Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person, real or imagined.

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It was the scream that woke Charlie.

Not the rocking motion next to him in bed.

Nor the sudden thrust of a shoulder into his chest.

It was the sound of his brother's scream that woke him up, and propelled him across the room, throwing the light on so fast that the bulb almost fizzled.

Alan sat up in bed, reaching for Don.

"It's a nightmare Charlie," he called to his youngest son, who stood wide-eyed at the door to the room. "Help me calm him down." Alan placed his left arm across Don's chest, trying to keep his head amongst their array of pillows, and away from the hard wood of the headboard.

Charlie was in shock, from being so harshly awakened, and from a kind of fear that only Don's scream could instill in him, fear that his brother was being taken away or harmed again. But the feeling quickly fled. All his thoughts refocused on protecting his brother from what were apparently imagined terrors. He ran back to the bed and quickly climbed on his knees next to Don, who laid on his right side, propped in position by Alan from behind. In seconds Charlie was able to locate, analyze, and number the different signs of anxiety that were evident in his brother's body language, ordering them so he could decide which area of his body to first touch and massage, so he could efficiently provide the most calming and soothing effect as fast as possible.

Don was straining against his father's arm, his back arching and his stomach pulling out. In the back of his mind, Charlie regretted having talked his father out of wrapping Don in the top sheet before they went to bed. With freedom of movement, Don was able to flail his arms about, kick out his feet, and throw back his head, every muscle straining as he tried to bend his body in half backwards, as if trying to move away from some unseen danger behind him. Alternately, he shook out his legs, trying to free them from the unseen demons gripping them.

The shaking and thrusting legs were what Charlie numbered to be the greatest area of concern, the remaining scars of numerous rat bites still vaguely apparent under the hair on Don's legs. Every time Don threw out his legs, his head slammed back, risking further damage to his brain. While Alan kept all their pillows within the immediate vicinity of Don's head and visually searched amongst the bedding for Buddy, Charlie scurried down to his brother's calves, sat on his own bottom with his thin legs in front of him, and awkwardly dragged Don's heavier legs over his lap, taking several minutes because he had a hard time getting his arms around them and because he could barely lift their weight. When he finally had a strong grip on Don's legs, Charlie laid his upper body on top of the jerking limbs, ignoring the pain when he was kneed more than once in the chest and side. He turned his face towards the general direction of Don's, running his hands vigorously up and down Don's calves, shouting to be heard above the loud crying and bellows of pain coming from his brother, trying to haul him from the grips of the nightmare.

"Don! Don! It's alright. All gone, they're all gone."

The crying and screaming continued, Don lost to the sensations of biting rats and slashing belts.

"Don! Look at me! Look at me!" Charlie was screaming now, too, trying to reach his brother.

Alan wanted to calm his son, but was at a loss as to what he should do. He was afraid to hold Don's head too tight, not sure if it would aggravate his condition. And he didn't know what to say to him, as the few soothing words he tried to speak had fallen on deaf ears. So Alan once again found himself in the new but surprisingly welcome position of relying on Charlie, trusting that he knew what to do. Keeping an arm loosely across Don's shoulders and arms, an eye on the position of his head, Alan faithfully allowed Charlie to try and pacify his brother.

"Don! Don! Look at me! Open your eyes and look at me!" Charlie was beginning to sound desperate. And he was. Charlie sped up his hand motions, pressing into Don's legs, trying to make him feel his presence. Believing it had been forever, but knowing it had only been six minutes and twenty-two seconds, Charlie let out a whoosh of air when he finally got a response and Don raised his eyelids, his eyes darting fearfully around the room before they settled on Charlie, who locked onto them with his own. Don's screaming weakened, his voice hoarse as he tried to explain the reason for his fear, "Teeth...sharp...teeth...teeth...hurt."

"Don!" Charlie demanded his attention. "Look at my hands. Look- they're all gone!" Charlie pulled his body up from Don, but continued to rub the slowly-stilling legs before him. Don's eyes drifted down to his legs, watching as his younger brother wiped away the horrible creatures from one of his darkest dreams. Eventually, his legs stopped their strongest movements, though an occasional shiver lightly shook them.

But another beast continued to assault Don, and with the rats gone, he began anew his struggle to escape her, his back arching again and quiet sobs continuing to reel up raggedly through his throat.

