Sara looked around her infirmary. For the first time, she looked at it through an inmate's eyes. The window offered a clear view of the walls. She knew (courtesy of Michael) that the crawl space above led strait to an exit.

Frowning, Sara squatted down beside the grate in the ground and ran her fingertips over it. Blinking, she tilted her head slightly, angling the light. Her eyes widened and she flattened herself on the ground, pressing her nose to the metal.

Just visible against the ground was a paper bird, folded perfectly, it's wings extended in flight. Sara tried to turn her head and see the bird more clearly but failed miserably. Turning again, she looked again. The bird was more distinct. It was a little worse for the wear, but it was recognizable, on either side extended darkness leading somewhere.

"Dr. Tacrendi?"

Sara jumped up, whipping around to see two guards with Lincoln Burrows between them. Sara licked her lips and nodded towards the table. The guards removed the cuffs and walked Lincoln towards the table, pushing him down onto it. Sara turned to her patient, pulling on gloves with surprisingly steady fingers.

"You know."

Sara almost jumped again. She didn't expect the deep throated rumble behind her, or to find Lincoln still sitting on the table, a look of quiet resolve on his face. Sara picked up her stethoscope and approached him cautiously.

"You don't have to answer, you'd find out sooner or later," he said, breathing in for her, "I knew it wouldn't work."

"What?" she asked, drawing back. Lincoln didn't look at her, his eyes were focused elsewhere.

"Michael's plan," he elaborated, "he destroyed his entire life for nothing."

"You're not nothing," Sara said automatically. Lincoln laughed.

"Thanks for the concern," he said. Sara scribbled something on the paper, "just do me a favor, he's gonna be in here for a while after I'm gone. Keep an eye on him?"

Before she could stop herself she nodded. Lincoln nodded his thanks and left with the guards, just as Michael stepped into the room. Sara barely had time to wipe the tears out of her eyes before turning to him.

"Sit down," she said motioning to the table, "no effects from the drugs I hope?"

"None," came the stoic reply.

"Good," she said, "give me your arm."

He extended it. Sara grabbed it and pushed back the sleeve, turning it over with a satisfied nod. Michael inhaled sharply. She was looking directly at the banner on his forearm, the one that said: English, Fitz, Percy.

"Tell me," she said, "what are the chances of you knowing three people with the same names as the streets that lead out of the prison?"

"High," Michael said coldly. Sara pushed the sleeve back further and injected him with the drug again. Rolling his sleeve down, Michael sat on the table as Sara put back her supplies, keenly aware of his eyes on her back.

"Why haven't you said anything?" Michael asked finally. Sara's hand shook at the sound of his voice, but she forced it to be still. Stripping off her gloves, she was careful to keep her eyes away from his.

"Because, I do owe you for saving my life in that riot," she said, "so I'm not going to say anything. But don't expect my help either," she added sternly, "in a week I'm going to be finished with this drug treatment and you can only come in my infirmary once a week."

"Fine," he said standing up.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked abruptly.

"Because," Michael said, "he's my brother."

88

A week later, Michael was lying in his cell when the guard slammed it open. Pushing himself up with a confused glance at Sucre, he stood up reaching for his blue button-down shirt.

"Come on," the guard said.

"Where?" Michael asked.

"The infirmary," the guard said, exasperated, "unless you'd rather not have your insulin?"

Hiding a smile, Michael followed the guard out of his cell and down the hall, completely forgetting his button down shirt in the cell. He followed the guard into the infirmary where Sara was waiting. Sitting down cautiously on the bed, he looked at her puzzled.

"You said—"

"I know," she said, "but then I got this."

Michael looked at it and felt his heart stop. They had moved Lincoln's execution date up again: this time to a week from that day. The room had suddenly gotten very dark and cold. Michael could feel his pulse speed up and his breathing become labored. Sara was by him in a flash.

"It's okay," she said, "lie back, it's a side effect of your bouncing insulin levels."

He gasped, unable to talk, breath or even think. Sara grabbed a syringe and vial of liquid, preparing the injecting and pushing it into his upper arm. The effect wasn't instantaneous and wouldn't be. Sara grabbed Michael's face between her hands, forcing him to look at her.

"Michael look at me, Michael," she said a little more loudly. His eyes locked on hers, his pupils dilating and contracting rapidly as they struggled to focus, "everything's going to be alright. You're going to save your brother."

"I c-can't," he managed to choke out furiously, his eyes watering. Sara felt something inside her break, maybe it was her resolve, at the sight of him. He looked so scared, so fragile, all he wanted to do was help his brother—the only family he had.

"Yes you can," she said firmly, "and I'm going to help you."