressed scream - she hasn't made any noise whatsoever.

Jane does take a sip. Stops. Swallows. Takes another sip.

"Mmmm, this is good juice, but I don't think I can finish this. Do you want the rest? It's too sweet for me."

Thea is still mute.

Her head wavers back and forth, indecisive, before I catch the most minute nod. So subtle, so bare in expression.

Jane passes the container to Thea. I see the edge of thin and dirty fingertips come to brush up for the box, but not fully grasp the container. I then realize that Jane hasn't put the beverage close enough for her to reach without fear that she can accept the offering without being pulled forcefully from her sanctuary.

"I'm sorry, kiddo. It's too far away, isn't it?," and Jane nudges the juice box closer. "Here you go. You take it. I don't think I want the rest."

Thea takes it and snatches it back like a starving rat whose just whisked away a chunk of cheese or some equally edible prize.

Within a few moments that faintest sound of the juice being consumed is heard.

Despite myself, despite this horrific situation, I can't help but slightly smile.

A few minutes more pass before the juice box is slid back out from the tangled mass of bush.

Jane smiles faintly at the display.

"Still thirsty, honey?"

Another barely seen nod of her head, and now I can hear the distant alarm of the ambulance sirens.

Thea also hears the din and starts to bury even further into the bush. Frantically.

"No, no - honey, it's just an ambulance," Jane soothes. "With blankets. It's warm in the ambulance, and the people will be very nice. You'll be able to close your eyes, and they'll layer you with lots of blankets and pillows. You'll be able to curl up under a ton of them. Soft, and warm, and safe."

Thea, as it stands, must be more exhausted than just about anyone else here.

Firstly, she's emaciated.

Secondly, she's dehydrated.

And she's just spent over 12 hours in the woods, wet and cold

certain that someone was coming to kill her

"But here's the thing, kiddo," Jane states even more slowly than previously. "We can't get you to the warmth and the pillows and the blankets ourselves. Not without you coming out from under there. Do you think you can be very brave and come out from underneath there now? By yourself? Just a little bit at a time?"

Thea opens her mouth to speak, and it makes a perfect O. Her mouth then seems to hover over the words she wants to say and her lips tremble.

I can almost feel her frustration and tremulousness as she struggles to get her words out.

"It's okay Dorothea," Jane hums, "you can talk to us. All the thoughts in your head? You can pick them and give us just a few little words. Tiny little words, just like flowers, and you can speak one or two of them. Make them bloom. Flower-words. I know you can do that. I know you can."

The mouth slowly closes up, and the child gulps. Stares straight at Jane, then shakes her head.

Her whole body is tense.

"It's okay to speak, Thea. Nothing bad will happen if you talk to us."

Thea then angles her head towards the earth and pokes at the soil with one scratched and bleeding fingertip.

"No," she whispers. "No."

"No? You can't talk to us? Or, no - you want to stay under there?"

"Nooo," the child stresses to us in a wrecked voice, silenced by so much more than primal fear.

Jane swallows.

"Okay, Thea. That's okay too. You don't have to talk. I understand that's very hard for you right now. I know how scary it can be to talk when you're really scared. But I really hope you'll consider coming out from under there. It must be very cold and scratchy under that bush, with all those sharp nettles digging into your back. That must not feel very good at all."

Thea, on impulse, goes to rub her back. As she shifts about, I can more clearly see the extent of her injuries.

Somehow I manage to conceal my gasp.

Her back is coated in blood.

This little girl is a walking wound.

"Hurts," Thea finally whispers, her voice low and gravelly.

Jane hesitates slightly, then verbally agrees.

His eyes look faint, distant.

"I know, Thea. I know you hurt a lot right now."

The two watch one another for a few more moments, Thea fully guardedly and Jane fully openly - rare as that is for him - before I hear the lowered voices of two rapidly approaching paramedics.

Grace waves over the newcomers, and quietly informs them of the situation. They stall their motions, and wait patiently to the side of the trail while Thea finally starts to inch her way out from underneath the bush. Jane removes his jacket and slowly drapes it over her bleeding back in an effort to prevent any more of the flesh from being caught on the prickly branches. All truth be told, it actually looks as if a knife has ripped through her shirt. There are holes from where parts of the bush have caught her shirt and pulled. Broken edges of sticks gorging into her side from all directions.

Finally, after several minutes of hesitant movements, Thea is freed from the confining branches and she slowly orients herself upright. As she does, she pulls in her twig-like limbs and secures the silver thermal blanket more tightly across her body. Her forehead is bleeding, scratched by the offending plant. Insanely, I recollect a latent Sunday School image: Jesus wearing a crown of thorns, his forehead scratched and bleeding.

"Christ almighty, this kid's a skeleton. Someone's starved her," I overhear the male paramedic breathe to his colleague. I abruptly turn and eye the medics, shaking my head authoritatively until they stop speaking. They seem to get the message and immediately stop talking.

Jane motions to Thea slightly with his hand and she moves on her hands and knees in his direction, steeling herself for the next critical step.

"You're safe now," Jane promises, his words no more than air and kindness.

But it's all he has to offer.

Thea studies Jane's face for a few moments, then raises her right hand and gently paints small squiggly lines across the air, her eyes squinting as if absorbed in the task.

Honestly - I have no idea what the kid is doing, but Jane seemingly does and he lets out a choked laugh.

I'll have to ask him more about that later...

About what that action meant.

"Come here," he says a little more loudly now but no less gently, offering her his hand which she remarkably takes. Then he puts one hand underneath her knees and foists her up towards his chest, standing during the process.

Thea buries her head into his chest, blocking out the world, and Jane goes to encircle her tiny frame.

