He felt better. Physically, anyway. His head still hurt, especially when he tried to piece together the events of his lost day, but not as bad as it had the day before. And the second medicine they'd given him for nausea had worked. Thank God. He ate breakfast and took a dose of medication, and so far, there had been no ill or humiliating consequences.

But as he pondered his situation, knowing that Peter, Detective Powell, or most likely both would be returning at any moment to demand answers from him, his head protested with a steady, throbbing ache. And he had no answers; the entire day after Peter's irritation at his tardiness was a complete blank. But what he did know, he wasn't willing to share. Alex had sent the note; she had set up a meeting with him, and he'd gone to Water Street to meet her. That knowledge caused his chest to tighten in apprehension.

How had she known where to find him? Was she trying to recruit his help with some venture? And why in the world would he have thought it was a good idea to meet her? Her wrap sheet and list of suspected crimes were longer than his, especially if the search was broadened to Europe. Peter had forbidden him to have contact with any of his old acquaintances. Their arrangement was on tenterhooks as it was, and a meeting with Alex, if Peter found out, could be enough to end it.

Why would he risk that? Why would he have agreed to meet her? He wracked his brain, but only one thing came to mind; the only thing he'd be willing to throw everything away for.

Kate. He'd do anything to find Kate.

Did Alex have a lead on her? If she dangled that over his head, he'd have met her anywhere. But Alex didn't have a romantic bone in her body, and she didn't like Kate. If she had information, she wouldn't have given it freely. She'd have used it as a bargaining chip to get something she needed from him.

But what? Alex was a thief, not a scam artist. If she had a job that required that kind of finesse well, everyone knew that was his specialty. If she'd found out he was out of prison and in New York, it followed she'd at reach out to enlist his help. The suspect Detective Powell had wanted him to identify was a trader; had all four of them been? Were they part of whatever Alex was planning? Did they need a forger? Was that what she had in mind for him? Forge a few bonds in exchange for information about Kate?

Did she know about his deal with the FBI? About the anklet? Had he told her? It would factor into where he could go and exactly what he could do.

That revelation wouldn't have gone over well, but he didn't think she'd try to kill him over it.

Her partners, however, may have felt differently. Maybe they deemed him a liability that needed removing. If that were the case, they'd know they hadn't succeeded. The NYPD would have told them as much and that he was ready to identify them. They didn't know he didn't remember who they were. If that was what had gone down in that alley, then he was still a liability. They could still come after him. If they didn't succeed in killing him, they'd succeed in outing his meeting with Alex and getting him kicked back to prison.

That less than encouraging thought was interrupted with the arrival of Dr. Brandt.

"Good morning, Mr. Caffrey," the man began, strolling toward him. He placed the folder he held on the table and produced a penlight. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than yesterday." Neal still winced slightly as the small beam of light hit his pupil.

"Sensitivity to light may persist a few days," the doctor explained, peering into the other eye. Seemingly satisfied, he pocketed the instrument. "How about the headache?"

"Better," Neal said again. "It still hurts but nothing like before."

"Any pressure?" he asked, picking up the folder and opening it. "Sharp pains?"

"No, it's just kind of a dull ache."

The doctor nodded and looked down at the chart he held.

"I see you ate breakfast and had no problem with the oral medication."

"No problem at all," Neal agreed. "I am feeling much better." The doctor continued to scan the document. "When will I be able to get out of here?" Neal added.

"People are always in such a hurry to leave us." the doctor chuckled, looking up at him. "But you seem to be healing well from the surgery, and your post-concussion symptoms are improving. Those are both good signs."

"So when can I go home?" he pressed.

"Let not get ahead of ourselves," he warned. "Give it a day to see how you tolerate the medication. Plus, I'd like to do some more blood work, just to be on the safe side. I'll need to check with Dr. Norris as well. I'm sure he will want another look at you. If all those things go well, then I'd say you could get out of here in the morning. How's that?"

Not as soon as he'd hoped, but he'd take it. "Good enough, I guess."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

The phlebologist had just drained him of his blood when Peter appeared at his door. He was not alone. There was a young lady with him.

