CHAPTER ELEVEN

McCoy glanced up as Jim exited the bedroom, freshly showered and shaved, dressed in the new, red uniform pants and black undershirt. The pants gaped a bit at the kid's narrow waist but the black shirt clung tightly to his leanly muscled shoulders and chest. Either the measurements on file in the quartermaster's office – likely taken the day Jim had enlisted – were wrong or the kid had lost weight over the last month.

McCoy was betting on the latter.

He subjected Jim to a close perusal, feeling a little proud as he viewed the results of his handiwork. There was no visible evidence of the trauma the kid had sustained just forty-eight hours ago. Outwardly, Jim was an eye-catching example of the perfect Academy cadet.

"How's your headache?"

"Nearly gone." Jim cocked his head, his blonde hair catching the light. "You don't need to worry about me anymore, Bones. I'm good."

The captivating facade McCoy had first encountered in the mess hall had been re-donned along with the uniform. A fragment of a poem he had learned in high school came to mind: "…He fluttered pulses when he said,'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked." That description fit Kirk like a bespoke suit. But there had been unseen, dark depths to the man in the poem, and McCoy had good reason now to suspect the same was true of Jim Kirk.

Apprehension, mingled with protectiveness, stirred. "You can still change your mind and stay tonight," he offered.

"Thanks, Bones, but I need to get back to my room and check things out. Make sure the guys are okay, in case Finnegan orders another snap room inspection tomorrow. Kissen is a slob at heart. He's already got four demerits to work off with extra PT hours, so I want to make sure his area of the room is shipshape. Besides, I've got Advanced Warp Mechanics at 0700 tomorrow."

McCoy blinked in disbelief. "You signed up for a class at seven o'clock in the morning? Voluntarily? On a Monday? Are you insane?"

Jim laughed, his arresting blue eyes dancing. "It was the only way I could fit it into my schedule this semester. It's a pre-req for Theoretical Warp Design, which is only given second semester. I can't afford to wait and take TWD next year. I told Pike I was going to graduate in three years instead of four, and I'm a man of my word."

"Three years? Just how many credits are you taking this semester?"

"Twenty-five. Seven classes total, not counting the ones I challenged."

McCoy shuddered. "I'd rather poke my eyes out than carry a load like that. No wonder you've got no damned time to eat and sleep." But curiosity had him asking, "How'd you do with the challenge exams?"

"Piece of cake." Jim grinned smugly. "Barnett was pissed because I passed them all with flying colors. He had been so sure I was biting off more than I could chew. Pompous old fart. He's been behind a desk too long. Nogura was almost as bad. But I proved them both wrong, along with the rest of their doubting cronies on the Academy Board."

"Are you bragging about making enemies of the entire Academy Board?" McCoy asked, incredulous. "Sweet Jesus, kid, do you have a death wish? Are you sure you didn't have brain damage before that chunk of concrete fell on your head?"

If anything, Jim's smiled widened. "Not the entire Board, Bones. Archer and Lui were completely on my side. Archer even wished me luck. Said it was about time someone shook things up a little. Archer's a good guy. He's one of the few admirals who doesn't have a stick up his ass."

McCoy wondered if Kirk was really that confident. So far, everyone he'd met at the Academy, whether cadets, instructors, or other officers at the hospital, talked about the higher-ups like they walked on water. Jim made them sound like a bunch of fussy, old men. "Where is your advisor in all of this? Isn't he worried you're taking on too much?"

"Commander Gliss? She's great. And she's a Caitian. Caitains – females in particular – love pretty things, Bones." Jim arched his back, mimicking a Caitian preen. All he needed was a tail to swish to make the pose perfect. "The commander finds it very hard to tell me 'no' when I ask for something."

McCoy snorted. "My guess is she's not the only one."

Jim straightened, laughing. "I'm not sure what you're implying," he said, the picture of innocence. "You don't seem to have any trouble, Bones."

"Any first year resident worth his salt learns how to do that," McCoy retorted. "Speaking of which, this sounds like a good time to review your marching orders until I see you again. Is Friday, after classes, a good time for your clearance checkup? I have an Emergency Room shift at the hospital starting at 1900. If you come by around 1830, I can see you before I get busy with patients."

"Sure, sounds fine. It's not going to take long, is it?"

