Dirt continuously pours from the holes in the box, like sand trickling down an hourglass. His feet are almost completely buried. He doesn't bother moving them, there's nowhere for them to go anyway. Dirt has seeped into his pants, some even down his socks. The cracks stopped spreading, he's memorized the pattern of them just as he's memorized the pattern of the dirt above him. At any minute, the cracks could spread again, the box could collapse, the fan could break, and he would truly suffocate under the earth.

He's reminded of that woman, almost five years ago, crying, hands shaking, pointing a loaded gun to his face. Spilling her soul out in front of her, she was in so much pain. She had every right to be, her husband had almost broken off their engagement to be with another woman. She was haunted by the body that she put in the ground, he wonders if his kidnapper will be haunted by him.

He remembers how scared he was, that this woman was going to pull the trigger, and he'd end up like Holly Gribbs. He remembers pleading for her to set the gun down, tears streaming down his own face. The sinking feeling that his life was going to be cut short, before his time was up. He had so much to do, so much to feel, so much to say, and he would never get to do any of it.

He's reminded of that man, nearly three years ago, so severely mentally disturbed that he wanted to become Nick, pointing a loaded gun-his gun-to his face. Screaming at Nick about his poor manners, expressing his disappointment that Nick couldn't see him even if he was right in front of his face. Describing the sick, twisted present of a crime scene that he was going to give Nick. Nick's kidnapper has offered a similar present-he can envision evidence bags, just like the godforsaken styrofoam cup that transported him here, containing the glow sticks, the gun, the tape recorder. Grissom would probably want the whole box brought to the lab for investigation, maybe placed on the table in the evidence room. He can see the box, illuminated by the table's backlight. A dummy modeled after Nick placed inside, his body would be in the morgue by now, with a tag on his toe. Trajectory markers sticking through the bullet holes in the glass, photos of the scene laid out around the perimeter of the box.

He remembers also envisioning himself as the the victim in the close-range shooting crime scene that man described. He was just as scared even though he tried to act tough-"This isn't the first time I've had a gun in my face." He remembers moving even closer to the gun, the man's hands were shaking worse than Nick's, he figured maybe he could intimidate the man into backing off, but it still didn't stop that sinking feeling once again, that his life was going to be cut short.

He feels the same way right now, the cracks acting as the loaded gun, but there's nobody to bargain with. Nobody to intimidate. All he can do is wait.

He's willing to wait forever if he has to, if it means getting out of here alive. He's as good at being patient as he's as good as listening. But how long can he wait until the box finally does collapse? Until the fan dies out and he runs out of air? Until he dies of dehydration or starvation? Until the sleep deprivation hits him so hard that his body begins to shut down?

He re-adjusts himself, checking the time. It's nine o'clock. He's been in this hell for nearly twenty-one hours. As he sets his hand back down, it brushes against the tape recorder. The only form of communication he has with the person who did this to him. And it's completely one-sided...

So, breathe quick, breathe slow …

But the tape isn't.

He thinks of all things he'll never get to say to his parents, to his siblings, to his friends, even to his colleagues. He compares it to the last thing he's said to all of them. He can barely remember the last time he spoke to his parents, it's been a while since he's called. He needs to call them more often.

He thinks of his colleagues-no, his friends-no, his family. They've all went their separate ways over the last year, torn apart by stupid office politics. He speaks to Catherine and Warrick on a daily basis, but when was the last time he saw Grissom, Greg or Sara?

He flips the tape over and presses play. The other side of the tape is completely blank. No matter what the last thing he said to his friends and family, it doesn't matter now. He's going to wipe the slate clean.

Where does he even begin? What does he even say? He lies still, trying to turn the wheels in his head; it's getting harder to form coherent thoughts. Who does he even speak to? He knows so many people, would miss them all so much, does this tape even have enough space for all the things he wanted to say?

He glances at his watch again, it's ten o'clock, and he presses "record."

"My name is Nick Stokes. If anybody finds this tape, If anybody finds this tape, turn it into the Las Vegas…" Crime Lab? Police Department? Which one? "PD. There should be a reward."

"Mom…"

Time stands still, and he pictures the only woman he ever felt true comfort from. Her soft face, her gentle smile as she dropped him off to pre-school, to middle school, to high school, to college...to the airport. Tears had stung in both of their eyes the day he moved to Vegas. He knows he gets his emotional side from her, and he loves her for it. She was there for him, no matter what, even when she didn't know what really happened to him the night that he stayed up waiting for her to get home…

He can't stop his voice from cracking, not out of exhaustion, but because he's about to cry.

"Cisco..."

Time stands still, and he pictures the man he's looked up to his whole life. His sharp face, the playful fire in his eyes as he joked around with his youngest son, the same laughter lines Nick has on his own face as they sit and watch The Cisco Kid every Saturday morning. Nick, a little vainly, likes to think that he was the favorite son, after all, he was the Pancho to his father's Cisco. The man was an inspiration for him, Nick knows that he gets his desire for justice from this man. He always wanted to prove himself to Cisco, like a true sidekick does. In order to do that, though, he had to leave him behind…

He could not have had a better pair of parents, how is even going to be able to say goodbye?

"Well, this is a lousy way to say good-bye, but it's all I've got. I love you. You raised me right…and I'm going to miss you."

He pauses, composes himself. He knows he can't stop his voice from quavering, but he doesn't want his last words to be clouded by incoherent crying.

"As for the rest of you guys, I know you did the best you could to find me."

Who does he start with? He pictures all of their faces in his head, trying to think of the first thing he would say to them if he knew it was the last thing he would ever say. He lingers on the face of Gil Grissom, even though he doesn't work under him any more, he still looks to him as a mentor...Grissom taught him almost everything he knows.

"Grissom…"

"You know why I took this job? Honestly? I wanted to pack heat, walk under the yellow tape, be the man but mostly, because I want you to think I'm a good CSl."

He always wanted to make the man proud, just like he wanted to make his father proud…but there was that time he got involved with Kristy Hopkins, the time he blabbed about crime scene details to a reporter, all the small mistakes he made that could jeopardize the integrity of the lab, of the team, of Grissom as a supervisor...

"I...I never meant to disappoint you."

He gulps down another sob, and pauses, almost smiles. After all these years, he still wants Grissom's approval-

Suddenly, he feels something in his feet. He wasn't actively trying to move them, is there something pulling at him-? No, it doesn't feel like someone is pulling. It feels like something is...crawling. Like a tiny spider, maybe-OUCH.

A pinch, that stings and burns at the time time, somewhere on his feet. First it was his right foot, the one completely buried in the dirt-OUCH- and another in his left. He begins to shout in shock of this sudden sensation, but his shouts of surprise quickly dissolve into screams-he didn't even know he still had enough power in his voice or energy in his body to scream.

His body jerks in all directions, trying to shake off the sensation, but the burning and stinging spreads up his body, just like the cracks climbed up the sides of the box.

What the hell is it coming from?

He looks down, fumbling for a new glow-stick so he could see-the old glow stick was dying behind his head. He can barely keep his eyes open, his eyes are stinging and burning too, from the tears that supplement his screams.

He finds another stick, quickly cracks it-he can't stop screaming, it hurts so much ! He almost wishes the light would turn back on, so he could get a better look, but as his eyes dart towards his feet, he gets a pretty good idea of what is now crawling up through his pants, onto his hands, his arms, his neck, his face-

Ants. Red ants. Fire ants.