As the ambulance navigated the increasingly treacherous county roads of central Pennsylvania, Peter sat on the bench and tried to stay out of the way. He held Neal's hand when he could, and watched Gale the paramedic closely when he couldn't. She fussed around Neal nervously, checking his vitals every few minutes and assessing his wound. The tube down Neal's throat, she'd explained to him earlier as he used a cloth to rub Neal's blood off his hands, was to help maintain Neal's airway. But Peter was trying very hard not to think about Neal's airway at the moment. For when he did, the list of his injuries the infirmary nurse had rattled off began playing over and over again in his head.

Strangulation. Had that been Smith? Was that why the guard was unconscious, bleeding, and cuffed to a chair? Why Richards had posted himself outside Neal's cell? Had Smith somehow gotten wind that Diana and Peter were there? That might explain why Richards knew who Peter was. Or had Neal told Richards who he was and there was much more going on here than met the eye. And stabbed? Was that Smith, too? Then pneumonia and the broken arm added on to all that.

Peter let his eyes rake over Neal's unconscious form. He looked sick. It had only been a week since he'd been taken and he'd already lost so much weight and muscle mass. Neal had always been thin, but now he looked like a living skeleton beneath the blankets Gale had draped over him. He was still unconscious too.

And speaking of Gale. "How much longer Tim?" she asked her partner a moment later.

"Five minutes out," was Tim's reply.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked and Gale glanced up at him from the monitor she was checking.

"Blood pressure is down, 78/52."

That was all foreign to Peter, but he didn't press it. He would much rather let the woman focus on Neal rather than answer any of his stupid questions. There would be time enough for that later when Neal was safely at the hospital.

Peter took his friend's hand and did not have to let go again until they pulled up to the ambulance bay exactly five minutes later. Someone owed Tim a beer.

Peter jumped out as soon as the ambulance doors were thrown open. He gave Gale and Tim plenty of room as they carefully unloaded Neal from the back and rushed him towards the ER's automatic doors. As they went, Peter noticed an unmarked police cruiser pull up behind the ambulance. A familiar officer climbed out of the passenger seat and Peter once again locked eyes with the guard named Richards. He glared at the man as they entered the ER.

But once Gale started to explain Neal's condition to the doctor that met them, Peter forgot all about the guard.

"Neal Caffrey…"

Finally, Peter breathed as Gale used the right name.

"30 years old."

"35," Peter added, though he was largely ignored.

"Transfer from Bucks. Unresponsive at the scene. Treated for dehydration with fluids at the prison. He got one liter of saline by IV in the ambulance. Throat trauma from severe manual strangulation, airway secured by oropharyngeal airway. Possible pneumonia. Last BP was 78/52. Heart rate is 118. Oxygen sats are at 91% on full mask. Glucose within normal limits. He's also got a stab wound to the shoulder, active bleeding, decreased breath sounds on the left, and what looks to be a possible closed fracture of the left lower arm," Gale explained as they wheeled Neal into a treatment room. While Peter wasn't forced to leave, he did have to let go of Neal's hand and watch helplessly from the doorway as his friend's limp body was transferred from the paramedic's gurney onto the one already set up in the trauma room.

"Neal? Can you hear me?" the doctor asked loudly, once again digging his knuckles into Neal's sternum. This time he reacted. It was brief, but Peter did not miss it when Neal's good hand lifted from the bed ever so slightly and his eyelids fluttered. The movement was there and then gone.

"Come on, Neal. Open your eyes," the doctor tried again, but there was no response this time. Peter rubbed a nervous hand over his mouth.

"Alright," the doctor said with a sigh, "let's establish another IV and push another liter of saline. What are his vitals?"

"Blood pressure is 80/56, heart rate still at 118, respirations 30 and his sat is 92 on 15 liters," someone answered him. Peter wished he had paid closer attention in his basic first aid classes. Maybe then he would have been able to make heads or tails of what all those numbers meant.

"Do we have a temp?" the doctor asked next, and Peter watched as Neal was rolled over on his side, all the IV's and crisscrossing wires going with him.

"38.9," someone answered. That number Peter knew. Neal was running a fever and it was about 102.

