Author's Note: woo-hoo! I have finally finished this chapter! I didn't think I was going to do it. What with family visiting, and major housecleaning going on, and the odd job to earn a bit of money, I didn't know what was happening with this story. But here's the next chapter and I am very happy. :D Please enjoy it as much as I did.

Author's thanks at the end.

Allowing the warm blush of success to cheer her – and to fill her craving for a cigarette – Carly took the stairs to the second floor, considerably more optimistic than she'd been when the day had started. Getting her own way usually had that effect on her. After taking on Mort's occasionally supportive/occasionally indecisive – and on Ted's part, completely uncooperative – caretakers, she once again reminded herself that the rush of triumph – So I'm a little smug. – was better and better for her that the same giddy sensation caused by intoxication. After yesterday's hangover, that truth went down more sweetly that it had in the past. Which only increased the swelling of her head.

Her self-congratulatory bubble burst a few minutes later when she was looking over Mort's chart at the second-floor nurses' station. Two days of disruptions in general and personal routine had left its mark on her patient in the form of less sleep and decreased appetite. While Carly found this discouraging, it wasn't exactly unexpected. The occupants of Briar Ridge were sensitive to the . . . the feelings (for lack of a better word) if the facility. To the emotions of the nurses, the increased or decreased watchfulness of the orderlies and security guards, the briskness of the doctors . . . It didn't matter that they were never actually informed of anything. They were their own little complement of Jedi knights that were able to sense disturbances in a Force limited to the hospital grounds.

Carly laughed softly to herself. That comparison reminded her of the mother who'd brought her child in because the girl had been playacting at being a Jedi . . . It'd been exactly that. Playacting. Adam swore it'd really happened, but she had her reservations. Even if it was a good story –

"Dr. Beckham?"

Carly looked up from Rainey's chart to see a young candy striper standing in front of her, a folded slip of paper in her hand. "A message for you, Doctor. It was found in the office."

"You don't know who sent it?" Carly asked as she took the paper.

"No stamp," the girl pointed out. "It didn't come in the mail. But that's about all anyone knows."

"Hmm." That's odd. Carly ran the envelope over her fingers a few times, then shrugged. "Thank you for bringing this up."

"You're welcome, Doctor."

Carly watched the candy striper leave, then turned her attention to her anonymous letter. Some . . . instinct . . . told her to move away from the nurses' station before opening and reading it. For all she knew it was a note from Mick – No, not "Mick." Lawley. – and the last thing she wanted was to be embarrassed in front of a bunch of her coworkers. She'd never hear the end of it . . .

What the hell?

This definitely wasn't the kind of letter that would make her blush. This was the kind of letter that restraining orders were based on.

yOu'RE neXt

"Doctor, are you alright?"

"What?" Forcing her eyes up from the page, Carl realized that she'd stopped in the middle of the hallway. "Oh, yes. I'm fine." Liar. "I just forgot something." Like how to breathe. Sardonic asides notwithstanding, Carly felt as if she'd like nothing more than to take a seat. "Excuse me."

With a quick sidestep, she moved into an unoccupied room. She slowly inhaled the deepest breath she could manage as she tried to calm herself down. Be sensible. This wasn't the first nonsensical or threatening note she'd every received. It was one of the hazards of working with the mentally unbalanced. Sooner or later she seemed to piss someone off. And they tended to respond in whatever way seemed appropriate. Most often, that was a simple lack of cooperation. Every now and then someone would tell her off. Or start ignoring her. And occasionally they tried to scare her off.

But still . . . this has only happened three other times.

Not that anything had ever come of it before. So there really wasn't anything for her to worry about.

No one's ever been murdered on the grounds either . . .

Carly looked down at the note; she'd unknowingly crumpled it into a ball. Sighing, she smoothed the wrinkles out and tried to read it objectively. Tried to analyze the intention and emotion behind the words to assess their threat.

Point one – chopped out newsprint.