Charlie realized Don was no longer looking his way and he became fearful of losing him to his other nightmare. The legs no longer a major concern, Charlie pushed them aside, turned around, and moved up the bed, lying down on top of his brother's left side, gently, while Alan moved his arm out of the way. Charlie was a skilled balancing act as he made sure his entire weight did not fall upon Don, his mouth inches from Don's left ear as he lifted up the back of his t-shirt. He massaged Don's lower back with his right hand, whispering repeatedly, "No pain, it's all gone, Don. Nobody's going to hurt you anymore. Shhhh."

Don arched his back, but more feebly than before, his eyes searching for Charlie. Finding his face nearby, Don cried, "Ow, Charlie...Ow, Ow, Ow."

"I know, Don. I'm going to make it go away." Charlie breathed his words softly into Don's ear, his hand gently moving back and forth across his brother's skin, instinctively knowing he needed to soothe this time in order to keep this particular monster at bay.

"Ow, Charlie. Hurts...hurts...real bad."

Alan slipped away from his sons and stood over the bed. He started tossing up the blankets and sheets, until he found what he was looking for kicked into the corner of the bed. Kneeling on one knee, at the head of the bed, facing Charlie and Don, Alan leaned forward and spoke towards Charlie, "I've got Buddy." Nodding but refusing to take his eyes from Don's or to stop rubbing his back, Charlie maneuvered so that most of his weight fell upon his left knee, allowing him to continue his act of assuagement while he reached out his left hand to take Buddy. Once he had a firm grip, he pushed the toy down to Don's hands, moving it back and forth until he felt it taken from his grasp.

Don felt the familiar softness of Buddy's fur between his fingers and clutched him to his chest. His right thumb snaked its way into his mouth.

When Don's movements slowed and his cries disappeared, and it was obvious that Charlie had everything under control, Alan went to the bedroom door. "I'm going downstairs to find him another sedative. We used up the last of the bottle in the nightstand. Will you two be okay by yourselves?"

Charlie silently nodded, his eyes still on Don.

Don stared up at Charlie. He had not meant to think about Mommy, but she had come into his dreams uninvited, soon after they got in bed. And it had been so real. He was sure she knew what he was thinking, that he wanted to stay here, that he loved her a whole lot, but maybe he loved Charlie and his daddy a lot more. So, she came to him, knowing his thoughts, and had punished him, for not being a good little boy, for not doing what she said, using the belt she had stolen back the night before. All day long he had done things that he knew she would not approve of him doing, and at night, she had come to reteach him what happened to little boys who don't listen to their mommies, but listen to their brothers instead.

Don was scared.

When he tried to run away, from Mommy and from her belt, he had ended up on a solid sea of black. A hand had reached for him and he thought it was Charlie, but when he drew near, the face of the Badman at the doctor's was connected to the hand and he tried to run again, but the Badman wouldn't let go. Mommy came for him and he tried to scream, but he couldn't. Mommy shook her head and he knew she wouldn't save him, that she was going to let the Badman do what he did before, because he had talked to a stranger again, and then there were teeth, everywhere... Mommy had just smiled, as she began teaching him her own lesson with the belt, trying to teach him that he shouldn't talk to Charlie or Daddy, either.

The dreams made Don really scared. Mommy had so much power, she could see what he thought and could teach him in his sleep, even when she wasn't with him. He felt helpless against her lessons, and against the Badman, who she had promised he would never have to see again, but she had lied, allowing him to come into his dreams. The teeth had been sharper than ever, and it had felt like he was being devoured, over and over again. When Mommy hit with the belt, it was even worse, feeling as real as the third time she had hit him, wet in the bathtub, agonizing and deep.

When all that pain had built to a crescendo, Don found he could finally scream, overwhelmed with the harsh punishment.

But then, just like magic, Charlie had put his hand on his legs and the teeth had run away. And when Charlie set his palm on his back, he had rubbed away the pain, making it disappear into nothing. Don kept his eyes on Charlie, wondering about his power- to make him feel good, to make him feel happy, to chase away everybody and everything that hurt him in his life- the power he had to keep him safe.