While the doctor continued his assessment - listening to Neal's heart and lungs with a stethoscope - one of the nurses busied herself with removing the blood soaked gauze from Neal's shoulder. A fresh wave of viscous red welled up from the puncture wound almost immediately. The shiv had gone in so near the area of his heart, Peter couldn't believe the blade hadn't hit something vital. Too vital. The doctor seemed to share his concerns and inspected the wound carefully before ordering the nurse to apply a pressure bandage. While all of that was happening, yet another nurse had begun cutting away the rest of the dirty, orange jumpsuit Neal was still wearing.

"Okay, I want CBC, lytes, extended lytes, creatinine, urea, a venous blood gas, lactate, coags, type and cross for 2 units. Let's also do CK and troponin, a liver panel and two sets of blood cultures," the doctor rattled off, though Peter hardly heard the words. He was too busy watching in horrified silence as Neal's jumpsuit was cut the rest of the way from his body.

His hand came up to cover his mouth in shock. Not only were Neal's bones painfully visible under his pale skin, but every inch of his body seemed to be covered in fading bruises. The sickening colors were blotted onto his skin like an artist might have put them there on purpose, contouring them to bring out the worst of the damage and invoke a feeling of outrage from the viewer.

Peter had to look away. He tried to convince himself it was just because he wanted to give Neal a little privacy before the nurses covered him back up again, but it wasn't the truth. He just couldn't handle it anymore. The world was on fire again.

Peter was angry. Peter was outraged. How in the hell had this been allowed to happen? How in the world had Neal been kept a secret for so long in that prison with injuries like these? Peter wanted to punch someone. Make them feel as angry and helpless as he felt right now.

"Let's get x-rays of his chest, neck and arm," the doctor continued, recatching Peter's attention. He had to move out of the way as several important looking x-ray technicians barged into the room a few minutes later. The nurses all worked together to roll Neal over onto his side as a grey slab type object was placed on the bed. Peter watched them do it, flinching when Neal's eyelids fluttered again and Peter thought he heard his friend moan beneath his oxygen mask. But the nurses rolled him back over a moment later and Peter was no longer sure he'd actually heard it. Everyone stepped back, and then it was over with a few clicks of a button. The x-ray techs breezed out of the room again with hardly a sidelong glance to Peter as the nurses all swooped back in.

Everything must have been pretty instantaneous because it wasn't long before the doctor was peering down at a computer screen with the x-ray results.

"Someone page respiratory," he ordered without looking up. "I need them down here for a consult now. And ortho too. What are his vitals?"

Peter listened as they were listed off again. Blood pressure at 74/48, heart rate at 120, respirations still at 30, his sats down to 87% on 15 liters. It was the 7 on the Glasgow Coma Scale that really got his attention. But Peter was too terrified by now to ask for an explanation. It sounded to him like Neal was crashing.

"Alright, let's push another liter of normal saline. I want to get that blood pressure up before we need to intubate. Have ketamine and rocuronium standing by. We're also gonna need a chest tube for the pneumothorax so prep the kit." the doctor paused to take a breath. "And then will someone please get him out of here?"

Peter realized a second too late that the doctor was pointing at him. A nurse left Neal's side and started gently herding him out of the room.

So they'd come to it then, had they? That invisible line in the sand. The one not even his badge or his gun could get him across. The one protected by nurses and angry looking orderlies. A line Neal could cross, but not Peter. Never Peter. Not even if he were family.

"I need to stay with him," he pleaded with the young male nurse as he was slowly backed out of the room.

"I'm very sorry sir, but you can't be in there for this next part."

The nurse had gotten him all the way out of the room by now and the door to the exam room was rolled shut behind them. Peter could no longer see Neal. The door was made of glass but the nurses had pulled closed the curtain around his bed.

Peter fished for his badge, even though he knew it was a lost cause. His tac vest and gun alone were proof enough of who he was. "Look, my name is Peter Burke and I'm an agent with the FBI. That man in there works for me and his life may be in danger."

It was partially true at least. Smith might have been secured back at the prison, but Leech and Park were still out there. Neal really wasn't safe yet, as much as Peter hated to admit it.

"We have a private room you can wait in. As soon as they get Neal stabilized, then we'll let you back in. You have to think of what's best for your friend right now. Let us do our jobs."

Peter could tell that no amount of arguing was going to convince the nurse to let him back in that room. There weren't many places in this world where his badge meant nothing, and couldn't gain him entry. He could probably count them all on one hand. The Doylestown ER had now been added to that list.

