Okay, guys, here it is. I hope you like it. As you may remember, I started this part a long time ago, when I actually had the inclination to check the State Dept. website for info on "dangerous countries", so the whole location thing may be a bit outdated. But the locale doesn't really matter. I don't know if the situation is realistic at all; I make no assumptions about that, so feel free to yell. My excuse for feedback this time? My scooter got a flat tire (it's what I use to negotiate campus, as opposed to my crutches), so I have left my room a grand total of three times since Friday morning. They're supposed to come fix it tomorrow morning; cross your fingers. Between the election, my horrid chem. test, and this, it's been quite a red letter week; the S3 box set has been the only saving grace. Anyhoo, so the point to this is that feedback is the elixir against all manner of evils.

1 Year Later

The phone trills loudly and I pick it up, hoping, dreading, as I have with every phone call over the last four months.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Lyman? This is Tom Billings at the Embassy in-"

"Yes?"

"We have some information for you..."

Why in the hell did I ever let him take that job?

Okay, so you might have been thinking, with all the stuff that seems to happen in our family, that Adi being a foreign correspondent was asking for it. But I couldn't say no. Not because he's an adult and I really have no right to do so; we all know I could have found a way around that. It's his idealism, his faith in mankind, his desire to "make a difference," to use the old I. How could I squash that? I didn't have the heart, not when it came to my son.

But now I wish I had.

He and Phil and some other reporters have been missing for four months. They went to Afghanistan to cover the continually foiled UNHCR efforts, and also to lay the groundwork for covering the elections. Their convoy was ambushed and they were taken. Taken.

"We have reports that U.S. forces advanced on a terrorist camp early this morning. Amongst other things, they had information that a group of American journalists were being held there. Right now we cannot verify this information, or the identities of the possible hostages. There's still fighting going on at the site."

"Mr. Billings, do you have any idea, any inkling, of when hostilities might cease?"

"No, sir."

"Well, keep me updated, and let me know if you get anything, anything, you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

I cannot panic. I cannot panic.

But there's this awful sense of déjà vu setting in, and it's making my chest constrict with fear.

I'm going to Germany. Again.

All I heard on the phone was that they're alive. Both of them. And it's bad. I didn't wait for more, I just got on the next plane.

Donna's at home, with Liza. They wanted to come, of course, but I needed to move fast. And somebody should be at home.

Trouble is, I don't know how I'm going to do this alone.

Josh can't be there alone. Not now. Not with this. You know why. He needs someone there who knows, who can be there 24/7 if need be.

So I'm sending Sandy.

I couldn't tell Norah, especially with her being nearly out of her mind worrying about Phil. About both of them. I couldn't spring the PTSD on her now.

But Sandy knows, and he's going, and that's that.

"Mr. Lyman?"

I turn abruptly. "Yes?"

"I'm Major Rawlings. I-"

"I need to see them," I interrupt. "Before you tell me anything, I need to see them."

"Sir, I really think-"

"Look! My son and his best friend have been missing for four months, enduring God knows what. I answer directly to the President of the United States, who, I might add, is at this very moment waiting for an update on their condition. So..."

I'm breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating, at this point. The doctor sees, and lays a hand on my arm. "All right," he acquiesces.

I follow him down the sterile corridors, images of the last time I walked through these halls playing through my head. Major Rawlings stops finally, and ushers me through a door.

Holy God. Oh, holy God.

It's Adi. Or rather, a shadow of him.

Donna always rags at him for being too skinny, but now, well, if a person could have negative body fat, Adi would be the representative poster child. His hollow cheeks are burning with fever, and his chest appears to be thick with bandages under the hospital gown. Leaning closer, I notice an angry red burn on his shoulder. It looks like.... I don't know whether I'm going to be sick, or surrender to complete rage. I look at the doctor questioningly, indicating the burn, and he nods. Holy hell. Cigarette burns.

Adi stirs, and I stroke his forehead, smoothing back his matted hair. Slowly, his eyes open, and in them, through the dullness of drugs and pain, comes recognition. "Dad?" he whispers hoarsely.

I do my best to talk around the lump in my throat. "Hey, kid," I say softly. "Long time no see."

He attempts a smile. "A little...delayed."

"No kidding," I grin slightly. "Go back to sleep now, okay? Rest. Everything's gonna be fine."

"Phil?"

"I'm taking care of it. Don't worry. Go to sleep." I kiss his forehead, and watch as his eyes drift shut. Running my hand over my face, I turn back to the doctor. "Okay," I say, "I'm listening."