Disguising handwriting. Because I'll recognize it or out of a fear that this will find its way to the police and they'll recognize it? Or just because that's what criminals do on TV and in movies when they send threats?

Point two – each letter cut out individually instead of as entire words.

This person is thorough. Obsessive-compulsive, or trying to communicate that they really mean this.

Point three – no clarifying clauses.

Immediate threat would be more likely if what I'm next in line for was spelled out for me. But it's not.

Still, this didn't feel harmless. Recent events had put her on edge, made her more wary, more cautious, more open to intimidation.

If Steve weren't dead, I'd suspect him of trying to freak me out. The thought of vengeful ghosts inspired a slightly hysterical giggle.

Calm down, Carly, old girl. That thought inspired her to take another deep, calming breath. State policy was very clear in these cases. She was to notify the police and security of what she'd received. And then let others handle it. For the first time she was more than happy to follow procedure.

Just get through today. Then take this by the police station and forget about it. This is part of their job. Not mine.

It was very, very quiet.

Which was odd. There were always people going up and down the corridor, and voices from the more talkative patients. Not to mention in conversations between the staff. From the way they went on, they obviously thought that no one around could hear them. Or at least no one particularly cared. That was true in Mort's case, but he'd heard some of his neighbors talking over the latest overheard gossip.

At first, Mort hadn't minded. Noise was . . . it got to him sometimes. The corridor outside his room got too loud with people coming and going. With the raised, upset voices of his neighbors. When it got to be too much, he'd go outside. Or at least he would have if the past few days hadn't been filled with rain.

But there had been rain. So Mort had paced, and ground his teeth, and paced some more. Once – just once – he'd attempted to go outside despite the weather but had been browbeaten back into his room by a grim-faced nurse.

And if the weather and the noise wasn't enough, there were the unbearable moments of silence at noon and his own excruciatingly familiar company. He was puzzled that first day when Toby and the woman-who-wasn't-Amy – Dr. Beckham - didn't drop by. Not that Dr. Beckham came by every day, but Toby did. On weekdays at least. But today was Thursday – Mort kept track of such things – so Toby's absence couldn't be explained by a convenient weekend.

Perhaps it was the weight of his own solitude that was agitating the itch if a severe case of cabin fever that'd settled over him. That in itself was enough to send prickles of irritation up and down his spine. He'd enjoyed his own company before he'd lost his mind.

One, two, three, four, five, six . . . That was another thing. Had he lost his mind? He didn't feel like a psycho axe murderer.

Oh, oh, oh . . .

Digging his fingers though his hair, he started to energetically pace around his small room. Just the thought of axes and the like was enough to make him wonder just what he was capable of. Would he be so . . . tight . . . inside if he didn't have a reason to be? How much of what he was accused of had actually happened in those days, those weeks, that he couldn't remember?

There was yet another thought that sent him scurrying to occupy his mind before he became overwhelmed. Books weren't very effective; they just spawned new ideas that led back to those dangerous mental paths.

Eventually he turned to writing in his desperation. Letting his awareness of his surroundings slide, he let his thoughts go. He didn't read over what he'd put down on paper. He was too scared to.

When his door opened that afternoon, Mort paid it no mind. Lost in the cramped writing in front of him and more focused on his tired fingers than what was going on around him, he simply assumed that he'd lost track of time – his shades were pulled against the gloom outside – and that his visitor was a nurse or orderly with his dinner tray. Since they'd give up on talking to him, he'd decided to ignore them.

Carly stood just inside Rainey's doorway, watching her patient. As timed passed and he didn't even turn his head to look at her, she wondered if she was being punished. She had, after all, broken schedule by not coming to see him yesterday and by coming in today. If she was being punished, she was going to have to reconsider how important how attached to the clock he actually was. But in the meantime . . .

"Good afternoon, Mort."

