Harold sat on the chaise – he was coming to loathe that particular blameless piece of furniture – and watched while Nathan slept. His friend had been doing so well, and his sudden collapse was alarming. But his breathing was deep and even now. Harold could believe it was just a temporary setback. Too much, too fast.

John had warned them.

He heard John and Christine in the kitchen, clearing away the breakfast dishes, talking quietly. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He was so tired.

If he was honest, he was overwhelmed too. He had cause to be. His friend had been dead. Now he was alive, but terribly wounded.

Wounded, tortured, starved and nearly killed by a woman who had only been alive because of Harold's weakness. He was well aware that John Reese had not killed her only because Finch had stayed his hand. And in her escape, Root had wrought terrible damage on Nathan.

Yet another of the many, many guilts that Harold would carry to his grave.

Christine came in and sat down beside him. She had a small notebook and a pen. "I'm going to go shopping," she said quietly. "Do you have requests?"

He slipped his glasses back on. "Do you think it's safe?"

"No one followed us. I'll be fine. I'll take your car, if that's okay."

"Of course." He looked over the list, but he couldn't focus on it. "I have a condominium not far from here." He turned to the next page, took the pen, and wrote down an address and access code. "I haven't used it in some time, but there will be spare clothes for John and I."

"Okay."

"You'll need to shop for yourself and for him." He nodded toward Nathan. "He used to be about John's size, but he's so thin now."

"I'll take care of it." Then, "Do you have a spare laptop at the condo that I can borrow?"

"Of course. Bottom left drawer of the credenza. There are three there, I believe. Bring them all back, if you don't mind." He gave the notebook and pen back. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

She met his eyes, but there was a distance there still. He deserved that. He took her hand. "I am so sorry. You left so suddenly, and then John left and I – I was out of line. I apologize."

Christine smiled wryly. "I brought you a present anyhow."

He looked back at Nathan. "You certainly did."

"I've got to get going." She kissed his cheek tenderly, then stood and left the room.

Harold watched his friend sleep for a while more. Then he stood and went to the kitchen. John was drying the last of the kitchen pans. "He asleep?"

"Yes." Finch hesitated, mulling a question he both did and did not want to know the answer to. Of course his curiosity won out. "How on earth did you find him?"

Reese had obviously been expecting the question. "Root kidnapped Elizabeth Everett."

"What?" Panic ran through his body.

"From an art show in Philadelphia."

"Is she alright?" The panic subsided much more slowly than it had risen. John would not be here if the child were still in danger.

"She's fine. She wasn't hurt, and she's back with her parents."

"But how did you find out? How did you get the child back? I don't understand. How did you find them?"

John cocked an eyebrow and waited.

"Because the Machine told you," Finch answered his own question. But he was no less confused. "But why did it tell you and not me?"

"Because Elizabeth was bait."

"For me. Of course." He rubbed his forehead. Where the panic had been, a headache was forming. "So the Machine told you, to protect me?"

"Mm-hmm." Reese stuck the skillet back in the cupboard and draped the towel over the side of the sink.

Once Finch would have taken that answer as agreement. But now he heard the non-answer. His mind made an intuitive jump. "It told Christine."

John nodded grimly.

"The Machine approached her directly? Spoke to her?"

"It did."

"That's … bad."

John shrugged.

"And she didn't tell me."

"Christine saw what the Machine saw: That it was a trap for you."

"So she went after Root by herself." A new kind of fear formed now. Christine was out beyond the wall, by herself …

"Not by herself," Reese reminded him.

Harold hated his next question. "And you're certain that Root is dead?"

"I put two bullets in her heart. She's dead."

He paced to the dining room and back. They'd told him several time now that Root was dead. He couldn't seem to let go of his fear of her. She had been so intelligent, so cunning, that it seemed impossible that she could simply be killed by bullets.

"But how did that lead you to Nathan?"

"Root tried to bargain. Said that she would lead us to him in exchange for her life."