"It shouldn't, unless you misbehave this coming week." He fixed Jim with a stern look. "And believe me, I'll know, when I review the scans."

"Jeez, Bones, all that sentence is missing at the end is 'young man.' You sound like you're about to send me to my room without supper." He stared at McCoy, eyes gone remote and unreadable. "I'm not a little kid. And, just for the record? Threats have never worked all that well on me."

McCoy could have kicked himself. If Jim's medical records were anything to judge by, going to bed hungry was no doubt one of the lighter punishments he had endured as a child.

"Not a threat, just a fair warning," he said deliberately, striving to relieve the tension he could see in Jim's stiff shoulders, "seeing as how you seem hellbent on returning to activities that most people would avoid if they could." He took Jim's small smile as a sign of progress. "If you want me to release you from your medical restrictions on Friday, I don't want to find any signs that your concussion hasn't fully healed when I do your exam."

Looking more mollified, Jim reached for the red jacket laid across the chairback. "So what's on the forbidden list?" he asked, shrugging into it.

"Excessive exertion, alcohol, caffeine and participating in any activities that might result in another blow to the head. Your brain is still healing, Jim. The Gafronil injection I gave you will mitigate the damage from the concussion, but you can undo all its benefits if you push things too soon."

McCoy watched the wheels turn as Kirk mulled over the restrictions. He fastened the jacket and tugged on the hem, settling it into place. "Okay, Bones. One dull week coming up. What else?"

"Adequate nutrition and rest. I want you to keep track of what you eat, and when, and how much sleep you get each night. I'll send you a link to the standard medical diary and you can load it on your PADD," he said, and braced himself for resistance.

But Jim simply shrugged, and repeated, "What else?"

"Nothing. Using some common-sense should take care of anything that comes up, but if you're uncertain, go with the opposite of your first instincts."

Jim gave him a dark look, but his lips were twitching. "Very funny, Bones. I think you've got me all wrong. I can be very cautious when the situation warrants it."

"Well, I'm more of a 'seeing is believing' kind of guy. And so far…"

"I've managed on my own for years, Bones, and I'm still in one piece."

"Your guardian angel must be exhausted, kid."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He picked up the bag containing his extra clothing, and tucked his new PADD inside. "Are you free Saturday night?"

"You mean you haven't already hacked my schedule to find out for yourself? And don't bat those innocent blue eyes at me, kid. I'm not stupid. I've had plenty of time to figure out you must have done some snooping in places you shouldn't have access to, considering what you seem to know about me."

Jim didn't even bother feigning a guilty expression. He patted the bag over the outline of the PADD. "I haven't had a chance to do my usual modifications, Bones. All my tools are in my dorm room. Figured it was easier to just ask." He grinned. "I don't want someone else to beat me to the punch."

McCoy was torn. He should be ripping a strip off Jim for taking unnecessary risks in order to satisfy his curiosity, but Leonard had a strong feeling anything he said would be like water off a duck's back. Hacking Starfleet's protected data bases was no amateur feat. Anyone caught committing such an act would be immediately expelled and, depending on the nature of the breach, likely prosecuted as well. Jim's unrepentant, 'no big deal' attitude clearly implied he was confident of his abilities.

Confident he won't get caught, too, McCoy thought sardonically. Sighing, he abandoned that tricky avenue of discussion and focused instead on Jim's question. "Saturday night? My dance card is wide open. Why?"

"Meet me for dinner and drinks. My way of saying 'thanks' for all you've done for me."

"No need, kid," McCoy said, waving away the offer. "Anyone in my shoes would have done the same."

"Give up their entire weekend to take care of a stranger?" Jim scoffed. "I don't think so, Bones. That first doctor I saw? Yang? He was ready to boot me out the door just to get me out of his hair."

"A fact that has not escaped my attention, and one I will be addressing with young Dr. Yang the next time our schedules coincide."

Jim grinned, white teeth flashing. "Don't be too hard on him, Bones. I have a talent for pissing doctors off. So, Saturday?"

"Okay, kid, on one condition: pick a place where the music isn't loud enough to rupture my eardrums or doesn't have seizure-inducing lighting."

"Damn. That eliminates The Supernova and All Systems Go," Jim said sassily. "Which is too bad, because they're great places to pick up women. You don't know what you're missing, Bones."

"I'll live," McCoy said drily.