Mort surprised her nearly as badly as she'd surprised him when he spun around. With his matted hair, pale skin, and wild eyes, he looked like a madman. His stance relaxed almost immediately after he recognized who he was looking at, but Carly's heart wasn't so fast to slow.

"Sorry, Mort. I didn't mean to scare you like that. May I have a seat?"

He nodded once – or perhaps he only jerked his head – but Carly sat at the chair across from his anyway. "What are you writing?"

If she weren't afraid of his health, the way the blood drained from his face as he noticed the papers in front of him might have fascinated her. As it was, she only felt her heart sink.

"Mort? What's wrong?"

He shook his head slowly. Before she could ask another question, he stood, gathered the papers into a small sheaf, folded them in half, and in half again, then rounded the table to approach her. Carly sat absolutely still as he came to stand next to her, not even daring to turn her head when she saw his arm reach for her out of the corner of her eye. For a split second she was absolutely certain that Rainey was the one behind her threatening note. . . But then reason and faith reasserted themselves; Mort didn't have access to scissors or newspapers unless it was through her or Toby, and she knew that he wasn't violent.

Finally she felt a bit of pull on her ubiquitous white coat. Glancing down, she watched as Mort slid his papers into her pocket.

She waited until he was seated again before asking, "These are for me?" No answer. "Am I supposed to get rid of them?" Mort looked around the room, his eyes focused on the seam where walls met ceiling.

Fine. She wasn't really in the mood to play guessing games at the moment anyway. There were bigger things that she needed to discuss with him. Still, she fidgeted, getting up to open his shades to allow the day's sunlight to flood the room. As if that would help dispel the unpleasantness of what she had to say.

She say back down at the table. "Mort, I need to talk to you. You're not going to like what I have to say –" His head whipped around, his body grew rigid, his eyes drilled into hers. His . . . focus . . . startled her. "No, there's nothing wrong for you. You're still safe here." She crossed her fingers under the table to excuse the possible lie. "What I need to tell you is that . . . is that Toby's been hurt. He won't be coming to visit for awhile . . ."

After a very long day at the office – explaining Toby's absence to Mort had been harder and taken more time than she'd expected, not to mention she'd gone through a new round of questioning at the police station when she'd dropped off her threatening note – Carly came home to a very unwelcome surprise.

Her mother's car was in her driveway.

Cursing softly the entire time as she parked, gathered her trash, and retrieved her briefcase from the backseat, Carly vented her feelings about this unexpected – and unwanted – visit. She hadn't even had time to clean up, really. And her mother would be certain that a mess in the house meant a mess in Carly's personal life. "Messy people have messy lives," was her mother's motto. Or at least one of them. All of them more annoying than the next.

"Damn, damn, damn, damn," she hissed under her breath as she stomped up the path to her door. "Of all the times to drop by for a visit –" The door opened under her hand and Carly was left staring at her mother.

"There you are, darling. I was worried." Anita Beckham leaned forward and pressed a dry kiss to her daughter's cheek. Yet for all her congeniality, she didn't move out of the doorway so Carly could enter her own house.

"Here I am, sober as a priest on Sunday," Carly muttered under her breath as she crowded closer to the door. "Were you planning on letting me in, Mother, or do I need to find a hotel for the night?"

"No need to get snappish." Carly barely withheld a snort of distain. "When you weren't at Penny's bridal shower Tuesday night –"

Another string of soft curses trailed behind Carly as she pushed her way past her mother.

"I was busy, Mother. I know that's not an excuse for forgetting, but I had a lot of other things on my mind." With any luck, this could be settled quickly and she could curl up in front of the TV for a few hours while her brain shut down on her –

"Like that second attack?"

"Damn," Carly whispered under her breath. To her mother she said, "What makes you think I had anything to do with that? I mean sure, it's disturbing –"

"Don't try to talk your way around me, Carly Jane. I saw your name in the paper. You were the one to find that poor boy."

