So faith, hope, and love remain—these three things—but the greatest of these is love. (1 Corinthians 13:13)

"Ms. Nichols, good morning. It's Mark."

"Yes, I know," June said dully. "My super-smart phone tells me who's calling. What's up?"

"I've got something for you here. A letter, without a sender or return address." He paused, hoping for a hint of enthusiasm from her. The last time they'd spoken, he told her Nick Blaine was probably dead. He was a little surprised at how hard she'd taken it; Tuello had gotten mixed messages on her relationships. He knew she was married to Luke Bankole, who seemed to still be devoted to her, and that she'd had a baby with Blaine—though in Gilead, that didn't imply much. The whole thing was none of his business anyway, so he just continued. "It was hand-delivered to the US Consulate in Montreal. They unfortunately sat on it for a week before trying to get in touch with you. Since your file has no address, and just says to contact me, they finally mailed it here."

"What does it say?"

"Well, I didn't open the envelope. It's addressed to you. It's a federal crime to open someone else's mail, you know. Do you want to come to my office?"

"I'm nowhere near you." She didn't tell him where she was. Not in the safe house in Ontario anymore: she'd left Holly there with Luke. She was in a cabin on Niagara on the Lake with Emily Malek and a handful of other former handmaids, the ones who'd helped salvage Waterford. They were planning their next foray into Gilead, crossing the Niagara River into New York. They were just waiting on a suitable boat. Without the Americans' permission, of course: Tuello would want nothing to do with this. He was still pissed at her for the Waterford incident, still having to clean up the diplomatic mess she'd made. "Just read me the letter, Mark," she said wearily. "Fuck the federal law."

He had to laugh at that. "Okay. Just a sec." He carefully opened the envelope, then gasped. "Oh my God. This is very good news. It says: 'June, your favorite commander is alive. Hôpital du Haut-Richelieu. Saint Jean.' And then, a PS: 'Remember the last time you were dressed in red? I was one of the Guardians who drove you to that bridge where you and he shared a pretty epic kiss.' It's signed 'J.' That's all. Uh, okay, let's see. Saint Jean is obviously in Quebec." She could hear him typing on the computer in front of him. "Got it. It's southeast of Montreal, about 40 miles from the Vermont border. How fast can you get over there?" Silence. "Ms. Nichols? You still on the line?"

"Yeah," she said in a strangled voice. "I know exactly which day he's talking about. We were in the middle of nowhere. There's no way he could know about the bridge—or the kiss either—if he wasn't there, but…it could be a trap."

"Yes, it very well could be a trap. Why don't I send some people from our Montreal Consulate to the hospital, to discreetly see if Nick's really there, and then call—"

"Oh, no. I mean, that's fine, send some backup, but I'm going. Today. I'll have to drive back to Toronto, then fly to Montreal, but I'll get there. If there's a bunch of Eyes waiting for me, well, I'll just take them all out. You can deal with the fallout of that like you dealt with Waterford's death. But if Nick's there, I'm going to get to him."

The others could take the boat to New York. She had a new mission.

Six hours later, June wanted to cry, punch the indulgent intake nurse in the face, or run through the halls screaming Nick's name. "Privacy laws prevent me from telling you about any patient, unless you tell me his name and his relationship to you," the nurse repeated calmly in her French Canadian accent. "I can't even confirm that we have such a patient."

"I can't tell you his name. He was most likely brought in anonymously, anyway. He's 29 years old, dark hair, just came across the border from Gilead. He was probably beaten or tortured. Someone reliable told me he'd been brought here." June exhaled in frustration. "For fuck's sake, please help me. You have no idea how far I've come to find him." She glanced around the entrance room; there weren't many people waiting. Nobody who looked like an Eye. But then again, plain-clothes agents were supposed to blend in. "The people who…hurt him, they're looking for us. I can't share his name. But you can't have very many patients with his symptoms. Please help me. Aidez-moi. Je vous en prie."

The intake nurse looked sympathetic, then lowered her eyes to scroll through data on the screen in front of her. "Is this man a relative of yours?"

June paused for no more than a second. "I'm his wife."

"D'accord," she muttered, then spoke softly. "Take the lift to the third floor. In the ICU—Intensive Care Unit—we have a man, Jean Dupont, matching that description."

"Jean…? That's not his name. He's not even French."

The nurse lowered her voice even further. "Jean Dupont is what we call a man without a name. Like John Doe in English."

"Merci," June called, already running for the elevators.

A black van was waiting in Warren Putnam's driveway as he arrived home from the Chancellery. A quartet of Eyes exited the vehicle. Two approached him with swagger, the other two with pity.