"But will you be having fun while you do? Life is short, Bones."

"My grandfather was a hundred and twenty-three when he passed. My great-grandmother was even older when her time came. McCoys tend to be long-lived." He refused to listen to the little voice that whispered in the back of his head, "But your daddy wasn't so lucky, was he?"

"Good to know I can count on you to outlive me."

"Why's that?" McCoy asked sharply. "Are you planning on dying anytime soon?"

"And miss all the fun and games the Academy is dishing out? Hardly."

"What, then?"

"Kirks are like comets. They travel fast and far, but they blaze out early. Mesmerizing to watch, but soon gone." Despite Jim's jocular tone, his gaze was pensive. "So don't take it personally when the universe decides my time is up. It won't have anything to do with your skills as a doctor."

"Bullshit."

Jim looked at him, startled. "What?"

"I know hogwash when I hear it. Oh, it sounds poetic and pretty, but there's absolutely no scientific proof that hereditary family curses exist."

"So what would you call the fact that Kirks tend to die young?"

"Bad choices, or no choices, or just plain bad luck." McCoy pursed his lips. "Career choice has a lot to do with it, too, Jim. I'm a doctor and my daddy and his daddy were doctors. Not a lot of physical risk in the medical profession. But I'm guessing that's not the case with your family. Both your parents enlisted. Anybody else?"

"My grandfather on my dad's side, and his brother. And their dad."

McCoy nodded. He'd suspected something along those lines. "Space is not exactly a safe playground."

"'Disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence.' I remember what you said, Bones. But it's beautiful out in the black, too."

"Just because something's pretty doesn't mean it isn't deadly. Life expectancy in space is statistically significantly shorter, compared to that same individual living a life on Earth. Military service carries additional risks. Factoring that in, it's hardly surprising your family died before their time, if they served in space."

Jim was silent for a long moment. "Maybe," he conceded, but he didn't sound convinced. "Still," he said, brightening, "that doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves in the meantime. I'll comm you with a time and location for Saturday."

"Or you can tell me on Friday."

"Just because you're my doctor doesn't mean we can't be friends, Bones. And friends comm each other."

McCoy rolled his eyes. "We're not in high school, for Christ's sake."

"Wouldn't know," Jim said breezily, picking up the bag. "I didn't go to high school. You can tell me all about what that was like, on Saturday night."

McCoy stared, stunned into silence, as Jim headed for the door.

"Enjoy your evening, Bones," he said with a grin and, triggering the door, tossed him a little salute with his fingers before he stepped into the hallway.

The door slid shut, stranding McCoy like a fish out of water.

"What the hell?" he breathed, his brain spinning.

When enlightenment failed to arrive, he rubbed his jaw and headed for the bourbon.

He needed a drink.

He needed to think.

He needed some answers.

Two bourbons later, he had precious little to show for his effort.

The Starfleet Academy network had yielded little he hadn't already known. To be truthful, there had been more information in Jim's medical chart than in his official Academy enrollment bio entry. Leonard suspected full access was restricted for cadets, since all he had been able to discover was Jim's name, date of enlistment, comm number, assigned advisor, and study track.

Command.

Leonard had assumed Jim was enrolled in the engineering track, given the names of the classes the kid said was taking, but he realized, in retrospect, that his assumption had been just plain stupid. Of course Jim had chosen command. After forty-eight hours in the kid's company, Leonard was acutely aware that Jim was vastly more comfortable giving orders than taking them.

Stymied for the moment, he had pulled up Jim's medical chart and finished reading the material from IUH. By the time he was done, he had learned a great deal more about Jim's recovery – and numerous setbacks – from the Danthers-Duseault therapy. Leonard had read with interest the debate amongst a group of specialists on whether Jim's prematurity and exposure to radiation as a newborn were adversely affecting his recovery, and he made a mental note to research that topic more thoroughly in the near future.

The records relating to Jim's assault were no easier to read about, the second time around, and the harrowing information, brought vividly to life by his own surgical experiences and memories of trauma patients from his past, had Leonard reaching for his drink several times. The kid – and he really had been a kid – had nearly died from his injuries. In fact, from a strictly medical perspective, Jim had experienced death twice on the OR table when he'd flatlined during surgery, requiring extensive resuscitation efforts both times.

It was a fucking miracle Jim Kirk had survived to enlist at all.