"That gives me a very good reason for forgetting about the bridal shower then, doesn't it?" Carly demanded. "Look, if you're here to comfort your poor, traumatized daughter, you might as well leave. I'm fine."

"Which is why you look like you've been through the wringer. I understand."

"Mother . . ." Carly pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "I'm alive. I have all my limbs. I haven't fallen prey to a chainsaw wielding hick or an escaped convict –"

"Not for lack of trying . . ."

It was an old argument between the women. Carly was determined to keep her job and Anita hated the thought of her only daughter working closely with the state of Maine's most insane criminal element. Even if Carly mostly dealt with walk-ins and check-ins. And while it was an argument both could have in their sleep, Carly didn't have the energy for it right now.

"If you're just going to nag me, I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Mother. I'm tired. I haven't eaten since eleven this morning. I need sleep."

Anita drew herself up to her full height, an offended look on her face. "I came down here purely to see if you were alright or not . . ."

"And you've seen." Please, don't make me deal with this right now. "You're welcome to stay, Mom." Surely they could get though a single night together without spilling blood. "I'm just . . . really tired. Please don't expect me to be any sort of hostess."

"Oh, that's alright dear." Now that she was getting her own way, Anita bustled forward and ushered Carly down the hall. "You're not much of a hostess even when you're not tired." Before Carly could decide if that was an insult or not, she found herself at her bedroom door. "You go get changed and I'll see what you have around for a meal."

And I wonder how I became so managing, Carly thought ruefully as she followed her mother's directions.

She was just pulling on her favorite pair of sweats and a worn tee left over from her wild college days when she heard her doorbell ring. She doubted that her mother had ordered a pizza (although that's what she'd been planning on before arriving to find she had company), but she didn't really care to go find out who was at the door either. Instead, she went into the bathroom and started messing with her hair. The bun she had it pulled back into was starting to give her a headache. Having it down and loose was a bit of a pain for practical reasons, but it also made her feel . . . young. Feminine. Free. All good enough reasons to let it loose for the night.

From the living room she heard the door open, briefly heard two voices conversing, then heard the door shut. And then silence. Must not have been too important, she thought as she slipped on a headband to keep her hair out of her face.

Padding into the living room in her bare feet, she called to her mother in kitchen, "Who was that?" as she dug the papers Rainey had given her out of her briefcase. She could at least look them over tonight and let them stew for a bit while she slept. From the way Mort had reacted to them, she assumed that there was potentially something important in them. Maybe –

"Hey there, pretty lady."

Carly's head flew up, though she didn't turn to face the kitchen. "I hope I just imaged what I just heard," she said ominously.

"No luck."

Isn't that just the theme for today? Carly turned and faced Lawley with a stern eye; it clashed with the embarrassment flooding her cheeks. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, as I was just explaining to your mother, you weren't feeling so hot the last time I saw you, and I just wanted to make sure everything was alright."

You mean you wanted to make sure the drunkard had cleaned herself up? That she wasn't wallowing in her own filth? The thought was bitter and unfair, and somehow Carly kept all traces of it out of her voice as she commented, "My, is today 'Check-Up on Carly Day?' Did I miss a memo?"

"Be nice," was the low warning to behave from the kitchen. Carly rolled her eyes and Lawley chuckled.

"What's that you've got there?" he asked, nodding towards the papers in her hand as he came into the living room.

"None of your business, Lawley."

"Carly!"

"They're confidential," Carly said, loud enough for her mother to hear. "You know, an in relating to my patients?"

"Calm down, my good doctor," Lawley murmured as he took a seat. "You're like a Momma bear with her cubs. Which, by the way, is enough to tell me that those do involve Mr. Rainey in some manner."

"And you're like a terrier with a bone," Carly shot back. "Is there a reason you're still here?"

Lawley colored faintly. "Your mother invited me in for dinner."

"Ahh . . ." She nodded sagely, then yelled, "Mother! Stop trying to set me up!"

