Meant to write on "Rock Bay," but this happened instead. Not such a bummer though, eh?

Many thanks: Amilyn, girleffect, Chemmie

Disclaimer: Nope monies.

. . . .

Oh, my brother, be careful.

You are driftin' away.

-"The Way it Will Be," Gillian Welch

The elevator binged. Plastic Death's Pain All Around ended between track eight and nine. Abby set Major Mass Spec to run. Thank heavens for the autosampler.

"Abbs."

She loaded the centrifuge with the blood found on-scene and turned it on. "I just got your tissues samples on the slides, Gibbs. And forget about ballistics for now—I called the doctor for my velocity detector. He's coming at three-thirt—"

There was a flash of purple and a tiny face peeked around the desk. "Um, hi."

"Hi, Lambykins! How's it going?"

Sara looked at her dad, then back at Abby. "I don't know," she answered honestly, shrugging. She wasn't wearing a summer camp t-shirt.

Gibbs dropped a tiny backpack on the desk. "She's all yours. Already put the lunch order in with Dorney." The muscles in his jaw clenched. "Don't you let her out of your sight. Not for a second, Abigail. Not to run a delivery, not to check the evidence, not to hit the head. Copy?"

This case—dead Marine father, missing six-year-old daughter—was eating him up. It was eating them all up. She saluted. "Sir-yes-sir."

He kissed Sara's head, then her cheek. "Be a good girl for Abby. Got me?"

"Got you," she said vaguely. Was that fear in her wide eyes?

Abby touched her wheelchair handle. "It won't be all work and no play today, Lamby. We'll do some fun stuff. Ok?"

"Ok," she echoed uncertainly. She and Gibbs had some unspoken conversation and then he turned and strode away. Sara waved when the elevator doors closed and glanced around. "I remember when I came here first. You put a Q-Tip in my mouth." She made one more visual sweep of the lab. "Am I in trouble?"

Abby crouched. "No, and you weren't in trouble then, either."

"I wanted to go to Zeeba's house, but Daddy didn't even let me go to camp."

"I know, but he's investigating a really scary case right now and he wants to be absolutely certain you are safe, and there's no safer place than the Navy Yard."

Sara nodded. "Did you see my baby?"

"I did. Did you like the outfit I picked out for her?"

"Yes. It was good that you got organic cotton but not pink. That's what Zeeba likes. And what Maya likes. Is everything pink for baby girls? I hate pink."

Abby smothered a smirk; Sara was wearing a pink striped cotton dress and pink knee socks under her AFOs. "Did you know that little boys used to wear pink because it was strong? And all kids wore dresses until they were six or seven years old?"

Sara shrugged. "Dresses make it easy to hit the head."

She smothered laughter. "That's a practical way to look at it. Want to do some science?"

"Why did you put that Q-Tip in my mouth?"

She paused, one hand on a cabinet door. "I was running a DNA test because we were trying to find next-of-kin for someone who had been killed."

"Who?"

"A Staff Sergeant named Joseph Kettle."

Sara blinked and shrunk. "Joey. He lived in my house with Mommy."

"Yeah."

She grew smaller and smaller. "They fought."

Abby put her hand on Sara's good knee. "I'm sorry."

"He went away."

"He died, Lamby. Someone killed him. A bad person." She left out the drug use and petty criminal activity. "But your Daddy got justice for him and the bad guy went to jail."

"Like Mr. Godwin."

Sara's eyes were half-lidded, her mouth slack, her hands loose on the tires of her wheelchair. Were they sliding down a rabbit-hole? Abby gave her a gentle shake. "Yes, like the man who hurt you. I am so sorry that happened to you, but I am really happy you're here with me. Yay, Sarie! Want to do science now? We can make a volcano!"

"Tony brought me here," she mumbled. "He didn't have a car seat. I sat looking forward. I go backwards in Daddy's car."

"Daddy wants you to be safe and rear-facing is what's safest for you."

Sara's little face twisted in anger. "My friend said that's for babies. I'm not a baby—Maya is a baby."