The only doubt that Don felt about his brother's prowess was whether Charlie could protect himself from Mommy, if he could defeat her in person, when she was real and not just in his dreams. Don was certain Charlie would try to defend him if Mommy got mad, but he was less sure that he wanted him to, not wanting his brother to get hurt. Another small part of Don Eppes' innate personality was working its way through the mess that Melinda Thompson had created, the part that identified his little brother as a shy, innocent child, and that part wanted to be his brother's protector, needed to be.

Charlie began to slow his massaging, trying to rest his palm on Don's skin when he began to tire. Missing the soothing strokes on his lower back, Don would say 'ow' each time Charlie stopped, prompting Charlie to recommence his comforting caresses.

Eventually, Charlie caught on to Don's manipulation and he smiled. He rolled up and off of Don, then scooted up the bed, sitting upright.

Don watched him. Not wanting to lose Charlie's attention, he said 'ow' again, the word reverberating around his thumb, but receiving no response, he said it again, this time louder. "Ow".

Charlie cocked an eyebrow at his brother. "Do you really hurt, Don?"

Don had to think about the question, because he didn't want to lie to Charlie. He was afraid if he did that Charlie wouldn't believe him the next time he hurt really bad, and would refuse to massage away the pain in his back and scatter the teeth from his legs.

He thought about his legs; no, they were fine.

His back? No, it felt better- a lot better.

Arms, shoulders, stomach, feet...Everything was okay.

He was about to say no, he didn't hurt, when two sensations caught his attention. The one was the taste of blood. The other was an ache in his head.

Don pulled himself into a sitting position next to Charlie. He took his thumb from his mouth and looked at it.

His interest tweaked, Charlie bent towards Don and checked his thumb, turning it into different positions. It was apparent to him that Don had bit his thumb, probably in his sleep, because there were two small gashes on opposite sides from each other.

"Come on," Charlie said, jumping out of bed. He helped Don up and out, leading him across the hall to the bathroom. Once inside, Charlie softly asked him, "Did you have any accidents?" Two lowered eyes answered his question and Charlie set Buddy aside, going about the business of cleaning his brother. When finished, he seated Don on the toilet lid and then checked the medicine cabinet for an antiseptic. He grabbed a spray and two bandages, sat on the edge of the bathtub and cleaned Don's thumb.

"OW!" Don yelped when the spray hit his cuts. Charlie quickly blew on his thumb until Don nodded it was okay.

"Don," Charlie explained as he applied the bandages, "you can't suck on your thumb. You have to wear these band-aides all night."

"I have to," Don complained. But when he stuck it in his mouth, the taste of the plastic caused him to make a face.

"Try your other thumb," Charlie suggested.

Shifting Buddy to his right arm, Don tried out his left thumb. He appeared satisfied, so Charlie took him back toward their room, running into their father in the hallway.

"Feeling better, Donny?" he asked.

"Yeah…no, head hurts." Don put his finger to his right temple.

Alan frowned. After a close inspection, he told Charlie, "We better give him some pain medication and call Wang in the morning. I didn't see him hit his head, but better safe than sorry."

They were interrupted by the ringing of the downstairs phone.

"Go ahead, Dad, I'll get Don to bed." Charlie took the bottle of sedatives from his father, and watched as he trotted down the stairs. After getting a cup of water from the bathroom, he took Don into the bedroom and helped him take his medicine.

When Charlie had finished putting away the meds, he did his own inspection of his brother. Don was sitting on the edge of the bed, twisting his left thumb in his mouth in an attempt to adjust to the change, Buddy on the bed to his right. His shoulders were slumped inwards and he had sunk down physically, his whole body bent in upon itself. Charlie was reminded of pictures he had seen of children lost at the police station, their forlorn faces oddly cheerier than Don's.

Charlie told Don to climb into bed. He thought about wrapping him in the top sheet, but decided to chance doing without it. With Don having already had a nightmare and looking so depressed, Charlie knew himself well enough to know he would sleep shallowly at best and would be ready if any other torturous visions snuck into his brother's dreams that night.

After he shut off the bedroom light and cracked the door, Charlie followed Don into bed, sitting with his back against the headboard while Don lay on his side next to him with his eyes open. Charlie covered Don and himself with the blankets, and then, attuned to Don's mood, asked him if anything was wrong.

It took a while for Don to answer. He eyes stared across the room at the dresser positioned in front of the bedroom closet. Don took his thumb from his mouth and used it along with his finger to twist his ear. When he opened his mouth to speak, Charlie patiently listened while Don tried to express himself with frequent and long pauses between each set of syllables.