I'm sitting by the bed, holding his hand, when I hear footsteps outside his door. I look up, expecting I don't know who, Norah maybe.

It's not Norah. It's a girl, a woman, who I've never seen before, standing in the door with a hand over her mouth. Her black hair curls wildly, and her light blue eyes are fast filling with tears. Hi," I say softly. "Are you someone I should know?"

She smiles tremulously. "Maybe."

"This is just a shot in the dark, here, but are you the girlfriend?" I wince at the unfortunate idiom I've just used, but at least she smiles for real this time.

"Yeah, that would be me. I'm Miri, Miri Anderson. Short for Miriam," she explains, in response to my questioning look.

She ventures farther into the room, shrugging off her suit jacket and slinging it over a chair. She sits across from me and takes his other hand. This seems to be enough for her, just holding his hand, and I know instinctively that my son has finally found the right girl. Then, with an intimacy that surprises me, because she seems like a private sort of person, she leans over and tenderly kisses his palm. "I'm happy to see him," she offers by way of explanation, blushing slightly.

"I would imagine. So am I."

"I guessed that, from how quickly you got here. I left as soon as I heard, so..."

"How'd you find out?"

"Stan called me. And I just, I just dropped everything and ran."

"Stan knows about you two?"

"We've been dating for a year and a half."

The shock must show on my face, because she continues: "Please don't be angry, Mr. Lyman. We were going to tell you all; I kept asking Adi to, but you know how he is. He kept saying he liked 'keeping it under the radar.'"

"Well, considering he's a journalist, I don't know how that worked," I say, hurt evident in my voice.

"Mr. Lyman, do you know how much people respect him at the paper?"

"Do you work there?"

"No, but I've seen it. Stan actually told me what he knew in person, at the office. At least thirty people must have stopped me on the way in, asking about them. Do you know what they call them?" she asks, biting her lip. "The Dream Team. This one woman stopped me, in tears, telling me that on her first day as an intern, Adi brought her a cup of coffee at the end of the day. He was always doing things like that, she said. For everyone. A few months ago, Stan started calling him Sunshine, grumbled that he was too damn cheerful for his own good. Adi always told me he was an even gruffer version of Toby Ziegler, but for what it's worth, I think Stan adores Adi. The respect is mutual, I think."

"He's always been a good kid."

"We talked about it once. He said he learned it from you."

What??? "Ah, most people tend to think I'm an asshole."

She grins. "Well, on the surface, yeah. But he says everyone you care about knows, when push comes to shove, you'll be in their corner."

Before I can think up a suitable reply to this revelation, Adi stirs, grimacing. Miri leans over him, and when his eyes open, a faint grin appears on his face. "Well, hey. It's the Wall Street Whiz Kid."

She smiles, her eyes brilliant with unshed tears. "You're late."

"Yeah. Sorry."

She puts a gentle hand on his forehead, wincing at the heat, then uses it to smooth back his hair. "Rest, baby. That's all you need to worry about now. I'll be here when you wake up."

" 'Kay."

As his eyes close, she traces a finger above the gash on his cheek. She takes a deep breath. "What happened?" she asks softly.

"They're not sure yet. Neither of them is really in a state to talk. Adi's got...he's got extensive bruises, broken ribs. A really bad infection. His foot's pretty mangled up. And...and there are cigarette burns."

She looks up, startled, and I nod. "Oh, God," she whispers. "What about Phil?"

"Yeah. What about Phil?"

I look up. It's Sandy and Norah, standing in the doorway.

Thank God for Sandy. I couldn't do this alone. The doctor had to give Norah something, she was shaking so badly. We told her about the coma, the extensive burns, and she just went into shock.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Sandy?'

"The doctor just told me that some people are here from the State Department. They want to talk to Adi."

"You're kidding me." I stride angrily to the lobby, ready to let them have it. "Are you kidding me?" I ask hotly. "The kid's got a 103 degree fever. He's got cigarette burns, for God's sake! Cigarette burns!"

"Josh-"

"It's Mr. Lyman to you right now," I say icily.

"Mr. Lyman, it's standard procedure-"

"Josh."

It's someone else, a friend of mine, Ken Farnham. We went to law school together. He works for State now. "We wouldn't be here if it wasn't absolutely necessary, Josh. You know that. We need to find out what happened. We'll go easy on him, I promise."

All of a sudden I feel totally and utterly drained. I'm geared up for a fight, but not prepared for compassion. "Fine. It's this way."

"Josh, maybe it would be better if you leave."