Couldn't they just make a mess with baking soda and vinegar? "I know that and you know that, but sometimes it's hard for people to understand."

"I asked Daddy to turn my seat but he said no—I'm too little. I'm always too little and I hate it." She reached out, opened a cabinet door, and slammed it shut.

Abby caught her hand. "I can show you with science why rear-facing is best, but you may not hurt me or my things."

Sara gave her a defiant look, but it was replaced quickly with one of curiosity. "With science?"

"Yep. Science can answer almost any question in the universe."

"Can science say why my bones are all bad?"

"A different kind of science, but yes. I can only show you if you keep your cool."

She paused, considering. "Ok."

Was it that easy? Abby jumped up, retrieved two toy cars from her office, and returned to fold herself on the floor in front of Sara. She slid out of her chair and arranged her legs with her hands. She squinted, not remembering Sara having to do that before.

"Ok, so what happens when a car crashes?"

Sara brought her hands together. "Smash."

"Yeah, and what happens to the people inside."

"They get hurt or die."

"Yes, but we need to think about science." She put the cars on a path of impact. "Newton's Law says an object in motion tends to stay in motion unless it is acted upon by an outside force. So if the car is traveling, it will stay traveling until something stops it. In this case, it's another car." She crashed the cars together. "So the people inside the cars stay in motion unless they are acted upon by an outside force. What force acts upon the passengers?"

Sara touched her lap belt. "Seat belt?"

"Right! Why do you wear a seat belt in your chair?"

"So I don't fall out. I could break."

"Right again—so smart! Should you fall, the seat belt is the outside force that stops the motion. Your car seat works the same way. Now let's talk about rear-facing. If you're in a car going fast and you stop, what happens to your body—does it go forward or backward?"

Sara thought for a long time, leaning forward and back. "I don't know."

Abby lifted her back into her chair and snapped the belt. She pushed her forward quickly—just a gentle shove—and the grabbed the handle and stopped. Her tires squeaked on the floor. Sara jerked forward. "Hey!"

"How did your body go?"

She pointed. "Forward."

"So if your seat faced forward, what would stop you from flying out the windshield?"

Sara blinked. "The straps."

And what would happen to your body?"

She blinked again. One hand found her throat. "Breaks."

"Yeah, probably a lot of them and probably bad ones. So if your car seat faces backwards when the car goes forward, where does your body go when it stops?"

She blinked again. "I don't know."

"Think about what your car seat looks like—how it goes high above your head, high at the sides—why is it like that?" She turned Sara around backwards and gave her a push, grabbed the handle. Her head jerked back.

"Hey! I don't like that, Abby!"

"But did the back of your chair protect you?"

She reached to touch her seat back and her neck. "Yeah. So my car seat goes backward to protect me from smashing."

"Very good! It's there to protect you—especially your head and neck—in case of an accident."

She lifted Sara onto one of her high rolling desk chairs and held her there with one hand. "Do I need to strap you in, or can you promise not to air mail yourself out?"

She gripped the armrests. "I promise."

"Ok, great." She pulled videos from the NTSB and AAP websites. "Here's a kid your size in a forward-facing car seat. What happens?"

Even the crash test dummies were hard to watch. Sara winced when the doll folded around the five-point harness. "Wow. That's a lot of breaks."

"Yeah, and that would be horrible. Now watch what happens when the kid is rear-facing."

The dummy jolted, but the seat absorbed most of the energy of the crash. "Wow," Sara drawled. "That's different. That baby would not get so many breaks."

"And the most important part is that his head and neck are protected. Your bones are very fragile, which makes it even more important."

Sara looked at her. "I broke my neck before."

"And it was awful."

"I had to go in an ambulance."

"Scary."

"Yeah."

Abby closed the website. "So now you do understand why Daddy has you rear-facing in the car?"

"Yes. So I don't have to go in an ambulance."

"And what are you going to tell the kids when they tease?"

"That they're a bunch of poo—"

"No! You tell them that it is the safest way to travel."

"The safest way to travel," she echoed.