"Why can't I be…"

Don took several deep breaths.

"…be like you?"

Charlie was surprised that Don would ask him that question, wondering what made him think of it. Used to Don comparing their intelligences, Charlie replied, "You know I'm real good at math, Don. But you're smart in all kinds of different ways."

"No," Don shook his head, "not smart like you…"

Several pauses lined up, then-

"Brave like you."

Charlie was flabbergasted. Whenever anyone made a comparison between him and Don, the word brave never seemed to be on his list of characteristics. Smart, sweet, kind, gentle, gifted, intelligent, genius, workaholic- the list could go on forever, but never would anyone, least of all Charlie, have put that particular word on his side of the equation.

And to be referred to in that way by Don both exhilarated and saddened Charlie. He was happy to have his brother see him as brave, to see him as the one who could provide protection, to have Don look up to him like he had always looked up to Don.

But Charlie could not help but feel disheartened that his brave brother, who had always been there for him when he needed protection, as well as any other person who asked for his help, was now reduced to being in awe of his younger brother's ability to chase away the imaginary terrors of his dreams, as if he really were a child.

"Don, you are like me. You're brave."

"No, Charlie. Am not…Always scared."

"You know, Don, someone once told me he was scared sometimes, too. But he had learned that not being afraid isn't what makes you brave. It's doing what you have to do even when you are scared."

Don thought about this. "Who told you that?"

Charlie leaned over and pulled Don's face towards his. "You did, Don. And I believed you. That's why I can be brave now, even though I'm afraid sometimes, too."

Don pulled his head back down. "It's okay if…I'm scared?"

"Yeah, Don. But I'll be with you when you are, and I'll stay by your side. I think we can face anything, as long as we're together."

"Can I be scared…now?" Don's eyes traced the outline of the closet, knowing it was devoid of Mommy's belt.

"Yeah, Don. And I'll be here if you need me."

"I do need you." Don lifted his eyes to Charlie, who responded by opening his arms.

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"Megan, it's good to hear from you." Alan sat down in his recliner, putting his feet up, massaging his eyes with one hand.

"Hi, Alan. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No. Unfortunately, no." He explained to her about Don's nightmare, adding, "I think it's a delayed reaction to what happened at the institute yesterday. I don't think he quite understood everything that occurred. Plus"- Alan hesitated. He did not want any of Don's friends to blame themselves for Thompson getting into their house.

"What's wrong Alan?"

He sighed heavily. They would need to know. "We're certain Thompson broke into our house last night." He told her all that they had found. "Nothing appeared missing, and Don, of course, wouldn't tell us anything. But who else would have left those bottles?"

Megan felt her earlier anger rising again. "Obviously, it had to be her. And I'm sorry to have to tell you that we can't watch the house anymore- not that it did you any good to begin with."

"No, Megan- don't you guys start blaming yourselves. Thompson has this agenda about Don, and it seems impossible for any of us to second guess her. As for that Jackson guy, well, that wasn't even at the house."

"I know you're right, Alan, but please allow me a little guilt."

"Well, I'll only allow you a small portion, even though, trust me, there seems plenty enough of it to go around." He thought about his own self-criminations. "I don't understand this woman, Megan, why she would risk getting arrested to feed Don two bottles. Is Thompson so sick that she can't go for too long a period of time without treating him that way, like she's a drug addict and hurting Don is her fix?"

"It's probably one reason. But don't be misled into thinking that she doesn't know exactly what she's doing, unlike someone on drugs. Abusers don't like to lose their control, and if Don is starting to break away from her grip, she will use any method available to her to regain it. I wouldn't be surprised if the real reason she broke in was to threaten Don last night, as well as you and Charlie. We see that a lot in cases of child molestation and spousal abuse. When the abused tries to get away, the abuser threatens to harm the family if their needs aren't met."

"Charlie has been helping Don through his scary moments- you know, visits to the doctor, meeting new people, this nightmare tonight; if she did make threats, maybe Don won't believe her if he thinks Charlie can protect him."

"Maybe, but Alan, remember that deep down inside that childlike exterior is Don, and he has always been protective of his family. If Thompson threatened you guys, Don might be willing to do anything she says to keep you and Charlie out of danger. It would be a good idea to keep reassuring him that you can protect yourselves."

