Happy blasted past San Jose, Sacramento, and a sign saying Oregon Welcomes You!. She didn't stop until the sun was well behind the horizon and her eyelids were growing heavy. She finally pulled off the highway in Brookings, a tiny coastal town she'd never heard of until a sign came up for it. She stopped at the first place she found: a ratty motel where they didn't ask for any ID as she checked in and rooms were fifty dollars a night.

Her room was only a hair bigger than their closet at home and she didn't even want to think about what kind of stains were hiding in the dark-purple fabric of the bedspread, but it was quiet and there was no chance anyone from the team would come looking for her there. She hadn't packed anything for her impromptu trip, so she only had to bring her satchel in from her truck. When she got in her room, she collapsed on the bed and went to sleep.


Toby waited until the morning after talking to Paige to make the call. He spent a restless night thinking of what to say, occasionally dozing off and dreaming of Happy's coming back to him, only to wake up an hour later, terribly disappointed that it hadn't been real. He finally got out of bed at five in the morning, much too early to call Happy; when she didn't have to wake up for a case, she could easily sleep until noon. He tried - and failed - to distract himself with the most recent issue of the American Journal of Psychiatry, which had come in the mail a few days before. Finally, at ten, he couldn't contain himself any longer and dialed Happy's number.

It went straight to voicemail. Not the ideal outcome, but at least she hadn't screened his call and hung up on him. Or worse - but also, he thought, more likely - picked up just long enough to tell him to go to hell and never speak to her again.

He listened to her curt voicemail recording - This is Happy Quinn. Leave a message. - and the robotic beep signaling he could start talking. Suddenly, all seventeen versions of the apology speech he'd come up with in bed were forgotten. It took him a minute to stumble out any words at all.

"Happy. Hi, it's me. Toby. It's Toby. You know, Toby - of course you know who I am. God, sorry. I don't know if you want to hear from me. You might just delete this message without even listening to it. I'd understand if you did that. I was trying really hard to give you your space, like you wanted. God, I don't even know how many times I've almost called you in the past few weeks. But after everything that happened - after everything I did - I wanted so badly to not be pushy. The only reason I'm calling now is that Paige told me she talked to you and… and that maybe you'd be… you'd be interested in talking to me. If you are… God, Hap, I'd really like to talk to you. If you don't want to, I'll respect that. I won't call again. But if you want to call me, I'm around. Everyone misses you. God, you should've seen me trying to rig up a lift for this project we were doing the other day… Cabe was laughing his ass off, and Walter was getting so mad. He had that face- I'm sorry. I'm just rambling now. Anyway, we all miss you, and I'd really like to hear from you. I love you, Happy. Goodbye."

When he hung up, the click that ended the call seemed to echo in his empty apartment. He wanted to be out of there; he knew some guys who were throwing together a poker game at noon, and he considered going. But, with his proclamation of love fresh in his ears, he found that he didn't really want to go. So he stayed; he watched TV, read his psychiatric journal, even called some cousins - who were more than surprised to hear from him - and asked after nieces and nephews. He did a lot of meaningless stuff, but he did not gamble.


When Happy woke up the next morning, she went to the closest store - a Walmart - and picked up a few clothes, a toothbrush, and a phone charger. (Her phone had died around Sacramento, halfway through her jamming out to "Highway to Hell" through her car's Bluetooth.) Then she found a diner with a nice view of the ocean and ate a small plate of scrambled eggs.

As she was eating, she plugged in her phone and texted her dad saying she would be out of town for a while. There was a barrage of other texts and voicemails, but she didn't even bothering looking at who they were from; probably just Paige, maybe a few customers of Patrick's. On a whim, she unplugged her phone and fiddled around with some battery-draining apps until it died again. She immediately felt blissfully unconnected, alone, peaceful, for the first time in weeks.


Around five, Toby went to his fridge to look for something to cook for dinner, but he found it nearly completely empty, save for a couple bottles of beer and some expired milk, so he headed to the store.

It had been a while since he went grocery shopping - Happy enjoyed doing it, so she normally took care of it - and the dirty, white tiles and bright fluorescent lights of the local Vons were startling at first. Soon, though, he fell into the familiar rhythm of walking down the aisle and loading his cart with food.

As he was reaching for a package of pork chops in the meat fridge, someone backed into him. He turned around, forgiving smile already on his lips, when he saw a familiar face.

"Whoops, sorry, I didn't-" the man started to say, before recognizing him. "Toby?"

"Hi, Patrick."

Patrick's posture immediately became defensive; he took a step back and folded his arms. "Oh. I didn't expect to see you here."

"Yeah, well. It's, um… How are you?"

"Fine. It's hard to see my daughter hurting, though."

Toby tried a joke: "Straight for the jugular, huh?" Patrick didn't laugh. "Well, uh, how's Happy?"

"If she wanted you to know, she'd have called you herself." Behind the malice of Patrick's words was a hint of sadness, uncertainty; Toby latched onto it.

"Is she still staying with you?"

Patrick glanced towards the ground, avoiding eye contact, but he didn't respond.

"She's not?" Toby guessed.

"I don't think she'd want me to be talking to you."

"Where is she? She's not hurt, is she?"

"No, she's fine - as far as I know. She just told me she'd be out of town for a bit."

"Out of town where?"

"I don't know; she would've-"

"She would've told me if she wanted me to know, I got it," Toby interrupted. "But, come on, Patrick. I at least want to know that she's safe."

Patrick sighed, giving up on pushing against the interrogation. "I really don't know, Toby. She didn't come home last night, and this morning all I got was a text saying she would be gone for a while. I don't know where she is or when she's coming back."

"So you saw her yesterday morning?"

"Yeah. She left for a lunch with Paige and then I didn't see her again. Now, if you'll excuse me." He motioned to his cart, which was half-full. Toby nodded a good-bye, his mind racing.

Happy didn't come home after having lunch with Paige. She left their lunch to come talk to him and no one had seen her since. A few things might have spooked her enough not to go through with meeting him, but he could only think of one thing that would've made her leave town: she saw him going to gamble.

He'd finally done it. He'd driven her away. Maybe - he didn't even want to think it - forever.