Nathan Ingram half-woke to the subtle sound of a computer keyboard being steadily tapped at an absurdly fast pace. For a moment he was back in college, sleeping off a late night in his bunk while his roommate worked. His feet ached, and he wondered if he'd had to walk home from the bars again. It happened from time to time, when he spent too much time chatting up some co-ed after closing time and the buses stopped running.

He dozed off again, and when he woke the second time he knew where he was. He opened his eyes and peered at Harold, who was working at a laptop on a tray table next to the chaise. "Just like old times."

"Almost." Finch smiled wistfully. "Can I get you anything?"

"I think I'm okay." Nathan raised the head of the bed, and lowered his feet. He took a sip of water, scratched absently at his wrist. Those wounds were shallow, scabbed over. They'd be gone in a few days. "Working on your sonnet?"

"Hmmm?"

"You owe your wife an apology sonnet."

Finch shook his head. "We've sorted everything out. It's fine."

"Oh."

He gestured to the far side of the bed. "She brought you newspapers."

Ingram considered the large stack beside him. The New York Times was on top. He pulled the stack closer. Wall Street Journal. Washington Post. New York Post. USA Today. A dozen other newspapers, from national to local. Then a series of tabloid: The National Enquirer. Us, Weekly Star, Hello. Next a stack of glossy magazines: Forbes, Money, Kiplinger's, Barron's, The Economist, Bloomberg. Newsweek, Time, Smithsonian, People, Entertainment Weekly. Vogue. GQ. Seventeen. Tiger Beat.

He considered this last one for a long moment, then shrugged.

The sheer mass of the newspapers and magazines was reassuring. And oddly, he was looking forward to reading them.

"Anything she missed?" Harold asked.

"No TV Guide?"

"I'm not sure they publish that anymore. But one of us could go out and look for it."

Ingram shook his head. "This is fine." He paged through the Tiger Beat.

Harold returned to his keyboard.

"Why did he call her Scotty?" Nathan asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Will. On the phone. He called her Scotty. And Aunt Scotty."

"Scotty Fitzgerald," Harold answered. "Almost everybody calls her that."

"But her name's Buchannan."

"It was. That was her mother's name. Her father was Thomas Fitzgerald." Finch shrugged. "After the Towers, she renamed herself. While she was reinventing herself."

"Sounds familiar."

"Yes."

He went back to reading.

Perhaps an hour later, John brought them lunch. Poached salmon, rice, fresh strawberries. The portions looked small to Ingram, but he was full before he finished. "That was delicious," he pronounced.

"Thanks." John presented two pills. "Here's your dessert."

Nathan took the pills without complaint.

"Anything else you need?"

"Well, I'd love a long soak in that tub in there, but I'm sure that's not in the cards anytime soon."

Reese shrugged. "It can be arranged."

"Really?"

John took the dishes to the kitchen. Then he came back and showed Nathan how to safely transfer himself into the wheelchair. He wheeled him into the massive bathroom and produced two oversized plastic stockings. "Cast bags," he pronounced. He slipped on over each of Nathan's feet. They reached his knees. Then he scrounged through the cupboards until he found a blow dryer.

"Shrink wrap?" Harold asked.

"Uh-huh."

"That's genius."

"It is."

While the tub filled, John used gentle heat to shrink the plastic around Ingram's legs. It felt odd, but it didn't hurt. Nathan carefully avoided looking in the mirror. He would have to, some time. He knew he was thin, that his hair was gray. He guessed he looked awful. But he wasn't ready to know.

John showed him how to get out of his own clothes, but there was simply no graceful way to get him into the tub. Reese simply picked him up and deposited him in the blissfully warm water. Harold had dropped a thick towel into the bottom of the hot tub for him to rest his feet on. Nathan let himself slouch until his chin touched the water. The wound on his neck stung briefly, but it faded.

It was heavenly.

"Bubbles?" Harold asked softly.

"Yes, Snookums?" Nathan grinned. "Yes, bubbles, why not?"

His friend pressed a button and the nearly-silent bubblers went to work, gently at first and then with increasing vigor. Ingram sank a little deeper and closed his eyes. The buffeting water made his well-padded feet ache, a little, but the warmth quickly offset that discomfort. The bubbled scoured his skin lightly, washing away the last remnants of his imprisonment grime. The last vestiges of Root's touch.

"Don't fall asleep," Reese warned mildly.

"I'll try." But Nathan remained motionless for a long time, feeling himself grow clean again.

Eventually, Nathan shampooed and rinsed his hair and allowed himself to be lifted from the tub, dried, and dressed. He brushed his own teeth without looking in the mirror. Harold wheeled himself back to the bedroom and he flopped his way, with somewhat more confidence and a bit of coaching, onto the bed.

Christine was waiting to peel the cast bags off his feet. She scowled at the dried blood stains that showed through his bandages. "Tried to walk, did you?"

"Kind of by accident."

Nathan braced himself for a scolding, but the woman just sighed. She used saline to loosen the old bandages, then gently removed them. She frowned when she examined his feet. "Did it hurt?"