"Thanks, Megan. I'll talk to Charlie about it in the morning. Speaking of the devil, Thompson's supposedly responsible for getting us our hearing date this Monday. Don't know what she's up to. I almost canceled it with my lawyer, Harvey Johnson, but then this thing with Jackson happened and I had to call him tonight, tell him we needed to go ahead with it."

"You don't think she's going to petition to get Don, do you?"

"My lawyer says only a spouse or adult child could receive conservatorship before me, so no, that would be pointless. We don't know her angle yet. But if she files papers contesting the petition, Johnson says we should be able to figure it out then."

"Keep us posted, Alan, we want to do everything we can to help."

"Of course, Megan. And let me thank you and Don's friends again, for all your help. Because I'm afraid I need to ask you how his case is going."

"I'm glad you brought that up, Alan. Really, I am. Colby went to Sonoma Valley today, and interviewed this woman. Her name is Caleb Whitehall- does the name ring a bell?"

"Whitehall, Whitehall…Mmmmm. Don't know about the Whitehall, but Caleb is unusual enough. I think Margaret and I met one- I don't know- back when we were in the peace movement; when we were just getting interested in voter registration. If she was in Sonoma Valley back in the early seventies, then we probably met her the one time we visited a commune."

"Actually, she's still at that commune. She was running it at the time."

"Oh, now I remember. Young girl, long brown hair. She took care of Donny in her house while I dragged Margaret off to the, uh, activities down in the main portion of the commune. Does she have something to do with Don's kidnapping?"

Megan gave a shortened version of the events Colby had described to her, including what she knew about what had happened to the five principles involved. When she finished, Alan sat still in disbelief, unable to respond to the strange tale. He finally blew out a stream of furious air. "Why didn't she tell us? We sure the hell would have pressed charges. Or Margaret would have taken Thompson out right then and there. And what insane reason could she have for not testifying now?"

"I don't understand her reasoning either, Alan. Guilt does strange things to people, and can keep them from thinking straight. Colby is going to back to see her tomorrow, armed with Don's medical reports, if that's alright with you. We hope she'll come to her senses if she sees how much damage Thompson has done."

"Yes, it is definitely alright with me. But will it be enough to take Thompson to court?"

"I'll have to see what Nadine says when I give her the information. Did anyone inform you that she pressed federal charges against Jackson?"

"Yes, I talked to David earlier in the day. I must thank you for sticking up for Don." Before Megan could say 'your welcome', Alan admonished, "And please don't do anything that foolish again. It may have felt good at the time; well, really good, but I don't want you getting in trouble over Don, and I know he wouldn't want you to, either."

"I promise to keep my emotions in check, Alan." But Megan wondered if what she said was true. "Getting back to Thompson, we were wondering what her reason would be for thinking Don is her son again, over three decades after she first believed it. Now that you know some of her background, can you think of something?"

"No, I can't. I don't even know Thompson- didn't back then and certainly not today."

"Whitehall said you knew of her husband, that he was known as Thoreau, and that's why you went to the commune."

Alan pushed the recliner into an upright position. "Thoreau was her husband? I never knew him as Thompson- he left the L.A. scene at about the same time Margaret and I were just starting our own involvement. And you say that he died from cancer, just like Margaret..." Alan sat quietly contemplating the strange connections that were appearing between his past and Don's recent kidnapping. Thoreau's death from cancer made Alan think about Margaret, and how they had thought the weirdest place they would ever visit would be that commune in the early seventies. But, as it turned out, they had been wrong about the commune; it hadn't been as odd as another place they had more recently visited, and thinking about that particular place caused a small memory to be unexpectantly jostled from Alan's mind. "There might be a recent connection after all. When Margaret was in the last stages of her cancer, I insisted we try some alternative medicine. And yes, I know all about the con artists out there, but when it's someone you love, money doesn't seem to matter anymore."

"I'm not here to judge you, Alan. I'm just trying to make sense out of Thompson's renewed interest in Don."