"Get married and I won't have to!"

Shaking her head, Carly started to unfold the papers in her hand. "I'd ask you to leave, Mr. Lawley, but it'd be more trouble with my mother than I'm willing to cause. However, I hope you don't mind if I do a bit of work before we eat since I'm still planning on doing so even if you do."

"I consider myself warned. Mind if I turn on the news?"

"Suit yourself." Carly turned her attention to her work and quickly became absorbed.

"Of all the selfish displays I've seen in my life, that one took the cake."

"What?" Carly looked up from the pages of notes she'd taken on Mort's papers. They weren't terribly involved, but there were key phrases he used repetitively, certain breaks in sentences where an experienced author would avoid them, and so on. For the moment she was simply writing down what caught her eye; she'd analyze things tomorrow.

"That's what!" When Carly still showed no signs of comprehension, Anita threw up her hands. "You were unforgivably rude to that young man."

"That young man knew what he was in for before he reached the front door," Carly muttered. Of all the things they couldn't be talking about, this was very near the bottom of her list.

"He likes you!"

"Not because of anything I've done. Trust me."

"Why not? He's a nice, hansom man your own age, has a steady job, has excellent manners – did you notice how he pulled out your chair for you?"

Yes, actually, she had. "Doesn't matter. He's prosecuting one if my patients. We have to maintain a professional relationship or we could both get ourselves sued."

Her mother's lips pursed. "Well . . . there's life after to consider."

"At the rate the case is going, there's not going to be a life after." Not that Carly really minded. The more time she had to work on Mort, the better.

"Don't you want to get married again?"

"Not particularly. I'm perfectly content being a divorced workaholic who lives with her cat."

Carly grinned when she heard her mother walk away muttering, "None of my children would be so stupid. She must take after her father."

"Sweet dreams to you too!" she yelled down the hallway before turning over to the last page of Mort's writings.

Can't remember. Can't remember . . . any . . . of it . . . what they say . . . the most important part is the ending . . . how did it end? Don't know. Not well. Wasn't me? Most important . . .

Those words, words she had read the night before, were still running in circles through Carly's mind as she sat down for lunch the next day. Not in their entirety, of course. She didn't need to remember all of them when the pertinent points were conveyed by those few words and the confusion behind them.

Still, I ought to read over all of it again tonight. Last night I was tired and overwhelmed. Reviewing it will –

Deedelie-deedelie-deedelie

Carly snapped back to attention as her cell rang. The first thing she noticed was that the staff room was strangely empty for this time of day. The sound was that her tuna sandwich – made by her mother who obviously still thought her daughter was in pigtails – was neatly torn into four pieces. The third was that her cell was still ringing.

Fumbling slightly, she picked up her phone and answered with a utilitarian, "Beckham."

"You know, I heard some very interesting things from my friends down at second precinct this morning."

"That's nice." Carly frowned as she tried to identify the voice. "Lawley?"

"Don't play innocent with me, Dr. Beckham."

"What's got your panties in a knot, Lawley?" Last night had almost been pleasant. What had changed since then –

"Care to explain why I had to hear from Detective Noell that you'd received a threatening note yesterday?"

Ahh . . . "Because it wasn't any of your business? Because I'm not any of your business? Because I'm perfectly capable of handling it myself? Because I've gotten them before? You're free to take your pick."

"How can you say that?" Lawley still sounded outraged.

"How can I say what?"

"That it's none of my business! Haven't you figured out by now –"

"That you'd like my business to be yours? Yes, I've noticed. However, there's term for that kind of relationship between two professionals like ourselves: conflict of interest. And there's another term that would figure prominently in the suit: entrapment."

"There's life after Rainey to consider, you know." Lawley now sounded faintly amused. "And I intend to keep after you until you give in. And don't say that the word for that is 'stalking.'"

Carly rolled her eyes. "You're more than welcome to try your best. And I intend to keep my business to myself."

