Sydney tapped her fingers on the table in a sort of final drum roll and shook her head in an unsuccessful attempt to dispel the gathering fog. The seductive pull of inattentiveness was dangerous; the more exhausted she grew, the greater her chances of giving in to temptation. She often found herself terrified and yet intrigued by the prospect of giving in. It was not unlike the urge she often experienced, when confronted with a great height, to simply hurl herself off it. It would be so easy: just one step, then another, then the exhilaration of the fall. Never mind after the fall. Of course, her sense of self preservation always won out. But that instinct was all the worse for wear, and she wondered if it would always win. She could remember, with lingering dread, a time when that instinct had proven too weak. Once, in the fifth grade, she had pulled the fire alarm, while the principal watched from across the hall. She had never been able to explain to her father why on that particular day she pulled it, she had never pulled a false fire alarm before, she never did since. Everyday she had walked past the alluring red of the fire alarm, and the idea danced just behind her eyes before being ruthlessly shoved back. Until the day when the impulse had come, and she had not been able to act quickly enough to stop it. As she felt her hot, steady fingers on the cool of the handle, her stomach had dropped while some other part of her she couldnÕt explain had soared. As the glass had fallen to the floor, like frozen tears, she heard each tiny sound. And as the undeniable sound of the alarm had drowned out all else, she had felt that the bell proclaimed her instant of freedom. How close am I, at this very instant, to standing up and screaming the truth? All it would take would be one little instant when the part of her who wanted to stay alive wasnÕt looking. It had happened before. But she had been young then. Now, she was harder, she had been under siege for so long, and she had built up great and multifaceted defenses. If they ever came down, the crash would be magnificent. Her personal truth, in that moment, was that she was tired of all the lies, tired in body, and perilously close to the edge. How is it that there are so many lies sitting around this table? Sloane, her father, Marshall, Dixon, Sark; she had to be ready with a different lie for each of them. She could almost see the network of lies humming around the room, growing and growing and suffocating everyone. Escape would be so easy, just one little push, just a few little words, and she would be out. She could stop supporting her part in the net, and though others would be hurt, and that part of the net would grow back without her, she would be free. She had a lie for Francie, a lie for her mother and a lie for the CIA. Sometimes, she even had a lie for Vaughn. She worried that all those lies would would eventually finish off the tattered, dirtied, and often attacked remains of her personal truth. What would be left, after that? Would the lies she had created become ghosts who stole artifacts, wrote term papers, covered up bruises with make-up and and had secret meetings in warehouses? Her father gave her a sharp look across the table. She looked back at him, evenly, and then smiled over at Marshall who had begun to explain the use of a gadget she would need for her mission. She felt SloaneÕs eyes on her, and pushed her thoughts down, for that night, when she would lie in her bed and cry.