A distant memory, hazy and distorted swirls in his mind. He's a young boy running around, looking for sticks to build a campfire. Tripping, falling face first into the dirt. Holding back tears, because big boys don't cry, Pancho. A sting on his hand, swelling almost immediately, feeling both like a sting from bee, and a burn from fire. He remembers a man who looks just like him helping him off the ground, holding his hand, telling him he would be fine. It's just a fire ant bite, it'll go away in a few days. The man warns him not to go running near the ant hill again. Don't bother them, and they won't bother you.

The man's face distorts, turns into another one, an older one. Glasses rest on his nose, his hand now holds a picture instead of a child's hand. He's no longer a young boy, but the bite on his hand still remains. And another appears. And another...and another until his whole hand is covered in bites.

"What was the cause of death? Eaten alive?" he asks, as the older man passes the picture to Nick. The voice is his own, but it doesn't feel like it. It's too calm to be his.

"No, we found stab wounds, he was more than likely dead before the ants got to him. I'm about to go work on a possible timeline. I need you to examine the box we found him in."

"Can do, boss...man, you know I was bit by a fire ant once as a kid. Hurt like hell. This many ants, guy was lucky to be dead before he got covered in them."

"Yeah. Small confined space, no way to escape…He couldn't exactly brush them off."

All of the ants in the picture start to move. They start to leave the body, leave the picture, and begin to cover Nick. The memory of Grissom stands next to Nick, completely unaware, prattling on about fire ants and their behavior.

"Best thing he could have done was lie still."

"Yeah, yeah, don't bother them, they won't bother you?"

The memory fades, and he is left in darkness. His eyes are shut tight, but he can feel ants between the the crinkles of his skin. He can feel an ant poking around in his left ear, he shakes his head to get it out. It's bad enough they were on top of his body, now they were inside his body. He now wishes he hadn't removed the gum from his ears. He tries to remember where he put the gum, maybe he can put it back in, but then remembers he has another option.

He can't contain his cries of pain as he digs in his pockets. Every slight movement costs him, his whole body feels like it's on fire. He can't stop the ants from getting into his pants and shoes, but he can stop them from getting into his nose, ears and mouth. He continues to shake the ants off his face, blowing them out from his nose and mouth. He manages to get the pair of unused latex gloves out of his front pocket. He bites off two of the fingers, and plugs them into his ears. He contemplates putting more latex in his nose, but he wouldn't be able to breathe. He'll need to be able to breathe through his nose, he'll have to keep his mouth shut as tight as possible. His shaking hand drops the glove, and he uses the adrenaline coursing through his veins to rip off a piece of his shirt sleeve. He breaks the piece in half, takes a deep inhale one final time and then sticks the pieces up his nose. He can just barely take in air through the fabric.

With one last exhale through his mouth, he crosses his arms together, clutching his sleeves close to his skin. He purses his lips tight, puffing out air through the corners of his mouth as the ants attempt to get in. He tries to steady his body, but it's easier said than done.

Lying still does seem to ease the pain, though, but just barely. The biting is less sporadic and frequent, though the ants are still crawling over his whole body. He tries to to think of something, anything other than the pain he feels in every blister on his skin. But all he can think about is how much it hurts. He can't seem to stop himself from letting out a muffled scream in between bites.

He almost wishes that the coin flip ended differently. He almost wishes that the officer decided to go vomit on the other end of the alley. He almost wishes he never shot out that damn light.

Unbeknownst to him, it's eleven thirty at night, and he almost wishes that he could just die.

That wish might just come true, he thinks darkly to himself. He doesn't know what time it is, but he knows that fan sure as hell isn't going to last much longer, unless it's connected to some sort of generator.

He releases one of his hands, suddenly it feels cool as he un-curls his fingers...until ants start to bite at the exposed skin. He slowly moves it towards his waist, patting around for the gun. He manages to find it, and rests it on his stomach. He contemplates moving it up to his face now, but he decides against it. He'll be able to survive as long as the fan stays on.

If and when the fan dies out, it's game over.