"And your Daddy wants what's safest for you, because it would be very, very sad if you got hurt."

"I get hurt all the time."

"Not like that."

Sara gave her a long look. "I was a lot more normal before."

Open mouth; insert foot. "I know. I'm sorry. Are—are the kids mean to you for being different?"

"They don't call names, but they try to drive me around and pick me up like a baby. I don't like it. I wish I was more normal like before."

Abby checked the progress on the blood samples. She still saw that little threadbare kid sometimes and it hurt. "I like you the way you are, Lamby."

"Only grownups say that."

"Nuh-uh! Your friend Tova likes you for you. And Sophie. And the other little girls who came to your big birthday party—do you think they wish you were different?"

Sara spun in a circle. "I don't know. You said you would tell me with science why my bones are all bad and you didn't."

"Science needs it's own time, kiddo. Just like these blood samples."

"Blood?"

"From a crime scene where someone got shot. I'm going to find out if this blood is the victim's, the killer's, or someone else's."

She spun again. Did kids get dizzy? Was this some kind of sensory thing? Didn't Sara have a bunch of sensory things? "Does my blood look like everyone else's?"

"From the outside."

"What about inside?"

"It's probably pretty normal, but I would be able to see the medicines you take and that you have OI."

She stopped and looked at Abby. "Just from blood?"

"Yep. I could also see if you ate candy, or if you had coffee, or if you're sick or healthy."

She started spinning again. Abby felt sick just watching. "Wow. Blood is so cool."

"Yes, and it should stay inside your body. How about you stop spinning?"

"I like spinning."

"Stop and I can tell you science about your bones."

She stopped. Abby quit panicking about her breaking her skull on the floor or the cabinets. "Ok, so what's the name of your condition?"

"Bad bones."

"Nope. It's Osteogenesis Imperfecta."

Sara clucked. "No way."

"Osteo means 'bone.' Genesis means 'growth.' Imperfecta is the female form of imperfectus, meaning 'incomplete.' Your bones don't grow well because they don't have everything they need. What's missing is a structural protein called collagen. Collagen makes bones softer, which means they bend under impact instead of break. Your bones break because you don't make enough collagen, which makes them brittle. Another name for OI is Brittle Bone Disease."

Sara went wide-eyed. "Wow. That's a lot."

And that isn't fair. "I know."

"Show me on the computer."

"I don't have a model of it like I do for car crashes. But I can show you something else—come on, Ladybug."

Abby lead the way to the cooler, where she opened a package of medical-grade gelatin and ran water in a plastic bin. "This," she said, holding it up. "Is what you're missing." She wet it. It softened quickly and broke into chunks. She handed one to Sara.

Sara made a soft, oh. "It's squishy."

"It is. If it was inside your bones they would be a little softer. Not soft-soft, but more cushiony and able to withstand more impact."

"Impact is like cars crashing."

"Yes, good connection."

"So my bones breaking are like car crashes?"

Abby pulled a face. "I guess you could say that. Especially for big stuff, like the header you took down the stairs at Christmastime." Or when Godwin beat the tar out of you and I thought we were all going to die from sadness.

She gave Abby a very serious look. "Then I need a lot more car seats."

. . . .

The brush was thick, the ravine deep. Blackberry brambles tore through Gibbs' pants, snagged his NCIS ball cap. The new guy picked across the mud in front of him, McGee behind. They were a grim procession; forty-eight hours in and efforts were slowly shifting from rescue to recovery.

"Boss, you really think someone could walk down this embankment carrying a body?" McGee asked.

He swatted at some no-see-'ums. Avery was half-Fillipino and small for her age. A cadaver dog barked from a few yards ahead. Gibbs' infamous gut landed somewhere around his bootlaces.

The dog sat at attention, his handler serious and soft spoken. "Might wanna send a few techs over here," he called to Gibbs.

The forest stilled. Gibbs whistled and pointed. The techs donned shoe covers, masks, eye protection. The dog pranced and whined. The smell of death rose like steam from the disrupted earth at his paws.