So there had been a conversation. A confrontation. Root hadn't died in running firefight sparked in self-defense. It had been colder.

But Grace's child was safe, and Harold could not find any deep regret for that. He hated that innocent little Elizabeth had been drawn into this conflict.

And how many other innocents had Root killed along the way? How many had she harmed, or terrified?

It was regrettable, any loss of life was regrettable, but if it had to be Root or another innocent—

Harold shook his head. "They met, then? Root and Christine?"

Reese nodded grimly.

The woman who had forced Christine to shoot her friend.

Yet another regret Harold would carry forever.

He took a breath. "The Machine sent you to Green Bank."

"It sent us as close as it could. Just before it lost signal, it sent us an address."

"I suppose," Finch reasoned, "it sorted through property records and found a probable match. But what would you have done if he hadn't been there?"

"Searched every house in town," Reese answered logically.

"You would, wouldn't you?"

John shrugged.

"I don't understand. If the Machine knew that Nathan was alive, why didn't it tell us sooner?"

"Whoever took him from the ferry knew about the Machine," John said. "About its capabilities. They would have made sure to keep him off cameras of all kinds. Out of records."

"They would have hidden him from their own surveillance systems."

"Just the top levels, of course. The grunts doing the actual work wouldn't know why, they'd just follow orders."

Harold nodded slowly, working it out. "Once it was fully autonomous, it located him, and freed him. But then why not tell me?"

"It gave him a choice," John answered gently.

"And he said Green Bank. Because he thought I was dead. But then why, when Root took him – why didn't it tell us then?"

"He had a chip, in his arm. He said he put it there himself. Corwin had one, too. He said it was supposed to make him invisible."

"Invisible – to the Machine?"

"We'll have to ask Nathan that."

Harold rolled the idea around in his mind. "I suppose that would make sense. Alicia was so frightened – and Nathan has skills to create something like that. He knew how the Machine worked, how the feeds worked." He sighed. "Once they were in Green Bank the Machine couldn't see them anyhow. It knew where he was, but it didn't know he was in trouble."

From Nathan's condition, it was clear that he would not have survived more than another day or two. If Root had not come out of the town, if she had not tried to lure Harold out –

"Harold," John said firmly.

Finch realized that he was trembling. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry. It's just … it's just …"

"It's a lot to take in," John said. "But Nathan's safe now. You should get some rest."

"Yes." He was very tired. His hip hurt, and his headache was getting worse. Nathan was safe and sleeping. There were some computer security things he should do, some maintenance things he should take care of. It would wait. He should rest. "Yes."

He started out, then turned. One thing that would not wait. "John. Thank you."

Reese smiled, small but sincere.

"Will."

Nathan's own voice woke him. He lay very still, feeling the word on his tongue. "Will," he said again, softly. First Harold, and now Will. He'd been sure he'd seen Harold die. He could still see that moment in his mind: Harold smiling, half-raising his hand to wave, and then an unexpected hit on his back – he'd felt it before he heard it – and Harold flying backward lifted off his feet, smacked flat against the wall behind him, his head hitting just a second after his shoulders, and then Nathan was falling forward, before his friend even slumped …

He had seen Harold die, he thought. But Will – they had simply told him about Will, in the most off-hand way possible. "He was in a car accident," someone had told him. Flat, without emotion. In everything they didn't say, Nathan heard that his son had become inconvenient and had been murdered.

But Will was alive, too. He had heard his voice. On Christine's phone, again. His lovely angel of telecommunication.

Honestly, he'd assumed she was dead, too, but that had been a long time ago.

Will was alive. Well married. A new father.

And now what?

Nathan rolled onto his back. His feet ached, but not as badly as they had. He wondered how long he'd slept. The curtains were drawn. He could see daylight through them, but he couldn't judge whether it was still morning.

His bladder was full. That seemed to be a permanent condition these days. He knew they were trying to keep him hydrated, and after he had nearly died of thirst he appreciated that, but they needed to slow down before they drowned him.

