When Ingram was settled, Reese closed the doors, got Christine behind the wheel, had her start the engine and lock the doors. "Anything happens," he said firmly, "you go." Then, and only then, did he leave them alone long enough to hike up to the little building, take a piss, and get a popsicle of his own.

No one approached the van while he was gone. Christine let him take over the driving. Back on the road, he watched for tails again. There were none.

Their passenger was quiet.

"Wanna talk about it?" Christine offered softly.

Reese considered. About the times he'd been where Ingram was now? It was in the past. He shook his head. "You?"

She shook her head, too.

Ten minutes later, when he looked in the mirror, Ingram was asleep again.

Harold Finch paced the front room of the mansion slowly. The carpet was thick; his footsteps were silent. Bear had followed him for a while, but the dog had long-since retired to sprawl in front of the empty fireplace.

Finch had kept the lights off so that he could see out into the yard. Beyond the windows, the lawn was brightly illuminated by security lights. There was a high wall surrounding the entire estate. Cameras covered every inch of it.

It was the most secure location he could secure on short notice.

The Zaccardis were in Florence until June. Finch was not entirely certain that Mickey Kostmayer was actually authorized to grant him use of the mansion, but under the circumstances he was not going to question it.

He paced the silent, tasteful, heavily-secured house and waited.

He hated, beyond nearly anything, not knowing. He did not know anything about the current situation. The day before, Christine had muttered something about checking a solar installation out of town and left. Several hours later, John Reese had simply vanished. Finch had managed to find him, and Christine with him, several states away –

– and then he had made a number of very bad mistakes.

Now Christine didn't want to talk to him, John was being terse at best, they were bringing back someone that they were very anxious about, and he had no idea who. His first assumption was that it was Root herself, but Christine had said it was one of Root's victims. That didn't particularly narrow the field. Root would harm anyone who crossed her path.

But who would Root hurt that would require this urgent security?

Nicholas Donnelly crossed his mind, but that seemed deeply unlikely. Even if Root had managed to get to him, the Machine would have let him know. There were a handful of important political figures, but Finch had accounted for all of them. He hated to guess anyhow, and he was out of guesses.

He paced, and he waited, not with patience but because he had no choice.

And then, finally, there was a notification ding from the front gate.

He hurried to the control panel and tapped the intercom button. "Yes?"

"We're here, Finch," John Reese answered.

Harold reached for the release button, then hesitated. "Did you bring dessert, Mr. Reese?"

There was a note of appreciation in his partner's voice. "Mini cannoli, mocha mousse cups, and tiramisu."

"Excellent."

Finch opened the gate, and then the garage door. He watched while a van drove into the yard, then shut the gate behind it. Then he hurried to the garage, with Bear at his heels.

Christine got out of the passenger seat. She was pale, with dark circles under her eyes, and she moved stiffly, as if it had been a long drive. Harold hurried to her, wrapped his arms around her. She hugged him back, but lightly. "I am so sorry," he said quickly. "I was completely wrong, I should have …"

"Hush," she said, pulling away. "We brought you something."

He followed her to the back of the van. Reese already had both doors open. He had pulled out a wheelchair and was locking its wheels. "You're not hurt?" Finch worried.

"No," Reese answered briskly. "Stay there." He gestured to Christine, and the two of them pulled at the ends of the mattress. The body – the person – on the mattress came into view. The feet were bundled in heavy bandages. Reese lifted him effortlessly off the mattress and deposited him in the wheelchair.

"Who is –"

The person was skeletally thin, tall, with hacked-up gray hair and a terrible mustache and beard. He looked rather strikingly like John Reese had when Finch had first met him. He wore a blue flannel shirt, much too big. He had a bandage around his neck. His eyes –

"Harold," the man said. His voice was strangled and quiet.

Finch felt the blood leave his face. His vision swam. Nothing about this poor starved soul was familiar. And then everything was. The eyes. God in heaven, the eyes. "Nathan."

He was aware, dimly, that Christine was holding his elbow, that she was supporting him. That he was moving toward the man in the chair but with agonizing slowness, as if his feet were made of lead. That the man – Nathan, how could it be Nathan? – was reaching for him. That Reese was already murmuring, "Easy, easy."