Next, he'd tried following the trail of the few crumbs of hard information recorded in the social worker's assessment.

If their antiquated website was to be believed, the Washington County Health Department still existed, but scanning their homepage soon revealed that they offered little more than free, routine immunizations for those who qualified financially (by appointment only) and well-water testing. Social work was no longer listed under 'Available Services,' and his Starfleet medical ID returned nothing except No Records Found when he entered Jim's name in the patient prompt.

Disappointing, but not surprising, given the number of intervening years. And juvenile records were notoriously hard to access, under the best of circumstances.

From there, he had tried an online search of Frank Hawthorne's name, and his diligence had been rewarded with two small pieces of information.

The first was an article in the Riverside Current, where it was reported that a Frank Hawthorne, age thirty-nine, had been named as the defendant in a small-claims court hearing, accused of passing a bad check at the Riverside Stop and Shop. Four years later, a slightly longer article in the same newspaper revealed: "Mr. Frank Hawthorne, a resident of Riverside, was arrested for assault and battery of a juvenile. According to the deputies involved, Mr. Hawthorne violently resisted arrest, voiced multiple threats of further harm toward the juvenile in question, and was placed in the county jail, pending further charges."

Leonard hadn't been able to find any further information on the man, which was mystifying. Hadn't there been a trial? Lawyer statements to the press? Where were the typical follow-up pieces, with statements from local people in the community who had known the family? Given the seriousness of Jim's condition, the complete absence of subsequent information made no sense.

Baffled, he had entered Jim's name in the search window, expecting the PADD to return multiple entries he would have to spend time wading through. Jim was the Kelvin baby, after all. A media sensation at the time and still the object of profound curiosity and speculation.

It was only just occurring to Leonard what a coup Starfleet would have considered Jim's enrollment to be, how loudly they'd want to trumpet the arrival of a revered hero's son on campus, ready to follow in his father's footsteps. Pike had mentioned forestalling some kind of media event associated with the explosion when he'd spoken with Jim yesterday. Granted, Leonard had been preoccupied, wallowing in his own self-created hell, during those first days on campus, but he didn't remember any kind of buzz about Jim making its rounds on campus or at the hospital. Had Pike similarly intervened when Jim enlisted?

Leonard wondered how many of the higher-ups had yet to realize that they had enrolled a maverick instead of a grateful conformist.

As he had expected, the screen filled with row after row of entries. Scrolling slowly, Leonard could see they were, for the most part, from the same general time period – the first few months after the destruction of the Kelvin. Picking one at random, he opened the article.

The photo of a woman dressed in formal grays, peaked cap shadowing her face, accompanying a mobile isolette, leapt out at him. The caption under the photo stated: Lieutenant Commander Winona Kirk arrives on Earth with newborn son.

Leonard began reading the accompanying article.

Six weeks after the destruction of the USS Kelvin, Lieutenant Commander Kirk and her son, along with the surviving ship crew, arrive on Earth. A throng of family and friends awaited, eager to embrace their loved ones upon their return. When interviewed, they all expressed their deep gratitude for Captain George Kirk's ultimate sacrifice.

"George Kirk's heroism will be acknowledged with full honors," Admiral Parker, head of Starfleet's Public Relations Department, informed the press. "Now that the survivors are safely home, the dedication ceremony in memory of Captain George Kirk's heroic actions will take place soon. We will release additional information on the schedule of events later today."

The battle that resulted in the USS Kelvin's destruction took place on 2233.04, while the USS Kelvin was orbiting a star near the Federation-Klingon border. While investigating a nearby anomaly, a previously unidentified black hole, the USS Kelvin was attacked by a vessel of unrecognized design, and destroyed. Unnamed sources assert that the unknown ship was mammoth, with formidable weaponry, and that it appeared to be crewed by Romulans. Through diplomatic channels, the Romulan Empire has vehemently denied responsibility for the attack.

Starfleet Command has declared January 4th to be known henceforth as Remembrance Day. Plans are to observe that day annually with a solemn ceremony, allowing the citizens of the Federation to acknowledge and honor the courage displayed by the brave crew of the USS Kelvin, and to mourn their loss.