He groped at the side table until he found the controller, then fumbled some more until he managed to raise the head of the bed. Remarkably, he was alone. The bedroom door was open. Beyond, the house was quiet. Nathan guessed he only needed to call out to bring someone rushing to his side. But he didn't want that. He wanted to stop being an invalid.

He threw the blankets back and glared at his feet. They were neatly wrapped in white bandages up past his ankles. There were spots of yellow ooze still. The puppy pad was stained. The cut-up cardboard box kept the top sheet from getting stained as well, and kept any weight off them. He had not seen the cuts on the soles of his feet, but he could feel the sharper pains in the ache. If he tried to walk, he was going to burst them wide open again.

He guessed that the urinal jug was right beside the bed. But he didn't want it.

The wheelchair was right beside the bed, too.

Nathan considered it for a long moment. If he screwed up, if his arms weren't strong enough – well, then he'd end up on the floor and John would have to pick him up. The big guy didn't seem to have any problem managing that. Nathan liked him, but he had the feeling it would be a long time before he could say he knew him very well. He seemed like a man with a lot of secrets.

Weren't they all?

Ingram scooted to the edge of the bed. He took a deep breath, then grabbed the far arm rest of the chair and hauled his backside into it. Fortunately the wheels were locked so the chair didn't try to scoot away from him. Gingerly, he lifted first one foot and then the other into the footrests. Having them down made them ache more, but he didn't care. He'd done it.

He unlocked the wheels and maneuvered badly and slowly across the ten feet to the bathroom door. His arms were exhausted by the time he got there. But at least he had narrowly avoided bashing his feet into the doorway.

He rested for a moment. The next challenge was getting his pants down. They were sweats, which made it easier. He could rock his hips from side to side and shimmy them down. Good. But he needed to catch his breath.

Nathan looked around the bathroom. It was enormous. Plenty of space to wheel his chair next to the toilet, and there was a towel bar that he could use to help pull himself over. There was a glass-enclosed walk-in shower, and also a jacuzzi tub that seated four. That would feel so good, he thought, to sit and let the water jets ease the aches out of his muscles. But that wasn't happening while he still had stitches in his feet. He imagined trying to sit in the tub with his feet up on the edge. And then sliding under the water and drowning. He chuckled.

He managed to get his pants down. Progress. Then he wanted to rest again, but the thought of someone walking in on him in this particular moment prevented that. He grabbed the towel bar, which felt nicely solid, and hurled his body onto the seat.

That part went well. But he had not calculated that his feet would touch the ground in the transfer. Though he didn't put much weigh on them, they exploded with pain. He felt like he was going to vomit. Sweat popped out on his forehead. He held on, squeezed his eyes shut, breathing shallowly, waiting. Hoping.

It took several minutes, but the pain finally faded back into an ache. Nathan breathed more deeply. He took the towel off the bar and wiped his face. He emptied his bladder and then his bowels, and made grateful use of the bidet. Then he rested again.

He should call for help. He was too tired to make it back into the wheelchair on his own.

But he was too stubborn.

He pulled the chair as close as he could, remembered to lock the wheels. Then he grabbed the far arm and flung his body over again. It wasn't as successful; the arm was in the way. He had to put weight on his feet again. But he managed to catch himself and haul himself upright.

"I used to be the most powerful man in New York," Ingram said ruefully to himself. "And look, now I can use the potty without help."

He wriggled back into his pants.

"Second-most powerful," he amended. He tried to wheel himself back to the bedroom, remembered that he had to unlock the wheels. He even remembered to flush. He wheeled himself over to the long vanity and washed his hands, then splashed his face. He was too low to see himself in the mirror. It was probably just as well.

When he finally went back to the bedroom, he was not surprised to see John sitting on the foot of his bed. The man looked unconcerned and patient.

"You okay?" Reese asked quietly.

"Yeah."

The man glanced at his feet. Nathan looked down and winced at the small amount of red that now soaked through the bandages.

"You should elevate those for a while," John said calmly.