Then the hands that were impossibly Nathan's were grabbing him, dragging him closer, bending his neck and it hurt but he didn't care, he was bending and the hands were tighter, arms around his neck now, too tight, and that awful voice, so strangled and pained, and Christine was still there, holding him up, and Reese was still saying, "Easy, easy," but louder now, trying to get those arms loose, and somewhere Bear was barking, his warning bark, and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't stand up, the arms were so tight and he was saying, "Nathan, Nathan," but his voice sounded so weak and choked, too, and Reese was trying to pull him away, Bear was barking fiercely now, and Christine was saying, "Stop, stop," and Finch's vision went black around the edges, and then Christine pulled away and he staggered and the arms were tighter around his neck and then they fell away.

Finch straightened slowly, painfully. Reese pulled Nathan back into the wheelchair. His head lolled back. His arms were limp. Bear stopped barking. Harold turned his head and saw Christine put the cover back on the needle attached to an empty syringe. She dropped it in her pocket and took his arm again.

He needed the support.

"That's Nathan," he managed to say.

"I know."

"Nathan. Alive."

"Yes."

"Let's get him inside," Reese said gently. He kicked the locks on the wheelchair loose.

"Where? How did you find him?"

Christine steered him toward the door to the house. Finch still felt like his feet were encased in lead. His head was light.

And finally, "Who did this to him?"

Reese pushed the chair and its sedated occupant past them. "Root," he said. "She's dead."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Finch took a deep breath. "We'll put him in the master bedroom. Through here."

He didn't have time to try to wake without attracting attention this time. He was just very suddenly wide awake and sitting straight up. Breathless, frightened, with his heart pounding in his ears. "Harold!"

The room was very dim. But the mattress beneath him was soft and then firm, and the sheet was smooth and everything smelled good.

There was a startled noise, a creak of a chair. "I'm here, Nathan."

Harold.

Movement, three muffled irregular footsteps, and the Harold sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm right here. I'm here."

"Harold." Nathan grabbed his hands and squeezed them. His heart refused to slow down. Harold was alive. "You're really here."

"I'm here. Right here, Nathan. I'm right here. You're safe." His head bobbed. "I'm sorry about before. We were afraid you'd injure yourself … "

Nathan remembered the jab, the falling sensation. "We're safe."

"Yes."

"And we're not …" He looked around the dim room. Just a bedroom. A nice one, upscale. Big. Clean. The blanket under his hands was soft and smooth. There was some contraption or frame that held the bedding tented over his wounded feet. He was wearing a t-shirt and – a quick check under the blanket – sweat pants. There were no guards in evidence. The door stood open; there was light in the hall outside. "We're not prisoners."

"No." Harold smiled crookedly. "Here, hang on." He touched a controller on the bedside table and the head of the bed came up, cradling him like queen-sized hospital bed. "I can raise your feet, too, if you like."

"Who the hell has a bed like this?"

Finch shrugged. "Rich people. I know it will take some time to get used to the idea, Nathan. But I promise you, we're safe."

Ingram leaned forward, brought his face next to his friend's. "Tell me something," he half-whispered. "Tell me something only Harold would know."

Harold didn't pull back. "All right. I … ah … "

"The scar on Will's forehead." The woman had mentioned it, but there were details only Harold would know. "Tell me how he got the scar."

"He fell down," Harold answered immediately. "He was just a little boy. You and I were looking at the raw space for IFT's headquarters. It was a Saturday. We were the only ones there. You'd gone to get tape, to mark out the floor so we could visualize it better. Will was running and he fell and landed on a bolt or a screw or something. We never found out what. It bled like crazy. And when we finally got the bleeding stopped, there was just a tiny little wound."

Ingram held very still, afraid to move, afraid to hope. "How did you calm him down?"

"I taught him about finite numbers."

"And then what?"

"And then the three of us went for ice cream."

Nathan realized that his cheeks were wet, and only then understood that he was crying. But it was Harold. Harold would understand. "What kind?" His voice cracked.

Harold leaned into him. Their four hands were still knotted together. "Will got chocolate. I had vanilla. You got coffee."

There. There was the opening he'd been looking for. The chance for Harold to tell him that something was wrong without alerting their captors. "Coffee ice cream," he agreed.

"No." Harold drew back enough to look at him. His eyes were damp, too, beneath his glasses. But he smiled, reassuring. He understood the opening. "Just coffee. You said it was awful. And I asked you what you expected from an ice cream shop."

That was right. That was right. "Harold …" Nathan gave up on control and sobbed.

Harold got his hands loose and put his arms around his shoulders. Nathan leaned against him more heavily and cried.