"Like hell I will," he says stonily.

"Josh-"

"Either I stay, or you go," he states flatly.

I sigh. He's just as bullheaded as he was in law school. "Fine."

"Might get ugly, Dad," comes the weak voice from the bed.

"You worry about you, okay?"

"Don't say I didn't warn..." he fades off.

I look at Josh. "Get on with it," he murmurs wearily.

I turn towards the bed. "Adi?" His eyes open. "Adi, I'm Ken Farnham. I'm with the State Department. I'm actually an old friend of your father's from law school."

"Poor you." He smiles faintly, showing a trace of a pair of dimples, and suddenly, despite everything, I'm struck by how much he looks like Josh. A young Josh, the Josh I remember, the Josh who I argued with, played ball with, and put to bed on more than one occasion, after he'd had too much to drink. I look over at Josh, see the love shining through the weariness in his eyes, and I give him an almost imperceptible nod. Without waiting for a response, I turn back to his son.

"All right, Adi, I'm just going to ask you to tell me what you remember. Anything at all, okay? If it gets too much for you, you just let me know."

"I actually don't remember much from the beginning, at least not right now. We didn't get much to eat, or to drink, and after a while it all started to seem like a dream."

"That's fine, son. Do you remember how you were hurt?"

He murmurs something I don't understand. I lean closer. "I'm sorry?"

"We were entertainment."

"Entertainment?"

"They got pretty bored, so..."

"The cigarette burns?"

He nods. "And the ribs. They knew who I was. One of them spoke perfect English. I thought I would be okay, since my credentials had 'Whittaker' on them, but he knew. He said 'You're the little Lyman bastard, aren't you? Well, maybe now we can finally let Daddy know we mean business.' I remember that exactly. I was so scared. I don't think I'll ever forget it."

I make myself continue. "Anything else?"

"Target practice."

"They used you for target practice?"

"You know, shooting just above my head, next to it, things like that. It took a piece of my hair off once."

Suddenly, I hear the door wrench open. I don't even turn around. I know it's Josh.

I'm sitting outside the door when Dad rushes out, heaving and retching. I steer him over to a trash can, and rub his back. "Dad? You okay? Dad?"

He looks at me blankly, his eyes glassy, and suddenly I can feel him shaking.

Mom told me what to watch for. I go up to a nurse. "Is there somewhere my father could lie down?"

"We don't usually-"

"Listen!" I say brusquely. "He has PTSD, and he's having an attack. He needs to lie down. Would you like me to get the President of the United States on the phone? Because I can do that."

Wordlessly, she indicates a room, and I hustle an unresisting Dad into the room. I lead him to the bed, lie him down, remove his tie and shoes. I rub his back, murmur softly, reassuringly. Especially when his hands scrabble across his chest. He starts to shake so much then that I get on the bed with him and wrap my arms around him. Eventually, finally, he falls asleep. The bed is drenched with tears and sweat. I just cover him up, turn off the lights, and go into the hall, running a hand over the back of my neck, trying to relax the muscles.

"Sandy?"

It's Norah, looking lost and sleepy. "They told me you were in here. They said Dad was...what's wrong?"

"Nothing," I say quickly. "Everything's fine. Just go see Phil, okay?"

"Yeah." She looks so woebegone, so scared, that I do the only thing I can think of to help. I give her a hug.

I'm sitting outside the room when Dad emerges. I smile at him, but he looks decidedly...uncomfortable. And embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Sandy. Sorry that you had to see that, do that."

"Dad, remember that story you wrote to me about when I was in Colorado? About the guys in the hole? It's like that. Just returning the favor."

He smiles wonderingly, then walks down the hall, putting a hand on my shoulder as he passes. "Thank you, son."

"Yeah."

I walk slowly down the hall, clutching the stuffed Roo that Phil gave me for my last birthday. They don't make these much in the U. S. anymore; he had to send to England for it, or something. I pause outside his room, trying to get myself under control. I know it's going to be bad. When they found him, he was buried from the chest down in a pile of smoking rubble. A grenade hit the building where they were being held, and a piece of debris or shrapnel hit him in the head, or something like that. Adi was already outside. There was a girl with Phil, but she was dead; I can only assume he went back in to save her. Which is just the sort of thing he would do. He's all talk, my guy is, but when the going gets tough he hunkers down, you know?

I take a deep breath and open the door.

Oh.

He's swathed in bandages; they're everywhere. His face is covered with scratches, and he's so still. So still. Phil is not a man acquainted with the concept of stillness. It's eerie.