"Yeah." Ingram was exhausted, but he pushed himself over to the bed and prepared to transfer himself back. Reese watched, but didn't offer to help until Nathan looked at him. "I don't know how to do this."

"Flop and roll."

He considered. John would help him, he knew, if he asked. But he didn't want to ask, and the other man let him take his time. He took a deep breath, then flopped his arms and torso onto the bed. He used the sheets to pull himself further on, then rolled as suggested. His legs followed the rest of his body and he ended up on his back in the middle of the bed.

"That," he announced, "sucked."

"Your form needs work," Reese agreed. "You'll get it." He stood up, grabbed Ingram by the armpits and pulled him up further in the bed. Then he straightened his legs and placed the box over his feet again. He pulled the covers up to Nathan's chest, then grabbed the remote and raised his feet. "Okay?"

"Yeah."

"Hungry?"

Ingram had been, but now he was too tired and vaguely sick. "In a while."

"Yell if you need anything."

Nathan closed his eyes. Then he opened them. John was already at the door. "Hey. I don't think I ever said thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Or apologized for being such an asshole, back at the farm."

"You didn't have any reason to trust us."

"You didn't have any reason not to shoot me when I grabbed your partner."

Reese shrugged. "I didn't have a clear shot."

Nathan laughed out loud. "Well, thanks anyhow."

"Rest," John advised. "Christine's gonna want to kick your ass when she sees those feet."

"Totally worth it." Ingram closed his eyes again and slept.

Harold walked slowly through the yard. Bear trotted around him, happily exploring once again. The sky was darkly cloudy, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

At the back of the yard, near the wall, there were a series of white stone benches. Harold sat down facing the house, pulled out his phone, and dialed.

The call rang six times. "What?" Donnelly barked.

"How long have you known that Samantha Groves had escaped custody?"

There was a brief pause. "We didn't. Control was holding her in a mothballed SKIF on a base with low-level radiation interference. Ase—our friend couldn't see her."

"The Machine most certainly did see her at some point. It sent Christine after her."

"What?"

"You didn't know?"

"I did not. Is she alright?"

"Christine? Yes. Miss Groves, however –"

"She's dead. I know. Why did she send Christine?"

"I don't know," Harold fumed. "Why don't you ask it?" There was no answer; he didn't expect one. "I wanted you to know. I'm seriously thinking about shutting it down. If I still can."

"You can't," Donnelly protested swiftly.

Finch honestly wasn't sure if he could or not, now that the Machine was fully autonomous. "I can try."

"No, listen to me. Even if you could, you can't."

"I'll find other employment for you, Agent Donnelly."

"It's not about me. It's about saving lives.

"Perhaps you'll have to go back to doing it the old-fashioned way."

There was a pause. "You know what I did yesterday? I arranged for a seventeen- year-old boy with no criminal record to be arrested. You want to know why?"

"Not for skipping school, presumably."

"This young man was angry because his dad is divorcing his mom. She's a second-grade teacher, and she's having an affair with a third-grade teacher. This young man, with no documented history of mental illness, no previous history at all, suddenly volunteered to run the spotlight for the elementary school's spring pageant. The school where his mother and her lover both work."

Harold sat very still. There was a lump of ice in his chest; his intuition and his knowledge of the Machine, had jumped ahead of the story. "Your point, Agent Donnelly?"

"He had an AR-15 and 300 rounds of ammunition that he'd stolen from his uncle's gun locker. His intention was to start shooting from the balcony while all the students were on the stage at the end of the pageant. He'd spent all weekend looking through articles about Sandy Hook. He thought he could do better. Two hundred and twelve elementary school students, all onstage at once. And we stopped him. The Machine stopped him. You can't turn it off."

Bear came and put his muzzle under Finch's hand. He made himself exhale, rub the dog's ears.

"And even if you do," Donnelly continued, more calmly, "they'll just replace her."

Harold had suspected this, too. "Do they have another system ready?"

"None that are fully functional, but there are half a dozen lined up. Trailblazer failed, TIA. They've got this new one, Samaritan, but they can't get it off the ground. Yet. It's open source."

