It was cold that night. Damp from the afternoon rain that had plagued the Seattle area that afternoon, but mostly cold. It wasn't quite cold enough for the homeless to abandon their stoops and cardboard boxes and alleys, but most were smart enough to insulate their coats (or lack thereof) with a few layers of discarded newspaper. The young man shivered and shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his worn out thrift shop coat. His breath hung in front of his face like a wispy cloud. He coughed, finding the silence that seemed to blanket the street on which he walked to be nearly deafening. Silence was something he'd never enjoyed. Silence meant there was something wrong, meant there was someone waiting in the shadows to mug you, meant that his mother was in another one of her moods. The thought of his mother made his eyebrows furrow in the center of his pale-complexioned forehead. He shook his head, as if to rid himself of such thoughts, and continued walking.

The fact that he was only a block away from his intended destination made him want to turn around and walk as far as he possibly could in the opposite direction. But even if he really wanted to turn back, he didn't think his feet would let him. Looking down at his shoes-a ratty pair of black Chuck Taylor's-he figured his feet must have had their own plan as far as the evening went. Perhaps they felt a night, or even part of a night, spent indoors was better than finding a doorstep to sleep under. Or maybe they were just tired of walking around in the same section of town for hours on end. Whatever the reason, the young man soon found himself at the front door of fairly nice looking apartment building.

The doorman cast him a wary gaze and cleared his throat. "Can I help you?" The man, a burly fellow who looked a bit odd dressed up in his spiffy red uniform, was tired of working the 7-midnight night shift, which just began only a half hour ago. He would've much rather been home with his wife and two children, even if those children were slowly morphing from loveable preteens into moody and argumentative teenagers.

"I'm...I'm here to see Kevin Burkhoff," he said quietly. "Apartment..." He looked up, trying to picture the number written beside the building's address on the little scrap of paper. "...101."

The doorman still had a suspicious look plastered across his mustached face, but let the boy in without any more questioning. There had been a lot of people coming around to see Dr. Burkhoff lately; mostly reporters who came out within five minutes, not hiding the looks of disappointment on their faces. He couldn't figure out why anyone would want to visit that guy. In the opinion of Mr. Harold Andrews, doorman extraordinaire of nearly fifteen years, Kevin Burkhoff was a weirdo. Andrews, as most tenants took to calling him, did not trust the man, despite the fact that he had been a world-renowned neuroscientist before, to put it frankly, going crazy. After all, he was involved with those 4400 people; a group Andrews wanted nothing to do with. He much rather preferred living his quiet, unexciting life, complete with bickering teenagers and cookie-baking housewife.

"Dr. Burkhoff doesn't like visitors," Andrews said to the boy, who reminded him a bit of his own son. His raven hair was a bit longer than Harold Junior's, but had the same shaggy quality that his wife often complained about. The boy's eyes, like his son's, were hazel. And yet there was something strangely different about them. This kid had the eyes of a man, a man who'd seen more than his fair share of "bad shit," as Andrews liked to so bluntly put it. They were not the eyes of a seventeen-year-old whose biggest worry was getting into the right college and finding a date for his senior prom. The young man's gaze, though somewhat shy and slightly hesitant, found his way to Andrews' eyes.

"I just need to tell him a few things...ask him a few questions." His voice, like his eyes, did not match the age he appeared to be. Or at least, the age Harold Andrews thought he appeared to be. For all Andrews knew, this guy could be one of those damned 4400 people and was actually born twenty years before him.

Andrews shrugged and pulled the door open. "Okay kid, but don't say I didn't warn ya."

The young man nodded, stepped inside, and ran a hand anxiously through his hair. There was no turning back now. His Converse-clad feet were going to keep walking until he reached the door. Which, he noted with a bit of frustration, was easier said than done. He finally found a sign pointing in the direction of an elevator on his right that stated '100-150 - 1st floor'. Only a few seconds after pressing the up button, the silver doors slid open and he stepped inside. He was grateful for the lack of music in this particular elevator. With all the jumbled thoughts running around in his head, the last thing he wanted was a constant stream of bad music pouring through the speakers like cheap wine.

He caught sight of his own reflection in the mirrored paneling that lined the elevator walls and found himself wishing that he'd been able to clean up a little more. His hair was disheveled, as usual, and was spilling over his brow line, nearly into his eyes. The black t-shirt that was almost completely concealed under his olive drab coat was thin and beginning to fray, and his blue jeans were rumpled and torn in a few places near his shoes. When the elevator stopped, he frowned at his almost derelict reflection and stepped off.

Apartment 101 was the first one to his left. As he stood in front of the door, he could feel his heart beating like timpani drums against his ribcage. The hand that reached out to knock on the wooden door was practically shaking. He knocked twice, the second time louder than the first. Though not particularly religious, he prayed for no one to be home. All the things he'd planned on saying, the things he'd rehearsed in his mind over and over again, were suddenly gone. And as the door, still locked with a chain across the top, opened with a jerk and the man he had waited to see for as long as he could remember peered out at him with an eyebrow raised in a very questioning manner, he felt sick to his stomach.

"Who are you?"

"I...you...I, um...you knew...youknewmymother," he blurted out. "A long t-time ago...you knew my mother. She..." He stopped and took a deep breath, letting it out in the form of a heavy sigh. "My n-name is Kieran Galloway. My mother's name was M-Maggie. Maggie Galloway. She said...she told me...she told me that you're my father."