"I'll wait with you, Agent Burke," a voice said from behind him and Peter spun around to find Richards had sprung up again. Officer Barrett was with him too, though the young man hung back and said nothing.

Peter's face heated with anger. But before he could even begin to remind these two men about the promise he'd made to Warden Grant back at the prison - or tell them how monumentally stupid it was to insist that Neal, a man who had been kidnapped and held for a week under what he could only imagine were deplorable conditions, was a flight risk - Richards was putting up his hands.

"I'm not here to piss you off, Agent Burke. The warden wanted Caffrey guarded and I was able to convince him to send me and Barrett. Barrett will stand guard out here and make sure nothing happens to our friend while we talk."

Peter narrowed his eyes at the guard, trying to decide if he trusted him or not. He certainly had been protective of Neal back at the prison and seemed to know more about what was going on than anyone else Peter had yet to meet today. He reluctantly agreed to allow Richards to come with him, and the nurse showed them to the waiting room in question. Peter glanced over to make sure Barrett really was on the door before walking in. He was, not that it made Peter any less on edge. He probably would be until they were all back home in New York and Leech and Park were behind bars.

"I'm Joel, by the way," the nurse explained once they were all inside. "Do you two need anything before I go?"

Both men shook their heads.

"Ok, someone will be in to talk to you as soon as possible."

He left and Peter suddenly found himself alone with Richards. There was no one else in the waiting room and a TV was on but there was no sound. Some concerned looking correspondent sat behind a desk trying to look important as he shuffled paper's around and frowned into the camera. Peter tuned it out and turned on Richards.

"Alright, out with it. I want to know everything."

Richards sighed. "And that's fine, but we gotta get one thing straight. All of this is off the record. I'm not making an official statement until I speak with my union rep."

"Fine," Peter snapped.

Richards collapsed into one of the mauve waiting room chairs, adjusting his belt to get comfortable. Peter followed suit. He considered taking off his tac vest but it didn't feel right. Not yet.

"The first thing you gotta understand is that I'm married," Richards began.

It was an odd way to start off the conversation, but Peter went with it.

"I started sleeping with Frank's sister, Mallory, about six months ago. She's the nurse you met in the prison infirmary."

"I remember," Peter said, frowning.

"Smith found out about it and has been threatening to tell my wife. We're on the rocks already but trying to make it work. You know how it goes."

Peter nodded, even though he had no clue. Sure, he and El had their problems, but they'd always been able to work them out before getting to a point where Peter would call their marriage "rocky."

"I work with Smith down in solitary. When I showed up for shift about a week ago, we had a new guy in 3. The paperwork said he was Dominic Sanchez and an inmate convicted of killing a cop. Everything was in order, but I kind of had an inkling that something wasn't right. Sanchez… or I guess I should call him Neal, was beat to hell, pretty sick already, and really wasn't making much sense at first. He kept trying to tell me he was Neal Caffrey and that I needed to call the FBI. I just thought he was trying to play the system, ya know? These inmates will do just about anything to get out of those cells."

Peter tried to keep his face a mask of calm and indifference as he listened to Richards' tale, but it was difficult. That hate that had been growing inside of him was beginning to fester now.

"I really started to get wise the day Smith beat the shit out of Caffrey after I told him what Neal had been asking me to do. When I questioned him about it, he threatened to tell my wife about my affair with Mallory. He even had pictures he was going to use to get me fired from my job. I'm not proud of it, Agent Burke, but I kept quiet about my suspicions. It was eating me alive though and I actually looked up your number a time or two. Tonight, when I got back on shift, I was going to talk to Neal one more time. If I still felt like something was off, I was going to call you right then and there.

"But when I got to the prison, Neal wasn't in his cell. This other guard who helps us out down in solitary sometimes told me about how Smith had taken Neal to the yard. She was worried because she'd overheard Smith and a couple of other guards talking about how some new inmate had arrived at the prison who knew Sanch - Neal. And how they were going to put the two of them in the yard and take bets on which one killed the other first. I got to the yard as fast as I could, but the other inmate had already stabbed Neal by then. I managed to bring him down before he could do anything worse than stab him in the shoulder. He's dead, by the way."

"Do you know who the inmate was?" Peter asked, his voice rough with the emotions he was barely keeping in check.