"Yes. A lot."

"Good. Don't do that again."

She replaced the dressings with care. Then she wrapped soft gauze lightly over the wound on his neck, fluffed his pillow, checked the wounds on his wrists, and tucked him in.

Nathan considered asking for a bedtime kiss as well, but he decided that would be pushing his luck. "Sorry about the feet."

The woman shrugged elaborately. "Boys are dumb."

"You missed lunch," Finch said. "Are you hungry? There's chicken for dinner, but it won't be ready for more than an hour."

"I'm fine," Christine answered. "I'll find something."

"There's a salmon filet left. I could grill it for you."

"No, thanks."

"It's very good."

"No, I'm fine." She walked to the kitchen.

Harold stood up and closed his computer. "I'll go grill that salmon for her."

"Finch," John was sprawled on the other couch, half-dozing, "did Grace Hendricks like grilled salmon?"

"What?"

"Did she?"

"I suppose so, yes. Why?"

Reese gestured vaguely. "Because Christine doesn't like seafood."

Finch took a deep breath. "Oh. Oh dear."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Oh dear." He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "What's bigger than a sonnet?"

"An opera?"

"I think you may be right, Mr. Reese."

Finch hurried to the kitchen. Christine was making toast.

"Mr. Reese reminds me that you don't care for seafood," he confessed immediately. "It was Grace who liked salmon."

She half-smiled. "I figured."

"I am so very sorry."

The toast popped up, and she dropped the pieces onto a waiting plate. "We've discussed this. I'm not going to get bent because you still care about Grace."

"You are … exceptionally gracious."

Christine nodded and spread butter on the toast.

She was not angry, Harold decided, but she was undeniably distant. "You met Elizabeth."

"Yes."

"How was she?"

"Frightened. Very frightened."

"Did Root hurt her?"

"No. Just scared her. She'll be okay. I think. She's home safe."

"Thank you."

Christine rinsed the butter knife in the sink. Rinsed every bit of butter down the drain. Put the knife in the dishwasher. Wiped every crumb off the counter. Then she sat down at the breakfast bar with her plate.

Harold recognized that behavior, too.

"About Root. I am very sorry that you had to – confront her. If I had – if we had dealt with her more effectively before, it would never have come to that …"

"You gave her another chance," Christine answered calmly. "You thought she could be redeemed."

"I allowed myself to hope. I suppose I knew she was beyond help. But I didn't want to believe it."

"You don't give up on anyone. I've been the beneficiary of that mindset. I can't complain about it."

"Oh, of course you can. She terrorized a child. She forced you to kill a man. If I had simply acknowledged the truth about her – "

"It's done now."

"I suppose so." Finch rubbed his eyes again. Watching her chew her simple toast so calmly, knowing she was a thousand miles away, was unbearable. "I could make you something else. Something not salmon. Some eggs? Or fruit? Or at least coffee?"

"This is fine, thanks."

He cast for something else to talk about. "The Machine spoke to you."

"She texted me."

"How did you know it was her? It? And not Root?"

"I asked her to tell me something that only the Machine could know."

"Reasonable."

"She told me … something that Ellis Donnelly said to me once."

Finch turned to the stove, checked the kettle, put the burner on. Gave himself time to compose his face. The Machine had not only made the decision to send Christine all on its own, but it had exploited its 'friendship' with Donnelly to persuade her.

He had programmed it to use any knowledge at its disposal. And it had.

You want me to send you pictures of those two hundred elementary school kids, Harold?

Finch rubbed his eyes again.

Christine didn't know that Donnelly wasn't dead. It crossed his mind to tell her. But he dismissed the idea immediately. The man had been offered that choice, and he'd declined. There was nothing to be gained from it now. And besides …

… she might have preferred to be with him …

He shook his head impatiently.

"What?" Christine asked.

Finch turned, his face calm again. "It was still a tremendous risk. I wish it had brought the situation to me."

She chewed a tiny bite of toast and did not answer.

She was too kind, he thought, to remind him again why the Machine had not brought Elizabeth Everett's abduction to him. He'd had his chance. They all knew it. There was nothing more to say on the subject. "I suppose we'll need to make some decisions in the next few days. About Nathan. We can't stay here indefinitely." He prepared his tea cup. "Although, we do have the house until June."

"It's a nice house."

"I could buy it for you," Harold mused reflexively. "Or for Nathan. It's not on the market, but for the right price … you could stay here with him. If you'd prefer."

That, there, he realized. His unspoken fear. The instant the words were out of his mouth he regretted them, but he did not try to take them back.

Christine cocked her head. "Hmm?"

"Nathan being alive – I would certainly understand if that changed our – situation."

"If it changed my feelings for you?"

"I … yes."

She put her toast down. "Why" she asked, with calm resignation, "are all of you so damn dumb?"

"I only meant …"

"The Machine's prime directive, its first commandment, is that people should be allowed to make their own choices. You taught it that."

"Yes, but ..."

"But you don't believe that."

"Of course I do."