If it had been anyone but Harold, it would have been embarrassing. Humiliating. But it was Harold, and he'd been there before. "Homecoming," Nathan managed to say, when he finally got a little control.

Harold chuckled. "I was just thinking that."

Nathan sat back and rubbed at his eyes.

Harold, of course, had a handkerchief at the ready. He handed it over, leaned awkwardly to get a tissue for himself. He raised the head of the bed a little more and got Nathan to lean back. "Alright?"

"Yeah." The overwhelming wave passed. He still felt unsteady, but he was okay. Except – "I really have to piss."

Harold nodded. He slid to his feet, retrieved the urinal jug and handed it to him.

"Sorry."

"No, it's good," he answered quickly. "It means your kidneys are still working properly. That there's much less damage than there could be." He picked up a plastic pitcher from the side table. "I'll get you some fresh water. We need to push fluids."

He limped over to a wide doorway, clicked the light on inside. That room was bright, the walls tiled dove gray, clearly a bathroom. He turned on the water and let it run. Privacy, Nathan realized belatedly, and took advantage of it. But he watched when Harold came back. "You're hurt."

His friend focused on the pitcher, on filling a paper cup with water for him. "In the explosion," he said simply. "My back and my neck. My hip."

"I saw you hit the wall. I thought you were dead. They told me you were dead."

"Knocked out," Harold answered bitterly. "I came around just in time to see them cover you with a sheet. If I'd had any idea you were still alive …"

"I know. I know."

"The government took you?"

Nathan gestured for the cup and drank deeply. "Later," he asked faintly. "I can't yet."

"Of course." Harold re-filled the cup, then took the urinal jug to the bathroom to empty it. "This bathroom is wheelchair-accessible," he reported. "Tomorrow I'll show you how to maneuver. It's easy enough; it doesn't require any great strength, only leverage …" He returned, his expression apologetic. "It's only for a few days, until your feet heal."

"Harold …" Nathan took a deep breath. His friend didn't want sympathy. Didn't want to talk about it. He was in the center of the bed; he gestured for him to sit beside him. Harold hesitated, then clambered in next to him so they sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder. He brought his legs up awkwardly, but sighed once he was settled. "Better?"

"Yes." Harold shook his head. "I have come to loathe hospital beds, but this is really quite comfortable."

"Better than those stupid triangle pillows we had." Nathan remembered the wedges too well. They'd had four of them, two for each bunk, and they'd spent hours slouched on them, studying and planning and in Harold's case reading. MIT had been a lifetime ago. He looked over at his friend. "They told me … that Will was dead. That he was killed in a car accident. I thought … I thought they'd killed him."

"He's alive," Harold promised. "And safe."

The tears welled up. "Will."

"He's alive, Nathan. I swear." He shrugged in mock apology. "I couldn't get him to finish his residency, I'm afraid."

"They said … your people … something about windmills."

"A million windmills." Harold nodded. "It's an ambitious goal, but he's …"

Nathan grabbed his forearm and gripped it, hard. "Stop. I can't … I'm sorry, Harold …"

Harold put his hand over his. "Mr. Reese explained about the steak. I will tell you anything you want to know, but there's no hurry. We have time. Just tell me how fast you want to go. Tell me when to stop."

"Steak." Nathan exhaled. It was the perfect analogy. He wanted to know everything about his son, and everything about Harold. But he felt like he was going to choke if he asked for any more. "You'll tell me anything I want to know. That will be new."

"I still have issues," Harold admitted wryly. "But I'm working on them. I've made good progress."

Nathan gestured, and Harold picked up the cup from the side table and handed it to him. He drank again. He didn't think he was ever going to be entirely not thirsty again. "Your people. They're still here?"

"They're asleep, at the moment, but they're here. John's satisfied with the security. But he is well-armed and sleeps lightly, just in case."

"Who is he? John?"

"He's my friend," Harold answered immediately. "And my partner. My business partner, I suppose you could say."

"You trust him."

"With my life." Against there was no hesitation. "And with yours."

"And the woman? The gawky little Red Shirt. She certainly outgrew her ugly duckling phase."

"Christine. Yes." Harold considered. "You are aware that she's my wife?"

Ingram looked at him. Harold was staring straight ahead, and he was glimmering again, pleased with himself but also anxious. "Christine is your wife."

"Yes."

"No, I did not know that." He had the feeling he should have been more surprised. "And that does change what I was going to say."