"Hey," I say softly. "Well, I guess I don't have to worry about you resting, huh? Oh, God, Phil, I'm glad you're here. I wish you would wake up and argue with me. You got me to do the impossible, to spend an extended period of time in a hospital. I should get something for that, right? I swear, if you wake up, I swear I'll write an ode to hospitals or something, and you know how much I hate them. See? See what you're making me do? Dammit, Phil, I told you to be careful. And you just looked at me with that patronizing grin and said, 'I'm always fine.' Well, you weren't. You aren't. And they don't know whether you will be. But I'm telling you. You will wake up. I am not living without you, you bastard. You are not going to do this to me, do you hear that? Do you hear that?" I'm shouting now, unleashing my rage at an inert Phil. Suddenly, I burst into tears, burying my face in the blanket at the foot of his bed.

"Are you finished yet?" a voice rasps.

I look up, my eyes fogged with tears. "Phil?"

"Hey, Roo."

"Oh, Phil, honey..."

"I never thought I'd see the day where you'd be crying with joy over me. Rage, maybe, but..."

"Shut up. You shouldn't be talking so much."

"Says who?"

"Me. And the doctor, probably. I'm going to go get someone."

"Stay. Don't go. Please," he implores.

Well, he doesn't have to ask me twice. "I feel like a shish kabob," he grouses. "I suppose I nearly was one, though, so..."

"Don't joke about it, okay?"

"Well HEY, Sleeping Beauty!" I look up. It's Dad, standing in the doorway, with a grin a mile wide stretching across his face. And suddenly, I get the feeling that everything might just be okay.

As usual, when I thought everything was going to be okay, I spoke, or rather thought, too soon.

When I got back to Adi's room, to tell him the good news, I found Sandy, white as a sheet, wordlessly holding Miri's hand, whose face was white as a sheet. "What? What?"

Sandy gestures toward the door, and I look in. There's a swarm of doctors, operating what looks like a... a defibrillator. A defibrillator. God. "What happened?" I ask urgently.

"His fever started climbing, Dad. The infection-his body couldn't handle it, so he...he went into shock."

"How long have they been in there?"

"A few minutes."

My God.

We wait. Minutes seem like hours. Finally, the doctor emerges, looking drained, but not solemn. Not solemn.

Not solemn.

"He's back," the doctor announces. "It took a little doing, but he's a fighter. We're upping the antibiotics and moving him up to ICU for a while, just to make sure this won't happen again. He's responsive," the doctor assures, seeing my worried glance. "Let me know if you have any questions."

"Doctor?" He turns. "You got any Doobie Brothers around here?"

He looks at me strangely, shaking his head, but I honestly don't care. I'm too busy grinning.

Today has been...well, I don't know. It's beyond definition, it's been so surreal. I don't even know what time it is. I can't remember when I got here, or when I left home. I called the apartment a few hours ago, after I heard that Phil was awake, but Drew, Sam's son, said Darrah was out, and she hasn't called back.

If I can't have Darrah, I can at least have a cigarette. Those two things are mutually exclusive, which really is a good thing, I guess, but I needed a cigarette, after today. And this is Germany. They're everywhere.

I'm so lost in my thoughts I don't notice Dad coming up behind me. "Put out that damn cigarette," he says irritably. "Are you kids trying to send me to an early grave?"

"Early? Dad, I hate to break it to you, but..."

"Watch it, little man." He sighs, then smiles ruefully. "There's a delivery for you."

"What do you mean, a delivery? I've only been here for..."

"Sandy."

I spin around. It's Darrah. This surge of love, relief, contentment, rises in me. I've never been so happy to see another human being in my life. I walk towards her a bit unsteadily, my heart pounding, and she embraces me. Securely. Gently. Wholly.

I never want to let her go.

But eventually I do, and I look towards Dad. He's smiling. "At times like this, your mother makes everything a bit more bearable. I figured it'd be about the same for you." He winks, then goes inside.

"Sandy, have you been smoking? What have I told you about that? Sandy?"

"Marry me," I blurt out. She looks taken aback, shocked. "I realize this isn't the time or the place and I don't have a ring and crap, I should be kneeling, but the street is kind of dirty and besides I've been smoking so that means there's ash around and-"

Suddenly her finger is resting against my lips, stilling them. "Sandy, do you think I care? Yes, of course. Yes, yes, yes!"

I feel like I'm soaring, but that's before I look at her face. The look on her face, it's home. She's home. And you know what? That's even better.