"He had a pretty unusual name. Fort something or other"

"Kurt Forsythe?" Peter asked, eyebrows raising.

"That's him."

So they'd come full circle then, Peter thought to himself. Bringing down Forsythe and his crew had started it all and now Forsythe's death would end it. It was poetic almost, though Peter had to remind himself that this was far from over yet. Neal was still in terrible danger, both from Leech and Park, and now his own injuries. The injuries the man sitting in front of him had wholly ignored.

Richards' voice began to shake. "I know it seems empty and too little too late, but I really am sorry this happened, Agent Burke. I should have said something the minute I suspected something was off with Caffrey and how Smith was treating him. But I was too scared. That's on me, and it's gonna haunt me until the day I die." The guard dropped his head.

Peter tried to be understanding, he really did, but Richards was the closest thing he had to a physical manifestation of the bad guy in this story, and he no longer possessed the strength to keep his anger hidden, or tucked behind the quiet and calm exterior he always displayed to the world.

"If he dies…" Peter started, but he couldn't finish the sentence. Richards shoulders shuddered as he buried his face in his hands.

"I need a minute alone," Peter said simply, entirely unimpressed with the man's show of emotion. "There are… people I need to call."

Richards looked up. "Of course. I understand. I'll go check on Barrett and find myself a cup of coffee."

Peter watched as the guard rose from his chair and made his way out of the room with heavy, laborsome steps. Richards paused at the door. "Would you like me to bring you anything when I come back?"

"You don't need to come back," Peter answered, flatly, watching Richards' head fall again as he nodded. Peter instantly regretted it. This was just his anger talking. Richards had protected Neal at the prison and probably stopped Smith from killing him. Peter needed to remember that.

"Officer," he called out before the man could leave. The guard turned around, his eyes shining with emotion.

"Frank Smith. What happened with him in the infirmary?"

Richards sniffed and wiped at his nose with a sleeve. "Someone tipped him off that you were coming. He attacked San… Neal in the infirmary. I had just pulled him off and cuffed him to a chair when you guys showed up."

"And the other one? The one you were holding at gunpoint?"

"That was just Jimmy, one of Smith's buddies. He's an idiot, but he's harmless."

Peter decoded the explanation was enough, though barely.

"Thank you," he said.

Richards modded and then pulled open the door.

Peter stopped the man one last time. "So maybe make it a bottle of water when you come back then."

Richards' face was unreadable when he turned back around. "You got it, Agent Burke."

The door snicked to a quiet close behind the guard and Peter was finally alone. He went searching for his cellphone, finding it one of the vest's pockets. It was nearly dead and vibrating every few seconds with incoming calls and texts. Peter made sure none of them were from anyone important before starting in on the calls that really mattered. The only people he really wanted to talk to.

Jones already knew. Peter should have figured Diana would call her partner as soon as she had the chance. Hughes was next and they passed empty congratulations back and forth, along with promises to keep each other in the loop as the shit began to hit the fan. Peter agreed to keep Hugues updated on Neal's condition and his boss promised to get to the bottom of Neal's incarceration and his new alias, Dominic Sanchez. Peter liked his boss' plan. As soon as Neal was deemed a free man, he was going to have a grand old time throwing Richards and Barrett out of the hospital. Though, after the conversation he'd just had with the guard, maybe that wasn't going to be quite as fun as he imagined.

When Peter was done talking to Don and leaving a cryptic message for Mozzie he knew the con would appreciate, he got ready to call Elizabeth.

She picked up on the first ring.

There was no hello, no preamble, just, "Did you find him?"

"We did."

"Is he alive?"

Peter hated that his wife had to ask him a question like that. He prayed that there would never come a day when he, nor any other FBI agent for that matter, would ever have to give her any other answer than the one he gave now.

"He's alive." Peter swallowed. "But he's in really rough shape, El."

Elizabeth was quiet on the other end of the line as Peter fought for control. Tears were threatening but he wouldn't let them come. He needed to be strong, calm, focused. Do for Neal what he couldn't do for himself right now. Fight for him in the ways Peter should have been fighting for him since day one.

"How is he?" El finally asked in a quiet voice.

Peter ran a hand over his eyes, his tac vest suddenly very tight across the chest. "The doctors are in with him now. Someone's supposed to come out and talk to me when they're done."