"I thought it might." Harold's mouth got very small. "I know she's much younger, but …"

Nathan raised his hand. "She saved my life. Do you love her?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm happy for you." Nathan smiled. "And also, I told you so, and you owe me a hundred bucks."

Harold chuckled, relieved. "I already gave it to Will."

Will. His mind swerved away, not ready to get back to his son yet. "She's not the one you were planning to propose to, is she? Before the ferry?"

"No." Harold exhaled softly. "Grace thought I was killed in the explosion, too. There were government agents there, in the room and I … I hid from her. I ran. I let her … believe that I was dead." He was still staring straight ahead. The glimmer was gone. "I couldn't tell her, Nathan. I couldn't risk her life."

"No." Ingram took his arm again. "No, I get that. Believe me, I get that. Is she alright?"

"She married another artist. A photographer. He's good for her. They're happy."

His voice was sincere, but sad. Gently, Nathan guided the conversation away from that grief. "How did you find Chrissy? She disappeared years ago. Or were you tracking her all that time?"

"No." Harold relaxed noticeably. "I hadn't seen her since before the Towers came down. I found her by accident the first time. She was running a cyber café that I stumbled on while we were on a case... "

"A case? What kind of case?"

Harold considered. Nathan almost smiled; it was so familiar, that little tightening of the lips that his friend got when he was deciding which answer to give. He'd just said he'd tell Nathan anything he wanted to know, and there it was again. It was maddening, of course. But it was so Harold. "A case," he finally said. "A Number. An Irrelevant number. We were helping a man whose wife planned to have him killed for his life insurance …"

"Harold." Ingram understood now why he'd hesitated. That information was another huge bite of steak. "You can't be serious."

"I should have done it from the start," Harold said swiftly. "I should have listened to you, I should have found another way to draw the line, I should have realized that you were right, that everyone is relevant to someone … I should have …" His words faltered. "I am so sorry, Nathan. I am so …"

And then he was crying again, and Nathan put his arm around him, and he was crying, too, and it still wasn't embarrassing.

When they were composed again, he took another long drink of water. He offered the cup to Harold, and his friend took a smaller drink. "So you're helping them. The Numbers."

"Yes."

"And John's your partner. In helping them."

"I have the information." Harold gestured to his leg. "He has the skills needed to intervene."

"Is it working?"

"We save many," he said. "We lose some. But we try."

"Harold. That's …" Nathan shook his head. "Thank you."

"No. Don't thank me. I should have done it all along."

"Is that how they found me? Did my … my Number come up?"

Harold shook his head. "I don't know how they found you. We'll talk to them about it in the morning, but … I don't know."

"The girl knows? Your wife …" Nathan shook his head, delighted with the phrase, "… your wife knows, too? About the Numbers?"

"Yes."

"And the Machine?"

"She knows everything." Harold considered. "Mostly everything. She knew a lot of it before I found her. At least in theory. And once her Number came up and she got a look at how we worked …"

"Whoa. Her Number came up? You said you found her by accident."

"I did. And that encounter inadvertently led to her putting herself in danger. She found a …" He paused. "It's a very long story."

"You can tell me tomorrow," Nathan agreed. "But the bottom line is, you rescued the damsel in distress and then you married her."

"It wasn't like that," Harold snapped.

"No, I didn't mean it that way."

"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "I just … so much has happened."

"Having a little trouble chewing the steak, too?"

"I suppose I am. I can't believe you were alive all this time. There's so much I would have done differently, if I'd known."

"Harold. You're saving the Numbers. You're looking after my son. I couldn't ask you for any more than that."

"But you …" Harold gestured to his battered feet.

"They'll heal."

"I could have stopped her. Root. I could have … killed her. I had the chance. But I …"

"You didn't know."

They sat very quiet for a moment. Finally, hesitantly, Nathan asked, "The Machine. Is it still hidden? Still safe?"

"Oh, yes," Harold answered without hesitation. "More hidden now than ever."

"The government …"

"It moved itself."

"The Machine did?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"There was a threat. It defended itself. It's fully autonomous now."

Nathan looked at him. Harold looked right back, his eyes a twinkling a little behind his glasses. "You planned for that."

"No precisely. I knew it would do something. I just didn't know what."

"Where is it now?"

"I have no idea. I don't think anyone does."

"When?"

"When what?"

"When did it become autonomous?"

"Last year."

"In the spring?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"I think she broke me out."

"The Machine did?"

"Yes. They were transporting me, the government, and then …" He stopped, trembling.