Gibbs ran a hand over his face. A tech brushed at the mud, but it was too wet. He switched to a small trowel and scraped, revealing two small fingers.

"McGee," he ordered. "Photos. Get McDevitt to bag and tag. And Di—and find someone to sketch." He turned and started back up their path, careful not to disrupt any possible evidence. Too old for this shit.

"Boss?" McGee called. "Boss, where—"

He hardly bothered to listen. The path was muddy. His boots squelched. Sunlight couldn't filter down to dry it out.

There were two cruisers parked, hazards flashing, along the guardrail. A golf course ran along the other side of Route Fifteen. A Leesburg LEO looked up from his notebook. Gibbs only pointed and slid into the Charger. He slammed the door and pulled out his phone.

Abby picked up on the first ring. "Did you-?"

"Cadaver dog," he responded.

She went silent. "Oh. Gibbs, I'm so sorry."

He rested one fist on the steering wheel. "Yeah, well, what're ya gonna do?"

More silence. "She's not Sara," she said quietly.

"Put her on."

There was a muffled sound and then Sara. "Hi, Daddy."

His stomach rose, but only a little. "Hi, sweet pea."

"Are you having a hard day?"

"Yeah."

"Did you find that little girl?"

Had he told her about that? "Yeah, we did."

"Yeah."

"Can I go to Zeeba's house after work and see the baby?"

"I wont get in 'til late, sweet pea."

"Boo. I want to see the baby. She likes me. She holds my finger. And she likes my old pacis."

"We'll see the baby soon. Listen, you were really great while I worked this week. I think you deserve a treat. What do you want?"

"I just want to sleep in the big bed tonight."

He'd have to come up with something else, too. "Done. I'll see you after work. Ok, sweet pea?"

"Ok, Dad."

"Love you."

She was distracted, fading. "Love you, too. Be good."

He smirked, hung up, and dialed DiNozzo's cell. "Boss?" he answered, whispering.

"Recovery."

"Damn." There was a creak, a soft click. "Where?"

"Outside of Leesburg." He checked the rearview. Ducky and Palmer pulled up in the coroner van. "They'll need a basket to get her out of there. Terrain's rough."

"Same perp who killed her dad?"

"How's the baby?"

"She's great. Getting big. Doctor's appointment this morning—she weighs ten pounds now. She's got gams, Boss—big, chunky thighs. And her hair with the...and her eyes are turning kinda mossy. I bet they'll be green—"

"Sar and I will stop by this weekend."

"Come hungry."

"How long your in-laws staying?"

Gibbs could her him scratch his scalp. "Oh," he muttered vaguely. "Didn't ask. They're a huge help with Maya. Doesn't matter how pissed she is, you put her on Romi's chest and it's just—" he snored, demonstrating. "Ziva finally gets the chance to rest. She's napping now. We all were. I think, anyway. It's fuzzy in here."

"Sleep deprivation's a bitch, huh?"

"I'm good. Ayelet made pizza. No pork sausage, but—"

"Ziver ok?"

"She's good." His voice softened. "She's really good."

"Need anything?"

A pause. "You ok?"

"Just checkin' in."

"I'll give everyone a squeeze for you. Feel it? Feel me hugging you with my mind?"

"Hit the rack, DiNozzo."

"You're full of good advice," he said seriously. "That little girl isn't Sara."

"That's what Abby said."

"Women are usually right."

So that's what cost him three marriages. "See ya this weekend, DiNozzo."

"Bring Sara," he ordered, and hung up.

. . . .

Sara clucked when Gibbs tipped the bottle against his mouth. "You're having beer!"

Cold beer. Warm night. "Root beer. You, too."

She held the pony bottle between her knees. "It's nice out here."

They were on the porch. Fireflies blinked a foot above the lawn he'd mow that weekend. "Yeah."

"Did that little girl die, Dad?"

"Yep."

"Did someone hurt her?"

"Yep."

She drew a breath. "I don't like that."

"Me, either."