There was more he wanted to tell her, but the words would no longer come.

"Do you need me to come over there, Peter?" his wife asked, picking up on the distress in his voice in that supernatural way of hers. "You just say the word and I will hop in a car and be there by dawn."

Peter smiled at that. Of course she would want to come. Of course she would want to be here. And not just for Peter, but for Neal too. Her presence would help him find that calm and focus he was looking for. The strength he would need to face all this once people started trying to get out in front of the whole mess. Peter wanted to say yes, and knew his wife would do exactly as she promised. She would jump in that car and make it here before dawn.

But it wasn't safe yet. El needed to be home where Peter knew she could be protected from Park. They all needed to be home, in fact. And if Neal survived this… No, that wasn't right. When Neal survived this, Peter would see that he was transported back to New York as soon as possible.

Home.

Peter could protect everyone better there. It's where their entire support system was located. Where they could surround themselves with people who loved them and would protect Neal at all costs. Here in Bucks County, Pennsylvania even the nurses made Peter nervous. Any one of them could be working for Leech and they would never know it.

"As much as I would love to have you here, El," Peter answered finally, "it's just not safe yet. I need some time to figure out what happened here and I can't do that if I'm worried about you all the time."

El was quiet for a second, but eventually answered. "I get it, hun. But I'm here. Any time, day or night. You just pick up the phone and call me, ok?"

"Ok," Peter agreed.

"I'm serious, Burke," she added, pulling another smile from Peter. "Any time. Day or night."

"Family of Neal Caffrey?" a voice called out, pulling Peter's focus before he could comment. There was a head poking in through the door. It was the same doctor from Neal's trauma room and Peter jumped up instantly, almost dropping his phone.

"El, I gotta go. The doctor is here," he said as the man in question spotted him and came forward. He looked tired and there was blood splashed across his scrubs.

"Ok, but call me the moment you know something!" El begged frantically in his ear.

"I will. I love you, Elizabeth."

"I love you, too Pe…" but Peter had already ended the call. He would apologize later for cutting her off.

"I understand you're the FBI agent who arrived with Mr. Caffrey?" the doctor asked, extending a hand. Peter shook it. It was warm and dry and left a slight dusting of powder on Peter's palm. Probably from the gloves. "Neal will be in no shape to talk to you or anyone else for quite some time."

"No, that's not…" Peter had to pause and take a breath. "I'm not here because Neal is in FBI custody. I'm here because he's my friend and also my kidnapping case."

"Oh!" the doctor said, his white eyebrows chasing up after his equally white hairline. "I just assumed… well, that explains a lot."

Peter raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"Why don't we have a seat," the doctor suggested.

Peter undid the velcro straps of his tac vest and threw it into an empty chair before sitting down again. Something told him he was going to need all of the lung capacity to get through this next part.

When they were settled, Peter noted Richards had slipped back into the room. The doctor noticed too and looked to Peter for confirmation that it was ok to continue. Peter indicated he could as Richards handed him a bottle of water and took an empty beside him.

"Are we expecting any of Mr. Caffrey's family?"

"No," Peter admitted, his mouth suddenly very dry. "My wife and I… we're really all the family he has." There were others, of course. Friends who were as dear to Neal as any family ever could be. But they were all back in New York. And the doctor didn't need to know that right now.

"Well, I'm Dr. Weiss. I'm the ER doctor who examined Mr. Caffrey when he arrived."

"I remember," Peter said, contemplating taking a drink of his water but too terrified to move. "How is he?"

"I'm not going to lie to you, Agent Burke. Mr. Caffrey has a lot going on at the moment. In addition to a collapsed lung from being stabbed in the chest, he's also dealing with sepsis due to his untreated pneumonia and complications from the throat trauma. We've intubated him to help him maintain his airway due to the swelling and help stabilize his vitals. We've also inserted a chest tube to help inflate his collapsed lung."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop about 20 degrees as cold dread crept up Peter's spine. Images of Neal hooked up to machines were conjured from nowhere as the blood in his veins turned to ice.

Intubated. Ventilator. Life Support.

This couldn't be happening.

"We'll monitor his condition closely and give him antibiotics for the pneumonia. I've asked for a consult from ortho and they should be able to tell us if his shoulder or arm will require surgery. If that's the case, they'll likely tackle those issues once Neal's a little stronger and more stable. We've got the shoulder and arm stabilized for now."

