Things worked. Not perfectly, by any means, but well enough. Though that hadn't always been the case, for the last few years, they had a sort of informal agreement. (Whether or not they always adhered to those terms most often depended on the mood that Sarah was in.) They had guidelines. A code. But more than that, they all had their purpose.

Sarah had gotten them out of more slippery situations than they could count. (Though Beth would never forgive her for drinking the station's hand soap. Whether or not their goal was achieved-it totally bloody was-was beside the point. Her stomach churned for days after that and she'd spent more time hunched over the toilet bowl than when she'd had that stomach flu in college.) Sarah stood up for them. She held her own when Beth couldn't. She was rash and short tempered, but protective and guarded. Strangely, she was also English.

Alison was the control freak. She stress cleaned and couponed. (Occasionally, musical theatre was involved, but Beth tried to keep it as minimal as possible. Being in a musical when you haven't been to a single rehearsal tended to cause a stuttering actress with stage fright to dash off stage in the middle of Act II. Or so she'd heard.) Alison was paranoid and most often, in denial about their unconventional situation. More than anything, she wanted a normal life.

Cosima was by far the most laid back. She preferred to leave the stressing to Alison and most often, just let it roll off her back—which was usually made a lot easier by the stash of pot that Beth could never seem to find. (Beth wouldn't have had as much of a problem with it if she hadn't been forced to use eye drops in the car outside the station on more than one occasion.) She was also the scientist and had the most passionate desire to learn. She was fascinated by the world around her, and their relationship to each other.

And Beth was the reason they were all there.

She was 13 when she was finally diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. (Though it was renamed in 1994, it was probably still best known as "multiple personality disorder.") At first, people just assumed she had an active imagination, and then there was the slew of misdiagnoses. Schizophrenia, first. Then Asperger syndrome and borderline personality disorder. After she was correctly diagnosed, it got a little better. At least for a while.

She remembered her first therapy session clearly. Her doctor was an older man, probably in his late 50's. His hair was streaked with grey and thin wire glasses circled his eyes. Beth supposed he was nice enough. It wasn't his professional demeanor that she necessarily remembered. It was his pocket watch.

Hanging from a chain on his vest, he pulled the watch from his pocket and opened its face. Its hands ticked and tocked in perfect working order. But it wasn't the clock that was important. It's what makes it tick, he'd said. He turned it around, so she could see the back before popping off the silver plate and revealing turning wheels and cogs.

What do you see?

I don't know.

Beth.

Wheels turning. Shit working like it's supposed to.

Clocks are more than synchronization, Beth.

I don't know what you want me to say.

A single wheel turning in perfect time on its own doesn't make a clock tick. It's how they work together.

That's a stupid analogy.

But it didn't take long for her parents to go from behavioral therapy to medicating her. It wasn't even like they didn't have the money to keep paying for her sessions. They did. They had more than enough. Maybe they just didn't care. Didn't have the time to care. Running a multi-million dollar corporation didn't allot for much time for bonding with your damaged daughter.

Her second year of high school, she was on six different medications.

We just want you to have a normal life, they'd say. Don't you want to fit in with the kids your own age, they'd ask. You know we love you just the way you are, they'd claim. We just want to help you, Beth.

But they never really gave her a choice.

The meds did their job, mostly. They were never joined by an alternate personality for dinner. Beth stopped starting fights at school. (Though she would insist to her parents that she hadn't actually been the one to start them. Beth, you can't use your illness as an excuse anymore. You need to take responsibility for your own actions.) For all intents and purposes, the meds made her normal.

But her grades started slipping. She quit the track team. She stopped engaging. She didn't do much of anything, really. She felt despondent and disconnected. She felt broken. Hollow. Like the meds scooped out her insides and left her a shell. A shell who tried to go through the motions only to find that she didn't care anymore.

It was a long time before things got better, and they were only able to do that once they got worse. So much worse.

But that time was behind them now. They got through it. In the most rough, haphazard, sloppily put together way they knew how, to be sure, but they were still standing. There were times when things would get bad again, and it was the worst when Beth was under too much stress, but it worked. Without the meds. They supported each other. (Most of the time.) They had a system, a set of loose guidelines that they all followed.

But Sarah, standing in the middle of the empty diner at 2 in the morning, was breaking them all.

Sarah's true motives had always been a mystery to Beth. She threw caution to the wind, but she did what she thought needed to be done. (Though Beth wasn't sure which standard she was measuring herself up against.) Generally, that was for the greater good of them all. Recently, not so much.