"That's a terrible idea. They'll use it for their own ends …"

"If they lose the Machine, it's what they'll turn to. And yes, they will abuse the information it gives them. You always knew that. That's why you build Asena the way you did."

All the arguments were things Finch had already known. None of them lessened his anger. "It sent Christine."

"It gave her the information," Donnelly reminded him. "What she chose to do with that information – that's what you programmed the Machine to do."

"You sound like you agree with it."

"You told me to trust her when you sent me here. She has never steered me wrong." He paused, waiting for an answer, and then said, "You want me to send you pictures of those two hundred elementary school kids, Harold?"

Finch clicked his phone off.

It started to rain.

The thunderstorm ran through in about half an hour, but the rain continued to fall behind it. Reese could feel in his old injuries that it was getting colder outside. It might be snow by sundown.

He stood at the front window and gazed out over the gloomy lawn. Christine had been gone a perfectly reasonable amount of time, given the length of her shopping list. She was certainly capable of driving in the rain. But he had nothing else to worry about, so he worried about her.

To distract himself, he called Joss.

"Carter," she barked.

"You busy?" John asked.

"Mmmm. I can talk a minute. What do you need?"

"I'm sending you a couple addresses. There's no big hurry, but I'm wondering if there's been any police activity at either of them." He sent her a text.

"What kind of activity did you have in mind?" she asked with well-deserved suspicion in her voice.

"Trespassing, B&E, maybe an abandoned vehicle." Reese didn't mention the kidnapping of a child, or Root's body with four bullet holes in it. If they'd found evidence of those things, Carter would know about it soon enough. But he strongly suspected that there would not be a single report of any kind. The government was good at cleaning up after itself.

"Whose car did you abandon?" she shot back.

John smiled. "Not mine." He had sold his, mostly legally, when he bought the van to transport Ingram.

"These addresses are in Pennsylvania."

"I know."

"Where are you?"

"Back in the city now. Well, the suburbs."

"What kind of trouble are you in?"

"None, actually. We have no Number at the moment, and no one is after us. I mean, the usual groups, but no one new."

"Hmmmm."

"Honest."

"And you don't want to tell me why the Pennsylvania police might have your car."

"I told you, Joss, it's not my car." A delivery van drove up the road, but passed the gate without slowing. "I'll tell you all about it when I see you. It's complicated. But I swear, as of right now we are not in any trouble."

"Complicated."

"Very."

"Well, I look forward to hearing about it. I'll call you when I have something."

"No rush."

Reese put his phone away and stared at the rain.

It was another twenty minutes before Christine returned. She pulled the car into the garage and closed the door. John stayed where he was and watched the empty street for several minutes, until he heard her come in. He wasn't surprised that no one had followed her, but he liked to be sure.

Finch came and helped unload, and Bear came and got underfoot. Christine had brought clothes in garment bags and go bags for him and Harold, a shopping bag full of new clothes for herself and three for Nathan, first aid supplies from three different stores, a trunk full of groceries, three laptops, a bag of cords and mice and such, and a ten-inch tall pile of newspapers and magazines. "For Nathan," she half-explained.

She was damp. Her hands were white with cold. Her cheeks were pale, and the dark circles under her eyes had gotten darker. "We can get this," John said, after her second trip from the car. "Why don't you go take a hot shower and a nap?"

He didn't really think she'd go along with it, but Christine just nodded. "Okay. Wake me when you need me." She took the newspaper pile to the master bedroom. Then she took her bag of clothes and climbed the stairs.

"Huh," John said.

"She does seem tired," Harold mused, uneasy.

"She does." He started putting groceries away. "Not like her to admit it, though."

"And you, Mr. Reese? You haven't had much quality sleep, either."

"I'm fine."

"Hmmm-mmm."

John didn't admit that he was tired, too. But after things were put away, he took a splash-and-dash shower, put on clean clothes, and stretched out on the big couch for a long nap of his own.