Perhaps it's due to the lack of proper oxygen flow to his brain, the dehydration or the sleep deprivation, but he thinks he can hear Catherine's voice call to him, a voice chopped up by the fan blades that are still whirring next to him.

He desperately wants to call back to her, provide any aid he can in order for her to find him. All he can give is another muffled scream.

His heart begins to pound faster and faster, as if it were going to just burst out of his chest. He remembers the science lesson Grissom gave him on fire ants all those years ago, and envisions him giving Catherine the same lesson as they dig for him.

"He'll be going into anaphylactic shock." Grissom's voice tells Catherine, his voice also chopped up by the fan.

Anaphylactic shock...he remembers learning about it in school. If untreated, it could lead to unconsciousness...or death.

He wouldn't mind the unconsciousness right now.

Grissom's voice fades out as he prattles on about the effects of anaphylaxis, and the world somehow gets darker than it already was. The pain fades from Nick's body. He feels absolutely nothing. The noise of the fan is gone. He's left in silence, until he hears a clicking noise, followed by the sound of something being...dragged. It sounds like metal.

"It's a damn shame they didn't get to him sooner."

It's Doc Robbins' voice. He sounds disappointed, somber.

"I sure will miss him."

Super Dave…

"You know, David, I've seen fire ant bites in my time, but never anything like this."

"Do you think he suffered?"

"Do I think he suffered?" A pause. Nick wonders who they're talking about.

"Yes, definitely."

The begin to laugh, hysterically, as if they just heard the funniest joke of their life. Nick wills himself to open his eyes at last. He's in the morgue, and Doc Robbins and David stand above him, looking down at his naked body. They're laughing at him.

"All right. On three." Doc Robbins finally says as the laughter dies out. "Uno..."

"Dos…" David chimes in.

"Tres!"

David turns around, there's a tape player sitting where they normally keep the autopsy tools. He clicks it on. Nick's favorite song begins to play. David is bobbing his head along to the song, Nick almost wants to start singing, but he can't move. He can only move his eyes. He steals a glance at the clock behind Doc Robbins, it's spinning around and around, time means nothing any more.

"Would you care to do the 'Y' incision?" Doc Robbins asks David, passing him a large butcher's knife.

"Well 'Y' not?"

David digs the knife into Nick's chest, cutting a 'Y' shape. He can't feel the sensation, but there is a loud cracking and squelching noise. The coroners peel back the flaps, as Nick studies the placement of his internal organs, Doc Robbins grabs a chainsaw.

"Mind your hands and feet."

Nick tries to move them out of the way, but he can't move .

He looks up as blood spatters everywhere. If he could feel anything, he would feel the blood ooze down his collarbone.

Doc Robbins begins to take his body apart, starting with his ribcage, and his stomach, his intestines, his lungs. He passes them to David, who tosses them away.

Suddenly, David is replaced by his father, dressed in his Sunday best. He sounds just as jovial as Doc Robbins is.

"So, Doc, how did my son die? Anaphylactic shock?"

"No, no, he didn't live long enough for that. C.O.D was asphyxiation." he tells Cisco His tone is that of a teacher, Nick feels like he should be taking notes. "When the blood oxygen drops to less than sixteen percent and the CO2 builds up, there's a rapid loss of consciousness. Death within minutes, with no disfiguring physical findings."

"He'll look great at the funeral," his dad says, a smile plastered on his face.

"Oh, yes," Doc Robbins chuckles.

"His mother will appreciate that." Nick's eyes widen. He suddenly wants to move, but still can't.

Mom....He really wants his mom right now.

Doc Robbins looks down, still smiling. He reaches into Nick's chest, grabbing hold of the final organ in his body. His heart.

It's still beating.

He holds it up, looks at Cisco.

"Your son had a good heart."

Nick blinks as Doc Robbins passes the heart to Cisco. His heart is still beating, but is back inside his chest. The world is no longer as bright and harsh as the lights of the morgue. It's dark and green. He can see his terrified, ant-covered face reflected in the glass above him. He takes a quick glance at his watch before shutting his eyes closed before any ants could get in.

It's half past midnight.