Investigation of the incident continues and

Leonard wasted several hours reading innumerable articles containing the same photo and much the same information. The majority of the early ones focused on George Kirk's sacrifice for his family, avidly reporting on Jim's birth aboard the escaping medical shuttle. Over the following days, the focus slowly changed to the mournful and solemn pageantry accompanying the delayed ceremony.

But there were no new photos of Winona Kirk or Jim attached to the articles. Even more oddly, she was absent from the review stand occupied by the dignitaries and admirals. One article referenced a statement from Starfleet PR: "Commander Winona Kirk's health prevents her from attending today's ceremony. For that reason, her promotion has occurred in absentia, and Starfleet wishes her a speedy and complete recovery. Commander Kirk respectfully requests that you honor her wishes for privacy during this difficult period of adjustment. Our thoughts and prayers continue to be with her and her family. "

At that point, on a whim, he had deleted Jim's name from the search window and entered Winona's, hoping to find some trace of Jim.

Three entries he hadn't already seen popped up.

One was a link to Starfleet which, when he opened it, gave him the same basic information about her that it had for Jim – her name, enlistment date, current rank, and current deployment assignment. There was no comm number listed. According to the entry, Commander Winona Kirk was serving aboard the USS Fitzgerald, all of which told him a whole lot of nothing.

The second entry was a brief article and photo in the Riverside Current, appearing under the banner Current Events.

Lieutenant George Samuel Kirk and Lieutenant Winona Katherine Davis exchange wedding vows.

The couple met at the Starfleet Academy in San Francisco, and were married immediately after graduation. They will be serving together on the USS Baxter. Admiral Kirk (retired) and his wife, Audrey Kirk, residents of Riverside, were in attendance. Riverside residents wish the newlyweds a long and happy marriage!

The accompanying photo showed a young man and woman, he in formal Starfleet whites and she in a long, simple white gown, in front of an elaborate water fountain. They were laughing and holding hands, her veil floating behind her like a banner on the breeze. Waterdrops, like diamonds, glittered in the air around them.

Leonard's breath caught as he enlarged the photo for a closer look at their faces. The resemblance between Jim and his dad was uncanny. Tagging the photo, he saved it to a separate file.

The third article was one from the Weekly World Word, a notorious tabloid, with the lurid headline: Grieving Widow Goes Crazy! The article consisted of a photo, with a few lines of text following. Leonard ignored the text – his attention was riveted on the photo.

Winona Kirk, clad in a blouse and skirt, with her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, stood on a porch, the door to the house behind her half open. Everything about her screamed a warning: the determined set of her mouth and shoulders, her cold stare – and the phaser in her right hand. Her feet were planted in the 'Fleet-approved shooter's stance, her right arm extended level and straight. A blanket-wrapped baby, invisible except for a few white-blonde curls, lay in the crook of her left arm. A young boy, his mouth and eyes twins of Winona's own, clung to her skirt, tears streaking his face.

Leonard pulled his eyes from the photo to read the text. Mercifully, despite the damning content, it was brief.

Commander Winona Kirk, illegally armed with a phaser, orders us off her property. Her stay on the family farm, located in the desolate Iowa prairie, has obviously done nothing to soothe her grief or reconcile her to the loss of her husband. Little wonder Starfleet has banished her to the isolation of the Kirk homestead, where she can't harm law-abiding citizens. We can only hope her sons survive her care.

Leonard looked at the photo again. "…her sons survive…"

He took a sip of bourbon and rubbed his chin. All the odd, little clues and mysteries he'd noted since arriving in the Emergency Room and making Jim's acquaintance were now a jumble in his mind, refusing to fit together into a coherent picture.

Jim was clearly brilliant but the kid confessed he hadn't gone to high school. Why not? Had he graduated early? Been home schooled? No, Leonard thought belatedly, remembering Jim's medical history. Home schooling wasn't a possibility; Winona Kirk had gone back into space when Jim was five, according to Jim's hospitalization records. So where had Jim received his education, an education thorough enough to allow him to challenge – and pass – the Academy's entry level courses? They were the kind of classes, discounting the medical ones, that most cadets – himself included – worked damn hard at.

And where was Jim's brother? Leonard quickly checked the Starfleet data base. Perhaps Jim wasn't the only one following in his parents footsteps…

But the search for both a Sam Kirk and a Samuel Kirk returned the same message: No information found.