"Hey, Neal," he greeted as he entered. He stepped aside as the woman followed him. "I met someone in the hallway looking for you."

Neal didn't know her, but her eyes widened at the sight of him. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Your poor face!"

Confused, Neal looked at Peter, waiting for an explanation or, at the very least, an introduction.

"Neal, meet Miss James." The introduction did little to clear things up for him.

"Samatha," she corrected, moving towards him. "But you can call me Sam."

Sam. He was sure he'd never seen her in his life. But then again, he was missing a whole day. He imagined he could have seen dozens of people during the now blank hours of his life. "I'm sorry," he said. "Do I know you?"

She glanced at Peter, who gave her a nod. "We met, briefly, on Water Street. Tuesday night."

Neal felt his muscles tense. He looked at Peter in alarm, but Peter seemed calm. Pleased even.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I don't remember you."

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "I know you don't," she said softly. "He told me you didn't remember what happened to you. But I was there; I do know."

For a moment, Neal wondered if the nausea medication was going to be strong enough. He glanced in near panic at Peter.

His face wore a surprisingly kind look which brought a lump to Neal's throat. Good Grief.

"It's okay, Neal," Peter encouraged softly. "You'll want to hear this."

It was impossible to catalog the conflicting emotions that barraged him, so he didn't try. He just had to get through them. He swallowed and then settled his gaze on the young woman at his side.

He listened as Sam told him what had happened. He felt an odd kind of discomfort, and his face had warmed when she told him he'd rushed in to save her. It was strange hearing about what had transpired when he had no memory of it. It was as if she was talking about someone else. He absently turned his hand over, noting the discoloration of his knuckles. He'd wondered about that. Now he knew. He couldn't look at her as she talked or at Peter. He'd hoped his emotions had settled down along with his stomach, but apparently not. His feelings continued to swirl, churn, and shift and the lump in his throat hadn't diminished in the least. But of all emotions, he guessed he felt relief most of all. The detectives weren't going to discover he'd been up to something criminal in that alley. Everyone had thought that, hell, even he had thought that; he'd been sure he'd been beaten because of some deal he'd gotten into with Alex.

"Thank you, Neal," Sam finished, reaching down to take his hand. "If you hadn't come when you did..." she let it trail off.

"I'm glad I was there," he managed to mummer around the lump and through his constricted throat. Glad he was in the alley, not on Water Street in general. One problem was solved, but another loomed. Alex. Why had he met with her? What deal had they struck?

"I'm sorry you were hurt so bad," she continued, starting to choke up. "He said you...you had internal injuries. And...and...your poor face!"

Back to that. "I'll be okay," Neal assured her. Hopefully, the woeful state of his face camouflaged the warmth her words caused to burn in his cheeks. "In fact," he glanced at Peter. "I might even get to go home tomorrow."

She swallowed. "That's good. But still. You could have died. Just for helping me."

"But I didn't," he reminded her, tiring of the subject. "So don't let it bother you anymore."

"I'm so grateful, though," she said, reaching down to grasp his hand. "I just wish there was something I could do-"

"You've already done it," he cut in, hoping to stop the threat of tears that glistened in her eyes. "By coming today. It's hard not remembering. You imagine all kinds of things." He met Peter's eyes again. "And so does everyone else."

A look of regret flashed in Peter's eyes before he looked away, directing his attention to Sam.

"The NYPD has approached this investigation as if Neal was doing something wrong," he told her. "If you really want to do something to help him, come with me down to the Precinct and tell the detectives what happened."

Neal could tell she didn't want to do that, but she gave a nod of consent after a moment.

"He saved me," she said firmly. "He was a hero in that alley. And I'll tell them so."

"I wasn't a hero," Neal muttered, feeling the heat build in his face. He looked up at Peter. "Anyone passing by would have done the same thing."

"You were wonderfully brave," Sam insisted. "Taking all them on like you did. A hero."

He was surprised when Peter grinned at him. "Just like in the movies."