He got the cast off eight weeks after he'd crashed the car. According to Linda, that was late. O well.

Then he had two weeks of physical therapy—even worse than the range-of-motion exercises Linda had been doing with him when he still had the cast on.

Physical therapy sucked, but so did CPT and EMDR and all the other therapies Doc had done with him (because apparently the man knew all the therapy methods). He gave Doc hell, like he had at their first meeting; but he really did want to get better, so—since he couldn't channel his anger into the punching bag or into catching the bad guys—he channeled it into doing his homework and talking about all the feelings.

He was feeling slightly confident but also incredibly nervous (breakfast that morning had come with a return ticket) when he walked into Dr. Forsythe's office at 8 a.m. on a Tuesday in early May.

He filled out all the paperwork, answered the multiple-choice questions that put him in a nice tidy box labelled "unfit for duty," and talked with Forsythe.

And when it was over a little after 3 p.m., and he was exhausted, he got in his car—grateful that he had the car and that he could once again drive—and went for a drive.

Alex Dawson ushered his second-to-last patient out the door, finished his notes, locked all the paperwork in the filing cabinet, and sat down. It was almost 4, and his last patient of the day was Danny Reagan.

His phone rang, and he glanced at it. It was Linda Reagan, and he felt a brief stirring of panic. "Hello, Linda, what's wrong?"

"Have you heard from Danny? He promised he'd call me as soon as he got out of his eval, and it should have been over by 3! His phone's off; it keeps going to voicemail. I…I'm scared, Doc! What if it didn't go well, and he's…?"

She trailed off, and Alex said gently, "In our session yesterday, he was understandably nervous about the eval, but nothing raised any red flags with me. I'll try to call him, and then I'll get his partner to trace his phone for me."

"Doc, if he's not answering my phone calls..."

"Linda, he probably thinks the eval went badly, and is feeling overwhelmed. I'll reach out. I promise I'll let you know as soon as I hear from him."

"Thank you, Doc. Please find him!"

"I will, Linda." He hung up and called Danny's phone. It went straight to voicemail, but he left a message anyway. "Hey, Danny, it's Doc. Just checking in to see how your eval went. I'll see you soon, okay?"

Then he called the precinct, worked his way through to Danny's partner. "Detective Baez, this is Dr. Dawson. Have you seen your partner since he got out of his eval?"

"No, Doc, why?"

"Never mind. Can you give me the address of Corporal Russell's apartment—the one where you and Danny found him and Tommy?"

He heard her gasp. "Doc, you don't think...?"

"I think Danny may have gone there to find closure; I do not think he's suicidal."

She rattled off the address.

He drove as fast as he dared.

Danny was sitting on the curb, his head in his hands.

Alex let out a sigh of relief. He sat down next to the older man. "I would've come out here with you if you'd told me you wanted to come."

The detective looked up. "Doc? What are you doing here?"

"Think I should be asking you that."

He shrugged. "Came here to get closure. Was going to walk through the last ten minutes of Corporal Russell's life, but couldn't do it. Had a panic attack even thinking about going up on the roof. Was afraid I might…do something stupid."

"You could've called me."

"Battery died."

"You better call Linda, she's freaking out. Here, use my phone." He handed it to him.

Danny dialed her number. "Hey, babe. Yeah, I'm okay. Just…had my phone off for the eval. Turned it on and the battery died. I…took a long walk. I'm…Doc's here with me now, we're going to chat. I'll see you tonight. Yes, I promise. Love you…love you most."

He handed it back to Doc. "I didn't come here planning to…go on the roof and end it all."

"Then why?"

"Closure. I think. I…I thought about every little f-g detail; and… you were right that…unless John had wanted to come down safely, there's no way I could have gotten him off that ledge. Not safely."

"What does that tell you?"

"That…that…John Russell's death wasn't my fault."

Alex nodded appreciatively. "You're absolutely right about that."

He stood up, held out his hand. "It's chilly out here; what do you say we take this chat to my office?"

He nodded and rose, shakily. Alex grabbed his arm to steady him. "You okay?"

"Just cold."

"Have you eaten anything today?"

"Nothing that stayed down. Nerves."

"When we get back to my office, I'll order us something."

Alex drove behind Danny in order to make sure the detective didn't try to bolt again; and once inside, he dragged a space heater out of the closet, plugged it in. "Sit in front of this." He ordered soup and sandwiches for them, made a pot of coffee.

"How're you holding up, Danny?"

The detective shrugged. "I don't think the eval went well. I was honest with him, I didn't try to B.S. him, not like I have before; and I think…"

"Wait…Forsythe didn't give you the results of the eval when you left his office?"

Danny looked surprised. "No… Was he supposed to?"

"Hang on." Alex walked over to his desk, looked through a file, dialed a number. "Dr. Forsythe, this is Alex Dawson. I have a patient of yours here, you gave an FFD eval to Detective Daniel Reagan today?"

"Yes, I did. Why?"

"You told him the results before he left your office, didn't you?"

"No, I figured the department would be in touch with him."

Alex kicked his desk. "Dammit, Matt! Do you know how many NYPD officers have committed suicide after an FFD eval that they felt went badly—even if it actually didn't? Three in the past 18 months! Do you really want Detective Reagan to be the fourth? You know the protocol—you give the results to your patient before he leaves your office. What were the results of Detective Reagan's evaluation?"

Doc was writing furiously on a legal pad, then said "Thank you," and hung up. "Sorry about that, Danny."

He blinked. "You…you were angry…for me. Because of me."

"'Course I was, Danny."

"Did I pass?"

"Yes. You start your six months of modified duty on Monday."

Monday would be…four months…

He looked at Doc. "Does it have to be Monday? Because that…that's 4 months since…since all of this started."

He couldn't say Four months to the day since John Russell killed himself.

"I know."

He looked up at Doc. "I get to return to modified duty. So…all of this…"

He stood up, walked over to the coffee-pot, and slowly flipped through the pages of Doc's wall calendar.

Then he turned to face the younger man. "It's been 16 weeks. The worst…16 weeks of my life, even worse than Fallujah. But if I return to modified duty, then…all of this…it's all over?"

Alex Dawson nodded. "It's over, Danny, but the important thing is: the rest of your life is just beginning now. What are you going to do now that you're on dry land?"