According to the social worker's notes, Sam Kirk was four years older than Jim, which would make him twenty-six or -seven now, depending on the date of his birthday. Jim hadn't mentioned a brother, and he had chosen to come home with Leonard rather than stay in the hospital. If there had been a third option, like a brother living nearby, wouldn't he have taken it? For that matter, why wasn't a sibling listed in the Family History section of Jim's chart?

Jim acted and spoke like he was on his own in the world. Winona was in space, and had clearly functionally abandoned Jim early in his life. But Jim wasn't an only child. Where was Sam Kirk? Back in Iowa? Or had Sam been like Jim, so anxious to shake off his connection to Earth that he had immigrated off-world in search of an easier life for someone bearing the last name of Kirk?

And there was another growing mystery… Where the hell had Jim and his brother lived after Frank Hawthorne was arrested? A relative stranger, Hawthorne had been appointed guardian to Jim and Sam when Winona Kirk returned to active duty because no other option was available for their day-to-day care. Had Sam tried to stop the assault on his little brother or had he been away from the farm at the time? Sam would have been sixteen when Jim was nearly beaten to death, so not legally an adult, and therefore unable to assume care for himself and Jim. So what arrangements had been made for the two boys?

Had Winona been forced to take family emergency leave when the hospital contacted her? After Jim was discharged, had she stayed in Iowa on the farm to look after both Jim and Sam until Jim turned eighteen?

The absence of any information regarding the ten-year gap in Jim's life story was like an itch under Leonard's skin, creating a vague sense of worry and foreboding. Which was ridiculous because, as Jim himself had said only hours ago: "You don't need to worry about me anymore, Bones. I'm good." But the years between age twelve and now covered a lot of important territory.

Leonard wondered how much Commandant Pike knew about Jim's personal history. The man had sounded like he cared about Jim. But, thinking back on it now, Leonard realized there had been a troubling undertone to Pike's side of the conversation. When Pike talked with Jim, he had used the same soft tone of voice Leonard used on a skittish colt, calm, soothing… and careful. As if Pike were afraid Jim might bolt from the Academy, if he were badly spooked?

According to Jim, Pike had made his acquaintance when Jim was a very young child. That must have been in Iowa, on the Kirk farm, so apparently the captain had found a way around Winona Kirk's phaser. Did that contact account for Pike's willingness to give Jim a shot at the Academy, or had there been some other motivation? What did Pike know about Jim Kirk that Leonard didn't, or hadn't yet been able to uncover?

Even discounting Jim's concussion, the kid was difficult to get a bead on. Jim Kirk was like a particularly fascinating lenticular image – depending on the angle you viewed him from, what you saw changed right before your eyes. Or maybe it was more like watching a magician who could pull off such amazing tricks that you never saw the sleight of hand.

Leonard suspected most folks saw what they expected, or wanted, to see. A charming smile, a handsome face, a famous name. And that seemed to suit Jim just fine – if you judged him by outward appearances.

Leonard didn't intend to make that mistake.

He emptied his glass and carried it to the kitchen. The silence in the apartment mocked the privacy he had guarded so fervently since his arrival in San Francisco. Truth to tell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had an intimate conversation with someone. Jocelyn, maybe, before she'd thrown him over for Clay. Dad, before he'd gotten too ill and weak to enjoy a Saturday afternoon bourbon. Or Gran, before she had pleaded—

No. He wasn't going there. Not right before bed.

Leonard rinsed the glass and put it in the refresher.

Jocelyn had managed their social life, and their friends had all become her friends, after the separation and divorce. The few people he'd counted as friends in medical school at Ole Miss had long since vanished, lost to time and distance and his marriage.

Jim seemed to want his friendship, and no one had wanted that in a long time.

On Saturday, he would try and discover whether the overture was genuine.

And if he managed to also discover the answers to a question or two in the process, that would be a sweet and satisfying bonus.

THE END (FOR NOW)


Thus, dear readers, ends the first arc in AcademyLife or: How Two Genius Loners Met and Became BFFs Despite Themselves. There are more arcs in this story to come, however, patience, will be required.

The fourth JJ Blacklocke book, which is nearly complete, is demanding its turn at the keyboard. Once it is finished, a new Jim and Bones arc will commence.

Note: The line of poetry which appears in McCoy's thoughts is from "Richard Cory" by Edwin Arlington Robinson. Like Bones, I studied this poem in high school.