"I consider myself warned." There was a pause, then he continued in a more serious voice, "You don't seem to be taking that threat seriously."

"That's because I've had this happen before. Really. I'm fine. Nothing's ever come of the notes I've gotten before."

"No one's ever been killed or attacked at Briar Ridge before, either," he countered.

That's what I was just telling myself, she thought as she glanced at her watch. Oh goodie. "As much as I'd like to continue this conversation, my lunch break is over and there is a large grindstone requiring the presence of my nose."

Lawley sighed deeply but didn't argue pass the prudent advice to "be careful."

When Carly hung up, she did it with a smile.

The commotion could be heard from all the way down the hall. Carly sped up her steps until she was jogging down the corridor that Mort's room was on. It was possible that the disturbance was coming from one of his neighbors, but from the size of the crowd gathered, it was hard to tell.

"Let me through," she demanded as she pushed people aside. As she got closer to her goal, she could tell that the noise was coming from Rainey's room. "Let me through, damn it. I'm his doctor."

"Dr. Beckham!" Traci, the head nurse on duty turned around from her position at the doorway, surprise written plainly on her face.

"Why didn't you call me as soon as he started," Carly demanded, trusting the nurse to be prompt in her answer without a glare to speed her along. Right now, she needed to see what Mort was doing.

"He just started, Doctor."

"Just . . ."

"About two minutes ago."

"Then I should have heard something one minute ago. Certainly a page over the intercom if not a personal page. What happened to set him off?" From the way Rainey was tossing furniture around the room, something huge must have happened.

"I don't know. Aaron just did the hourly check ten minutes ago and he said that Mr. Rainey was sitting at his table. That's it."

Writing? Did he write something he didn't want to see? Or is this just frustration? "Do you know what he was doing before he resorted to throwing furniture? Was any of this self-directed?"

"Carl says that he saw him hit his head against the table a few times before he overturned it."

Frustration then. That was good. She could deal with frustration by herself. It was less likely that he'd set out to hurt her if it was himself that he was mad at than it'd be if he'd snapped or something.

"Get these gawkers out of here."

"But, Doctor –"

"They all have jobs to do, correct? Well tell them to get to it. This is neither a circus nor a sideshow act." Having made her orders clear, Carly stepped into the room and closed the door behind her, keeping an eye out for any objects speeding her way.

"Mort? Can you hear me, Mort? Can you tell my why you're upset?"

He grunted as he tried to tip over his bookcase. Carly just righted a fallen chair and waited. Sooner or later he'd figure out that the bookcase was bolted to the floor. That or he'd wear himself out.

It took awhile for Rainey to give in and accept that he wasn't going to knock the bookcase over. Carly had to shoo three security guards, five orderlies, and Dr. Marchman himself away. That Marchman went without protest proved how well she was handling this case. If he'd had a single doubt that she couldn't, Mort would be back up on the third floor so quickly that everyone's head would have spun. She intuitively knew that she'd be called in to report on this uproar, but she could handle that if it meant keeping Mort in this room where he'd actually made progress.

Red-faced and sweaty from his exertions, Mort walked over to his bed and threw himself onto it, staring up at the ceiling impassively. He strongly reminded Carly of a disgruntled teenager . . . or an offended cat. I wonder what he'd do if I shared that with him? Not that she was going to. This obviously wasn't the time.

"Well . . . you certainly got everyone's attention," Carly said offhandedly. Sometimes a sideways approach worked better than a direct one. Maybe if he couldn't see where she was coming from, she'd get a bit more cooperation from him. God, I wish Toby were here. He'd . . . well, I'm not sure he'd get anything out of Rainey, but at least he'd be listened to and not have to resort to tricks.

That line of thinking did her no good. Instead Carly stood up and started picking things up – even though she knew she should have Mort do it to take responsibility for the mess he'd made – as she thought about what to say next.