"Blessed evening," Putnam told them.

"Evening, Commander. Please come with us." One of the Eyes gestured to the van.

"Why?" When they didn't answer, he added, "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes, sir. We have excellent news, Commander. By His hand, we found your wife and daughter. Loyal Gilead citizens living in Toronto told us just where to look. Your wife and Angela are alive, safe, and are on their way back home right now. Please come with us; we'll take you to them."

"Praise be," Putnam stammered. He had no idea who had betrayed them, or why Gilead's agents were even looking for Naomi in Toronto. But he was pretty sure she was going to kill him. He'd promised her they would never be found, that she'd be safe. If she'd known she'd be caught and returned, she would never have agreed to leave in the first place. Warren was so worried about his wife's anger that he didn't even notice where the van was heading…until it was too late to protest. Not that protesting would have done him any good.

The man in the hospital room was lying face down, his head in a face-cradle as if he were getting ready for a massage. Gauze covered him from shoulders to knees, one giant white Band-Aid. His left hand was also wrapped in bandages. He lay completely still, chest rising and falling gently.

June only recognized him by his tousled hair and graceful neck. She knelt on the tiled floor, looking up at him through the face cradle: it was indeed her Nick. She said a quiet prayer of thanks to God, surprising herself with her sudden piety, then recited Corinthians in a whisper. "Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things." Nick had recited that line on the day he married Eden, ostensibly to his new wife, but glancing at June while he said it. Not that he'd needed to signal her. She'd known whom he was talking to. She buried her face in his hair. "Hi there," she managed to murmur before the tears came.

"Hello," responded a female voice behind her. June turned to see a kindly-looking doctor, concern etched in her face. "Are you a friend of this man?"

"Bonjour," June said, wiping her eyes distractedly. "Yes, he's my husband." Claiming that would allow her to make medical decisions for Nick…but she meant it. She might as well give herself a new marital status to go along with her new identity. She'd already used her alter ego to talk her way past the two American agents—Secret Service, police, spies, she wasn't quite sure, but they were posted outside to guard Nick's room. They'd recognized her right away, calling her "Ms. Nichols," so she guessed Tuello had briefed them beforehand.

The doctor explained all the injuries 'Monsieur Dupont' had suffered. Nothing life-threatening anymore, though his kidneys had stopped functioning normally when he first arrived because of the trauma they'd endured, and had to be treated with angiographic embolization. Doctor Bergeron explained the whole procedure; June didn't really follow. It was successful, in any case. They were going to monitor his kidney function for a while just to make sure. He'd been flogged with a whip, thirty or forty lashes, the doctor wasn't quite sure, so much of the skin on his back, buttocks and thighs was ripped to shreds. The doctors had covered the area with bioengineered skin. A new technique—they'd brought in a specialist from Montreal to graft the skin. It needed some time to heal. He wasn't leaving the hospital for a few weeks at least.

Out of habit, June reached out to take Nick's hand. Instead of the expected warmth, she felt only gauze. "And, uh, his fingers were amputated?" Just like Serena…except they probably hadn't given Nick any anesthesia beforehand. The thought made June sick to her stomach. He had beautiful hands, with long, tapered fingers. They had spent so much time at the Waterfords communicating primarily through their hands, entwining their fingers when nobody was watching.

"Oh, no, his hand is intact. His fingernails were unfortunately pulled out. The fingertips have to stay bandaged for a while, but the nails will grow back, more or less normally, within about six months. Is he left-handed?"

"No, right-handed." June thought she might vomit. When she'd been imprisoned, the interrogator had threatened to pull her nails out as well. Just the sight of the tool—similar to pliers—had prompted her to talk. She'd lied, but had at least said something. Anything to avoid that pain.

"Well," the doctor concluded with forced cheer, "that's lucky. He can still use the hand, just not for delicate tasks like closing a button."

"He's not usually a sound sleeper," June mused. "Why is…is he sedated?"

"Yes, the wounds to his back and the graft sites would be very painful, so we've kept him sedated. We turn him every few hours from his belly to his side, to avoid bedsores, and a physical therapist comes every day to move his legs, to keep the muscles from atrophying. But we can wake him up, if you need to talk with him. We may pull him out in a few days anyway. Standing and moving around would be good for him."

She stroked his hair absently. "No, let him rest. He's earned it."

FINIS

Thanks so much for reading!

PS: the reference to Nick's graceful neck was Elisabeth Moss's doing. She said in an interview with Seth Meyers that Max has a "really beautiful neck," and I must concur.