The paramedics stand around dumbly, unsure how to proceed as Jane walks back towards the direction of the vehicles and waits by the ambulance until the others catch up.

I follow along, opening the ambulance door and jumping up into the small space, before coming to sit alongside Jane and the child.

Jane sits on the primary stretcher, Thea still wrapped around his torso like a baby monkey - holding on for dear life. After a few moments the female paramedic, Cynthia, slowly tries to extract Thea from her tangled hold on our consultant - which is a mistake as the child yelps and grasps on even more tightly at that point.

Jane winces.

"Just a second," he murmurs to the medic, who is starting to look impatient.

"Look here, Thea," he says calmly. "I'm going to stay right here, and Teresa is going to be right here too. But can you turn around just a little bit so that this nice nurse can just look at you very quickly?"

I feel a sinking sense of doom. Because as soon as we get to the hospital, Thea's going to have to be more than looked at.

I know it.

Jane knows it too.

She'll undoubtedly require blood tests, minimally.

I sure as hell hope this kid isn't phobic of needles.

Cynthia readies a blood pressure cuff as Thea finally turns around, blinking against the light of the ambulance. The cuff reads as a child's size, but it still looks like it's going to be too large for Thea's stick of a forearm.

"This is a very special device," Cynthia states warmly. "Have you seen one of these before?"

Thea leans back into Jane, but doesn't turn completely around. She just eyes the cuff warily, and then nods.

"Have you had your blood pressure checked before, sweetie?"

Thea hesitates, but finally nods again.

"And that didn't hurt at all, did it?"

More apprehension, before a slight shake of her head.

"Nooo," Thea breathes, the drawn out sound currently exposing a mouth devoid of two front teeth.

Cynthia smiles.

"That's what we are going to do right now, if I can borrow your arm for less than a minute?"

Thea looks to Jane, as if asking for permission, and once again I cannot fully understand how he's secured the affection of yet another child. Especially one so traumatized, and in such a short period of time.

He looks to me for a few moments, then he nods.

"No, it's alright. There is no pain," he agrees in solidarity. "I've had my blood pressure taken hundreds of times. Never hurt one little bit. Just a bit of pressure, but no pain."

Thea slowly extends her right arm as instructed after another few seconds of internal deliberation. She's already wearing a short sleeved t-shirt, which I realize is still damp.

She must be utterly freezing.

She already is little more than skin pulled tightly over bone.

"Okay, so I'm just going to slip this little band around your arm, just like this," and Cynthia slowly explains each process as she works, Thea eying the entire endeavor with her wide owl eyes, unblinking.

Heavily focused on each and every movement.

"Then I squeeze this little ball, just like this," and now the entire cuff inflates, until firmly swollen against the child's arm. "A few more times, that's right - see? No pain, just as Patrick promised...," Cynthia adds distractedly now, a frown on her face.

"69 over 40, Dimi," she sighs to her colleague a few seconds later. Louder, now, to Jane: "you gave her some juice or something, right Mr. Jane?"

Jane nods. "Just a few minutes before you guys got there. That wasn't the wrong thing to do, was it?"

I hear Cynthia mildly swear. Almost inaudibly.

"No, no that's fine. She's probably still very dehydrated. The doctors will have to see the best way to raise her blood pressure. Could be some sort of electrolyte disturbance."

Cynthia slowly extracts the cuff from Thea's bruised arm, then pulls out an ear thermometer.

"Just going to take your temperature now too, okay sweetie? This doesn't hurt either."

The process is repeated: Thea bending her body any which way, almost doll-like in her lack of resistance.

A few seconds later, another slight frown.

These medics need to develop better poker faces.

Especially when dealing with terrified children.

"Dimi, let USC know her stats. They'll need the heating blankets. This kid is moderately hypothermic."

Jane now readjusts Thea on his lap, whispers to the child: "Give me your hands, Thea. Let's get your hands all warm, okay?"

He then cups his own hands, blowing warm air onto them, before taking Thea's much smaller arms and rubbing them several times.

"Gotta get the old circulation going, don't we?," he murmurs to her. He repeats the process a few more times, before she makes a motion to turn back and reorient herself away from the other occupants.

"Ooo. Oo. O-," she breathes against Jane's torso. Then she swallows, closes her mouth. Brushes her lips with her fingertips as if surprised she can't make the sounds necessary to communicate. Surprised, perhaps a little frustrated, but not at all scared by the prospect.

"That's not from the ethylene, is it?," I test easily, concealing any discomfort I feel in even asking the question. "Her problem speaking? Could that be from ethylene glycol?"

Cynthia's gaze flickers over the small body before she shakes her head.

"No. I've not heard of ethylene glycol doing that to anyone. Probably psychological," she adds a moment later, her eyes weighted with compassion. With understanding.

Jane rubs Thea's back lightly, aware of the wounds.

I repress a sigh, and control my emotions when I realize with a deep sickness that Thea still has no understanding that her family has been murdered. That her father, and most importantly - her mother - are dead.

"Feel better? Hands feel warmer?," Jane asks after a few more minutes, watching me carefully. Shaking his head in a resolute message.

Not now.

Definitely not now.

The little girl nods against Jane's shoulder, her mouth opening again as if to speak.

"Hssss," she ends up breathing against Jane's jacket, before suddenly taking one of his hands, palm side, and stroking out the same squiggles that she has demonstrated with her air brushing earlier in the evening.

This time, however, I realize the words may be of a different variety as whatever she writes sends a direct and clear message to Jane.

A message that fails to elicit the same smile.

In fact, when she's done writing against Jane's palm he swallows roughly instead.

"I know, kiddo. I know you want your mom."

The large eyes continue to study Jane's own, before:

"Mo-mmmy."

Jane looks to me helplessly.

I've never seen Jane look so helpless before.