A neighbor closed his garage door. Moths banged their skulls against the streetlights. "Are you going to catch the bad guy?"

"That's the plan."

"I don't like that you go to work. I want you to stay home."

The sky would be fully dark in a matter of minutes. "And do what?"

"Build stuff. Me n' Abby did science all day and we built stuff. We did safety, too, with car seats. It was cool. I want to do a lot of science at school."

He pictured Abby's lab full of floor mats and accessible-height desks. He needed to get back to the school about what she needed. "You will." He'd make sure of it.

"I learned what makes my bones bad. It's called collagen. I don't have enough and doctors can't put more inside. But someday they will."

"I'll be waiting on that day, sweet pea."

"Me, too. Do I have to have another surgery?"

"Probably."

"That stinks."

"I'll take good care of yyou."

"I know. Still stinks."

"Yep."

"Did that little girl that died—was she normal, Dad?"

"Far as I know. Why?"

She shrugged. The porch light flicked on and bathed them both in yellow. "There are no kids like me at camp."

He should've done more research. "Wanna playdate with Sophie?"

"Ok."

But that wasn't it. She still looked a little haunted, a little sad. Or maybe that was Gibbs. "What's up, sweet pea?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I feel weird."

"What kinda weird?"

"I'm sad for that little girl who died. Did she have a mom?"

"Everyone has a mom, Sar."

"But did she see her every day?"

He sighed and took a long swallow of beer. "No, her mom lives in California. She only saw her in the summer."

"And maybe Christmas."

"Maybe."

"Kids should see their moms every day."

"Not always possible, sweet pea."

Was she swiping at her eyes? "I know, but if they can then they should. I talked about Mommy at work today. Abby told me about Joey."

Well, shit. "Joey was your biological dad, Sar."

"Yeah, but you're my real dad."

He laughed. Sometimes she just filled him up. "And you're my real kid."

She climbed into his lap. It was, as always, a struggle. He needed to talk to her docs. "Dad, I don't want you to tell anyone I was in foster care, ok?"

He captured her small face in his big hands and made her look him in the eye. "Don't you ever be ashamed of where you come from."

She pulled away. "It's private."

"I'm not gonna shout it from the rooftops, Sar, but people are going to find out. And some need to know so they can help you—like at school."

She side-eyed him. "You can't tell my teacher unless I say so."

"Too late."

"Dad."

"I had to make sure she knew what to do if you break, or what to do if your feeding tube gets clogged, or how to handle it if you have a meltdown. Those are basic things, Sar."

"Other kids—"

"Other kids' parents had to talk to her, too. Everyone's different. Everyone has their shit."

She clucked. "Swears, Daddy."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Other kids are normal."

"Can't always see what's going on inside, Sar."

"People stare at me and I hate it. Even Dod Romi—when he came to Zeeba's house he stared at me for a long time. I got mad at him."

"Did you tell him politely to stop?"

"Yeah. Well, mostly. I wish I wasn't different. I wish I did normal stuff with no breaks."

"I think you're pretty great as-is."

She snarled. "Grownups always say that!"

He chucked her under the chin. "Maybe because grownups have been around long enough to know what's really goin' on. Kids can be mean, but that's usually because they either don't know any better." He took another swallow of soda. "Or they're scared."

"Kids are jerks!"

"Then why did I have a house full of little girls on your sixth birthday?"

"Sophie and Tova and Beila aren't kids. They're my friends."

"Looked like kids to me."

"Because you're old."

He tickled her. "I'll give you old." He held her at arm's length. Her legs dangled, but she laughed and writhed until he lowered her again so she could catch her breath.

"You are old," she said, still giggling. "You're the only dad I know with white hair."

He tapped the hard plastic of her left AFO. "You havin' trouble, babe?"

Sara shrugged. "No." He raised his eyebrows. She sighed. "I didn't want to tell you 'cause you were busy at work. And I didn't want you to take me to the doctor for needles and tests."

His gut was tumbling again. He poured the beer in the bushes. "You need to tell me when something's up."