Peter swallowed. "But is he going to be ok?" It was a question he'd been wanting to ask ever since the prison but had been too afraid.

The doctor leaned forward, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair. "Mr. Caffrey is young and healthy. He's got a really good chance at beating this. He's also responding to the fluids and his blood pressure is already stabilizing. We'll make him as comfortable as possible down here and then move him up to the ICU once a bed becomes available."

Peter couldn't decide if that meant he was supposed to be optimistic or incredibly worried. But the doctor was right. Neal was young and healthy. If anyone could make it through something like this, it would be him. The man with the 93% conviction rate, who had brought down the likes of Ghvot and Forsythe, no matter how many holes Robert Leech had tried to poke in those accomplishments.

"Can I see him?"

"Of course you can see him," Dr. Weiss replied, rising from his chair. Peter followed him out into the hall and back towards the trauma room.

"I'll be right outside," Richards informed him when Peter was once again standing in front of the door to Neal's room. "Call me if you need anything."

Peter nodded and then forced himself to step inside. The nurse that had taken him to the waiting room was just finishing emptying a syringe into Neal's IV. "Hydrocortisone for the swelling," he explained before turning around to start working at a computer sitting on a cart in one corner of the room. Peter tried his best to ignore the man as he hesitated in the trauma room doorway.

Neal's gurney had been pulled away from the wall slightly and there were monitors and machinery surrounding it. The noises they made created a strange sort of symphony in the crowded room. Peter wondered if Neal would have found the beauty in such a thing. The beep of a heart monitor, the mechanical swish and hiss of the ventilator, and the chirp of the IV stand as it administered its meds. The IV stand in question was near the head of Neal's gurney - an actual stand, not a wire hanger this time - and heavy with bags of medication and saline. The clear liquids made their way down serpentine lines that disappeared into the IV's in Neal's hand and arm. His good arm. The bad one had been stabilized with a temporary cast and was propped up on several pillows. There was a fresh dressing on his shoulder wound, although a splash of blood was coloring the gauze. He suspected, if he ventured over to the other side of the bed, he might even catch a glimpse of the place where they'd placed the chest tube. Entirely uninterested in adding that to the images that were already going to give him nightmares for a week, Peter settled his eyes on Neal's face instead.

He took a few tentative steps forward, and then a few more, until he was standing beside Neal's gurney.

The oxygen mask was gone, obviously, and had been replaced by some kind of contraption that held the ventilator tubing in place. It was blue, just like the delicate tubing that ran from Neal's slack jaw and over to the machine that controlled it all. His eyes were closed and deeply bruised. Swollen as well. A gift from Smith's hands, he figured.

Peter looked down at his hands, uncertain of what he should do with them. To reach out and touch Neal felt wrong, like he might somehow shatter reality or discover that it was nothing more than an illusion and that Neal really wasn't here. Or that he would grab Neal's hand and somehow manage to dislodge something and injure the sick man further. He would have given anything in that moment for Neal to just open his eyes, announce himself to be perfectly fine, and that he was ready to go home now.

That's how Peter would have preferred it. To have called Hughes a moment ago and told him that Neal had been found. A little worse for wear, perhaps, but alive and in good spirits. Grinning like a loon as those SWAT guys gave him their high-fives.

But not like this. Never like this.

Peter let his hands rest on the rails of the bed. That seemed to be safe enough.

"Neal?" The name felt so strange to say out loud.

Peter could have sworn he saw the barest flash of bloodshot white and a hint of deep blue, but convinced himself a moment later that it was nothing more than his imagination playing tricks on him. After all, Dr. Weiss had explained about keeping Neal sedated for the time being before disappearing into another trauma room. Even so, it gave Peter enough courage to finally take Neal's hand.

It was warm. So much warmer than Peter was expecting as he held on for dear life.

"It's ok, Neal," he found himself saying as he bent low over his friend and touched the side of his bruised and battered face. "It's going to be ok. You take all the time that you need. I'll be right here." He'd been saying that to so many people lately.

Something wet dripped from the end of Peter's nose.

"I've got you."

a/n: For all my fact checkers out there: Neal's bday is 3-21-1977 (that's a day before my own if anyone wants to know :). NOT the same year!) Assuming this story takes place around 2012, I've made his age 35.