"You seemed . . . frustrated. Nurse Traci says that you hit your head against the table. You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" When Mort actually shook his head, Carly was surprised into following up her question with another. "Do you want to tell me what caused this . . . session of creative furniture rearrangement?"

Mort was silent for so long that Carly turned her back on him to struggle with the table. Then, under the sound of her own efforts, she heard a . . . a croak. The table crashed back the floor as she spun around, eyes wide. "What . . . what did you say? I didn't quite hear you."

"It's . . . gone . . ."

Author's Thanks: wasn't that a rotten place to end? devil grin I know you'll all let me have it. ;) And in the meantime, I want to thank Savvy TBird (You're right about Carly snapping if I keep torturing her. I won't say if that's the reason I'm doing it or not. ;) I did have a lot of fun with this chapter though once I figured out how to make it move along.); Dawnie-7 (I had a friend who was in a horrible car accident. When the paramedics heard about it, they didn't bother to hurry because they figured he was dead. When they got there, the first thing he said to them was "don't touch the hair." He's insane.); Lynx (I would never slap you with a dead fish, because you always manage to read the current chapter before I post the next. :P If I ever lap you though… lol. My favorite scene with Amy in SW is when she calls Mort to see if he's alright while she's packing a romantic picnic to have with Ted. That girl. shakes head); Stahlfan125 (I'm so glad you have SW on DVD. I watched it last night for a bit of extra inspiration and I'd forgotten how much I love that movie.); Blue Autumn Sky (I was well aware of what my reviewers would do to me if I actually killed Toby when I set that whole thing up. All I can say is that you guys don't disappoint. :D Yes, there's some hearts between Carly and Mick - heh, I love that name – and I most definitely got more Mort in this chapter. It was about time he got to progress a little more.); Little Fox (Hope your summer is going great. I haven't seen you around JA in forever, but then, that's to be expected since you're doing fun summer type stuff. :P How's this for a welcome home pressie?); SpadesJade (I don't believe in wimpy chapters unless it's a prologue and I know I'll have a real chapter up right away. Or vignettes. Vignettes can be wimpy. :P Yeah, I thought it was about time for Carly to crash. I mean, taking disaster calmly is one thing. To do that when someone close to you has been hurt is heartless. And I don't want Carly to be heartless.); SparrowLover (Fake signals? I'd never send those out. Or that's what I claim anyway. They do tend to get confused with the real signals though, and that makes me change my mind and soon the fake signals are the real ones and vice versa, and then things get very, very, messy… ;) More Mort this chapter. I did make that a bit of a priority. Not much point in writing a SW fic if there's no Mort.); butterflywings32 (Jellybeans for me? I love jellybeans. Mmm… :P I agree that Amy should be smacked in the head with something large and heavy, but unfortunately, that's not really in the plan right now.); A Cheerful Reader (You're right about how people wake up out of comas when they're in a story/movie/show. I don't really know when Toby's gonna wake up, and if he'll remember anything when he does, or if he'll save the day… I don't like to get ahead of myself. :P); CleopatraVII (Carly had stopped by the police station for questioning - and to rescue Mort from that fate - after Steve got knocked off.); AndromedaStarr (Rambling is fine by me, especially as it makes me think of what I've written, and when I can't remember, it guilts me into writing. So I like rambling. ;) I think all writers are a bit schizophrenic. It's the only way to explain talking about characters as if they were really alive. I don't blame you for being biased towards Mort, but I really wanted to write a SW fic where Mort didn't gasp get the girl. gaspgasp I like doing things like that.); Spoofmaster (Don't worry about forgetting to check in. It's not as if I'm Speedy Gonzales when it comes to updating. :P); Humiliated Grape (I hate hot weather, and that's what we've been getting lately. Thank the lord for AC.); InuYashaphr33k (I'm very glad you're enjoying this.); Dustbunnie (And you get the award for prodding me into action this time around. I'm so glad I have people who come in two months after I've written a chapter and then review it.)