"It doesn't hurt." He gave her a stern look. She scooted back on his lap and used her hands to put her legs out flat across his. "They don't move when I say anymore."

"Sar, we need to see a doctor."

"No," she snapped. "No doctors. I don't care. I already have a wheelchair."

"But if something is wrong then we need to know."

"We talked about bodies at camp. Bodies are private. No one can touch my body without permission. That means asking first and saying yes."

"Not the same, Sar."

"Yes, it is. And I don't want to have more surgeries. Not even if it hurts really bad. It's broken inside, Dad and it can't be fixed."

"I'm still taking you in."

"I will throw a huge fit."

"That's fine. Still gettin' checked out."

"I will scream really, really loud. I will scream so loud you will send me to jail."

"Nope."

"Oh, yes you will."

"Nah." He poked around the straps, over her knee. "Can you feel me touching?"

"I can feel fine. Hey! That tickles!"

He balanced her skinny legs across his palm, then took off all her gear and folded her into his arms like a baby bird. Her knees poked up, the left a little puffier than the right. "You sure it doesn't hurt?"

"The bad side is always sore."

He harrumphed. Damn that Godwin.

"You can't fix it, Dad."

He wasn't so sure about that. "What if I can?"

"Nope."

"What if you could have an operation tomorrow that would fix everything? Would you want it?"

"Like walking and running and stuff?"

"Yep."

"Would it hurt?"

"Probably."

"Would I have another big cast?"

"Maybe. Would that be worth running around?"

She shook her curly head against his shirt. "Surgery can't make me bigger or make my bones more different with collagen. Not even magic surgery."

Well, she had him there. "Nope, not even that."

She peered at him over her shoulder. "Would you want me to have that surgery?"

"Told ya—as-is."

"As-is," she echoed. "And I like you as-is, too, Dad."

He got up still with her in his arms. She was growing, but slowly. "C'mon. Bedtime."

She sighed and snuggled in, resting her head on his shoulder. "I think this is the latest I stayed up ever since I got you."

He put her chair in the house and her gear on the seat. She snuggled up to him. "Big bed tonight. You said so."

Gibbs flicked the deadbolt behind him, but didn't turn on lights. "Yeah, I know. You need a bath?"

"No."

"Then let's hit the rack. I'm beat."

"I'm not."

"Yeah you are."

It was hot upstairs. "Can you put the AC on?" Sara begged. "It's so stuffy. Like...yuck, Dad. Why didn't you leave it on all day so it wasn't burning up here?

He deposited her on her bedroom beanbag and turned on the lamp. "Cause it's expensive and you cost a small fortune. Get your PJs on. I'll be right back."

He clomped back down the stairs, flipped on the hallway lights, and turned the thermostat to cool. The AC unit thumped and kicked on.

"That's better!" Sara called.

"PJs," he reminded firmly.

"Ok, ok," she grumbled.

His cell rang. He would've ignored it, but Abby's number appeared on the caller ID. "Yeah, Gibbs."

"You're not gonna believe this," she started. "But the DNA I just ran came back on a hit from another case."

He was already sprinting up the stairs, heart hammering. His legs quivered like jelly. "Sara's."

"Yeah. But Godwin's in jail, Gibbs. I'm sure it's—"

"I don't believe in coincidences, Abby."

"I'm on my way. Tell McGee to go to Vance. I want extra security on the Yard and a uni on my house until this case is closed." He picked Sara up. "We're going back to work," he told her, phone still tucked against his shoulder."

"I need my stuff!" she pouted.

He toted her down the stairs and out the door without grabbing her chair. "Sleepover with Abby. You don't need it for now."

"Gibbs, he's in prison," Abby wheedled.

"Have the futon ready for Sar. She's about to crash."

"None of the evidence is conclusive, Gibbs. You're making a mountain—"

He strapped Sara in. There were tears in her eyes. "Big bed, Daddy! You promised!"

He climbed in the driver's seat and gunned the engine. "Headed your way, Abbs," he grunted, and peeled out, tires squealing in the peaceful summer night.