"You can tell me tomorrow," Harold said quickly. "Or the day after. It doesn't matter now. You're here, and safe."

Nathan took a series of deep breaths. "Where are we, anyhow? Is this your house?"

"No. Do you remember a man named Carlos Zaccardi?"

"The Wall Street guy? I think I met him a couple times. This is his place? How do you know him?"

"I don't. Well, I met him once, and his wife. They're in Florence until June. Zaccardi's wife is Yvette Marcel. She's a sculptor, quite a gifted one. Her godfather worked for the CIA, and his widow brought her children here on vacation, and the daughter's Number came up. John tried to help her, and the widow took him captive and would have killed him, but Yvette's brother showed up with his wife, who might be psychic …"

"Stop," Nathan begged. "Please stop."

Harold took a breath. "It belongs to the friend of a friend," he summarized.

"When you said you'd tell me everything, I thought it would be like one of your long wordy novels, not in bullet points."

"Sorry. I can tell you in more detail if you like."

"Tomorrow. Or the day after." He sighed. "They said … Christine said Will was married, too."

"Yes."

"You've met her? His wife?"

"Oh, yes. I know her well. She's lovely. Julie's … everything you could hope for."

"Julie." The name felt strange on his tongue.

"Formerly Julie Carson."

Ingram frowned at him. "Carson as in Carson? Like Carson Aviation? Electronics? And … everything else?"

"Robert Carson's youngest daughter."

"My son married a Carson."

"And the best of the lot, in my opinion."

Nathan whistled again. "The boy did okay, for the son of a farmhand's son." He shook his head. "Are they happy?"

"Very." Harold opened his mouth as if he were going to say more. Then he stopped.

"You're sure?"

"As sure as I can be."

"Olivia likes her? Olivia's still alive, right?"

"Yes, and very much." Harold nodded to himself. "Julie's very kind. Smart. Resourceful. And … practical."

"Which Will is still not, I'm sure. Practical."

"They complement each other."

"What aren't you telling me?"

Harold glanced at him.

"I haven't forgotten the signs, Harold. You're telling me everything is fine, but you're leaving something out."

"It's not bad, I promise you. It's just … rather a big bite of steak."

"Tell me."

Harold considered for a long moment. "They have a daughter."

Nathan felt his chest go tight, his breath grow shallow. He closed his eyes tightly and concentrated on inhaling and exhaling until it became routine again. Harold waited, silent. "A daughter," he finally managed to say.

"Angela Frances."

"I knew." After a long moment, Nathan opened his eyes. "I didn't believe it, but … in Green Bank, I didn't have a computer. No TV. There's no radio. I bought old records. Didn't talk much to anyone. Didn't read the papers. I didn't – I didn't want to know what was going on out in the world. I just didn't care."

"You needed to heal," Harold said gently.

"Maybe." Nathan gave a huge sigh. "But I read just a snippet, something about an American Royal Baby watch, and it was such nonsense, I didn't believe it. I couldn't …" He frowned. "Alicia. Is she dead?"

"Yes."

Nathan grimaced. "Are you sure?"

"I'm afraid so."

They were quiet for a moment.

"What's she like?" Nathan finally asked. "Angela."

"She's a cuddler. Somewhat prone to be gassy."

Nathan looked at his friend.

"She's three months old," Harold said, smiling. "Well, almost four. So her personality is somewhat undetermined at this point. She seems to enjoy being read to."

"She's … healthy?"

"She's perfect. I have pictures, if you …"

Harold leaned to climb out of the bed, but Nathan grabbed his arm, kept him where he was. "Not yet," he said. He was breathless again, dizzy. Full. "Not yet."

"Steak," Harold said gently. He settled back, comfortable, relaxed. Nathan let himself draw calm from him. "You should rest."

Nathan nodded and closed his eyes again. Words skittered across his brain, words like Will and Julie Carson and daughter and granddaughter and Machine. He let them slide. He knew if he grabbed at any of them his mind would overload again, he would vomit or stop breathing or simply explode. No. Let them go. Harold was here, right beside him. They were free and safe. Later, later he would look at pictures. He would ask the questions. The baby. The wife. Later. It would all still be there.

He was a grandfather.

It skated away.

Darkness welled up; sleep pulled at him. He was like a baby himself, falling asleep in the midst of a crowd because he was simply overwhelmed. Like Will had been as an infant. Will had a daughter.

"You'll stay?" he murmured.

"I'll be right here, Nathan," Harold promised.

He let the darkness take him. Just for now.