"Yes, yes. Well, we went to this clinic outside Bakersfield. A lot of holistic mumbo-jumbo if you ask me, but we tried the herbs they gave us anyway. Obviously, they didn't work. But I remember this one time, about three months before she finally passed… Margaret and I were in the waiting room, Donny sitting in a corner away from us because the room was so packed, and naturally he wanted me to sit with my wife. Two seats cleared near Don, and we got up to go sit next to him, but this woman and man took the seats instead. Margaret was feeling particularly bad that day, and for some reason, being separated from Donny just made her feel worse. It bothered me so much that I kept my eyes on him while we sat there for nearly an hour, hoping three seats would become available so Margaret could be near our son. Megan, that woman talked to Donny the entire time, completely ignoring the man she had come with, and when we were called in to see the doctor, she turned her head towards Don while he practically carried his mother into the office. I don't know if I would even remember the incident, except it was our last visit there. Margaret refused to return, said the place gave her the heebie-jeebies."

"Have you seen pictures of Thompson? Was it her?"

Alan admitted with embarrassment, "No, I haven't thought of looking at her picture. I have been too busy with Donny- but if you could fax a couple to Charlie, it would probably be helpful now that we are going to be his sole lookouts; which is something you do not have to feel guilty about."

After a slight pause, Alan continued thoughtfully, "It wouldn't matter if I had looked at her picture anyway. I didn't get a good look at the woman's face at the holistic clinic; her back was to us, but, the important thing is, her husband's wasn't." Alan sat at the end of his seat, excited. "I met Thoreau once, briefly, at a gathering in L.A., while we were trying to get support for voter registration rallies; our meeting was really no more than a handshake. Nevertheless, the man made quite an impression on me, and I never forgot his face. That's why I went to the commune, so I could have a longer meeting with this memorable man. And now that you tell me he had cancer, I remember when we were at the clinic that last day and walked by the couple who had been sitting near Donny. I glanced at them before going into the office; the woman's face was tilted towards the ground, so I couldn't see her features. But I could clearly see her partner's face, and I remember thinking at the time that I knew the man. I can't identify the woman as Dr. Thompson, but I now realize that the man sitting next to her was Thoreau."

"So, Don and Thompson made contact a little over two years ago. I'm not sure what to make of that."

"But does it help in any way?"

"Yes, Alan, every bit of information helps- we just don't know how yet. If you can remember the exact date of that meeting, give me a call." Hearing the older man yawn through the phone, Megan decided it was time to end their conversation. "Listen, I'm feeling a little tuckered out. Why don't I call you tomorrow night? I can let you know how Jackson's arraignment goes and what Colby finds out. And even though we've been given more work to do, David and I are going to follow up one or two more leads."

"Thanks, Megan. I'll appreciate you calling me."

"I have one last question, Alan. How is Charlie coming along with that algorithm to determine the nature of Don's head trauma?"

"He hasn't made much progress. I'm afraid Don's care is taking up more time than we had thought it would. And tomorrow, I'll be gone for at least half the day filing a restraining order against Thompson, which means Charlie probably won't be able to work on it at all, even though Larry is supposed to come by."

"I'm not surprised that he isn't getting anywhere, especially considering the limited time he has to work with. Tell him not to worry about it. His work was a long shot, anyway. All the experts say that the damage could have been caused by too many different things. Charlie is doing the right thing by focusing on Don's therapy."

They both said their goodbyes

When Alan finished his phone conversation, he quickly went back to Don's bedroom. But he did not enter, pausing in the doorway to the room.

Charlie was propped halfway up the headboard on the left side of the bed. Don was curled in a fetal position upon the bed, his head on Charlie's stomach, with Buddy squished underneath it like a pillow, his left thumb in his mouth and dried tears staining his face, frightened eyes staring ahead, presumably at nothing. The fingers of Charlie's left hand were making symmetrical designs on Don's exposed lower back, while the fingers of his right hand ran the same patterns through his hair. Alan listened as Charlie sang softly to his brother, an event that was becoming more and more familiar.

Alan recognized how off-key Charlie was when he sang, his voice a little too high and a little too scratchy. But somehow he managed to make the small lullabies beautiful and rich, as if they resonated from deep in his soul. Alan was aware that they were using medications and therapy to help Don grow out of the need for this kind of comfort, but he could not help but be grateful that they would be allowed more personal times like these during the interim, when their love for each other could be so simply and openly expressed, and would be so readily accepted by a man that once held them further away than an arm's length- at one time, holding them as far away as the distance from L.A. to Albuquerque.