"You believe it as an abstract. People, those people," she waved vaguely. "Other people. People in general, people that you don't know. But the people you know? You move us around like pawns on a chess board."

"I don't …"

"You do. You put Grace with Gregg Everett. You tried to put me with John. And with Logan Pierce, God help me." She sighed, exasperated. "So listen closely. If I had known Nathan was alive, I still would have chosen you. I love you. I chose you." She stood up. "But right now I don't have the bandwidth to disarm your fears for you. So just stop. Just … stop." She clicked at the dog and walked outside.

The teakettle whistled, startling Finch. He snapped the stove off. Relief, utterly unwarranted, flooded through him. But now there was a new fear. Something Nathan had said once. That the only thing worse than hatred was indifference. Christine did not seem to be the slightest bit angry. She just seemed – exhausted.

He hoped she was just exhausted, and not indifferent.

"Opera," he breathed. "I'm going to have to write an opera."

Nathan got himself into his wheelchair and wheeled himself to the dining room. He was out of breath when he got there, but he was willing to blame that on the thickness of the lush carpets. They clearly weren't made for wheeling over.

He was quite proud of his accomplishment and his small move toward independence.

"Making good progress," John commented when he brought the roast chicken to the table.

"Little bit." Ingram caught his breath. He realized that the muscles in his arms were burning, too. Damn carpets. But he was here. "This smells delicious."

There were roasted fingerling potatoes and sliced roasted beets and soft dinner rolls. For the first time Nathan felt truly hungry, and he ate with enthusiasm until the first wave passed. It seemed unbelievable that just a few days ago he had been starving to death in the rancid basement of his own home.

He put his fork down, suddenly nauseous.

"Nathan?" Christine said quietly.

He looked past her, toward the windows. It was dark outside, and instead of the yard he saw his own reflection. It was fuzzy and distorted in the glass. But he could see well enough that his face was fish-belly white and skeleton thin. He looked away quickly.

"Are you alright?" Harold asked gently.

"I'm fine." He picked up his fork, then put it down again. "I was thinking about Will. If he finds out, if we tell him I'm alive, is that going to send him into a tailspin?"

"No," Finch answered immediately.

"Are you sure? He's so emotional. Always has been. After the divorce it was years before he stopped being upset about it …"

"He's matured a great deal since then."

Nathan looked at John, but the man's face showed no response. He turned to Christine. "What do you think?"

"I think it depends."

"On what?"

"On when we tell him. If we tell him in the next few days, he'll be knocked for a loop, but he'll be okay."

"I can't," Ingram protested. He gestured toward his reflection without looking at it. "I can't let him see me like this."

"If he sees you now," Harold argued, "he'll know that you actually were captive."

"But …"

"If he finds out three months from now that you were free and didn't reach out to him," Christine added, "and that we knew you were alive and didn't tell him – he's not going to get past that."

"But I'm …" Ingram looked back at the reflection, then flinched away again. "I'm grotesque."

"Then let him help you get better," Harold said.

Nathan hesitated.

"And get to know your grandbaby while she's still a baby," Christine added.

"I don't know. I don't know." But now that he'd brought up the possibility, Ingram wanted it more deeply than he'd been willing to admit. To hold his son in his arms. To meet his first grandchild. And his daughter-in-law. "Oh, she'll be horrified. The wife."

"She'll be fine," Reese said.

"She has scars of her own," Harold assured him. "She won't be thrown off by them."

"Scars from what?"

"She fell out a window saving Will's life," John said. "Long story. Let them tell it. But there's something you should consider." He gestured, including Finch. "If you tell them that you're alive, you're going to have to tell them everything."

"About the Machine?"

"About everything."

Ingram whistled softly. "You think he can deal with all that?"

"He can," Christine offered. "And Julie already knows some of it. Or has guessed."

"No more secrets." Nathan looked to his oldest friend. "Harold?"

Finch looked grave. "They're right, of course. It's … difficult. But they're right."

"Will can't keep a secret. He's never been able to keep a secret."

"If they know you're alive," John argued, "knowing about the Machine doesn't put them in significantly more danger."

"Just knowing puts them in danger," Ingram answered bitterly.

"We should tell them," Harold said heavily. "We should tell them everything."

Nathan picked up his fork, put it down a second time. "Seems like this should be a longer discussion."

"You want to see your son," John said calmly. "We all knew you would. We've all had time to think about it."

"And it can't wait? Until I'm – less scary looking?"

"It can, but it shouldn't," Christine answered.

Nathan ran his hand up through his hair. It was purely reflex; his hair was much too short to be in his eyes these days. "Can I at least get a decent haircut first?"

"I did the best I could," Christine huffed, teasing.

"You can get a better haircut," Harold answered. "I'm not sure we'll rise to the level of decent."

Ingram took a deep breath. It had all been so impossible days before. He'd been going to die. And now he was going to see his son. Meet his granddaughter. He was going to live.

"I don't think I should go to New York. Should I?"

"No," John said. "I'll go get them. Bring them here."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."