Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Notes: I sincerely thank those of you who have left critiques and comments; they are very much appreciated. There will be two more chapters following this one. I will be revising earlier chapters for grammar, etc upon completion. Thank you for bearing with me! :)

Amita had taken over my classes at CalSci. I was still sitting in the living room, staring blankly at the wall and trying half-heartedly to remember what she had said not ten minutes ago. The sounds of her car pulling away, of the door closing, of Don's soft words from somewhere – they all rang in my ears, one on top of the other, like a muffled cacophony of reality. Something about a psych eval when I came back. Something about students and their incessant chatter. Something about the boards being replaced, after rather mysteriously being found broken. I didn't remember that last part, but I didn't think it mattered. A flat, bulky something landed in my lap.

"You need to see those, Charlie." Don had sat down opposite me, his mouth set in a soft line that might give into a tired smile or a tight frown at any given moment. Swallowing thickly, automatically, I took the bottle of water he offered and stared stupidly at the package. "They're from your students. Asked Amita to drop them off if she saw you – and I put some from the office in there too. I-I think you'll like them; they should, uh, cheer you up," he insisted, one-sided imagined confidence evident in his tone. I spared him a glance, almost curious.

Feeling numb and mildly shell-shocked for no good reason, I opened the folder. Inside, tucked carefully into the flaps on either side, were brightly-colored cards: homemade, hand-drawn, Hallmark, dollar-cards from Wal-Mart, even folded sheets of note paper. There were pictures in some of them, and math jokes on the fronts of others; I recognized Colby's handwriting on a short note, and a picture of myself with the team embellished with stickers. There were minor twinges of recognition and amusement and that dull numbness, and, beyond them, faint memories of bygone emotions, or trace elements with which I no longer associated.

Most of them bore lines like, "Get Well Soon," or, "We Miss You," words that implied a temporary state of being. I flipped through a construction-paper stack and recognized familiar scrawls, inside jokes, and doodles. Was this temporary? Did they know something I didn't? Did they have more confidence in me than I had ever had in myself? Automatically, I bit down on my lip, receiving a sharp look from Don. I shook my head. "They're nice."

"That's it?" He stared with some sort of vague surprise. "You just say, 'That's nice'? Charlie…" And it sounded like he meant to reprimand me, his lips quirking in that way and his eyebrows cinching together in frustration. Then he sighed and took the folder back, though instead of setting it aside he began perusing the contents himself. "These are really creative. They took some time to make these- why don't you write them a note or something? I can get someone to drop them off…"

Despite the fact your leave time runs out in three days. "Maybe."

"No." Getting up suddenly, he disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a package of pens and a small writing tablet I recognized from the fridge. He tossed them onto the coffee table, hovering expectantly. "Go on," he said, pointing at the colored pens. "Write something. I don't care what. You'll feel better, I know it."

I looked uncertainly at the supplies, then at Don, then out the window. I heard a "Charlie…" in there somewhere, but it dealt a glancing blow to my attention; I wanted to write something appropriate despite all the notoriously inappropriate mental commentary. I wanted to tell them that this wasn't a cold or a surgery, that I wouldn't just appear again as if returning from some especially enriching sabbatical. I wanted to tell them that I was fine and recovering with the help of friends and family, that I'd be back within a few weeks' time. Both routes left a dry lump in my throat that I struggled and failed to swallow multiple times, because I considered them both to be half-truths – and painful ones at that, for whatever unfathomable reason.

I couldn't do this.

The realization washed over me for the umpteenth time with the cold strength of early-morning waves. I really couldn't do this – could I? This constant drowning feeling – Don had tried repeatedly, the team had tried repeatedly, Larry and Amita had tried repeatedly, but I just couldn't do this for them. I had to want it for myself, and I didn't. I hadn't wanted this when I found those pills, and I still didn't want this, whatever terrible jumble 'this' had evolved into. I couldn't do this. Couldn't do this, just as I'd admitted to him. He knew. I knew. Everyone knew and it hurt to think about it, hurt like swallowing impossibly cold and sharp and hard icicles that cut and numbed and choked on the way down. Why couldn't I want this?

My mouth opened slightly, my face turned to Don's brazen expectancy, my thoughts swirled at an incalculable pace… and I blinked. Squeezed my eyes shut. My head kept shaking and from his deep sigh, I knew I'd failed him with my paralyzing inability to grasp his hand and pull myself up from this mess I'd made. I clamped my hands over my ears next, so I wouldn't hear his sad-but-patient commentary again, wouldn't hear anything but the strange pounding of blood. At the mere thought of blood, I felt myself wildly searching for the faded scratches from a nightmare days ago in the kitchen. They hadn't healed, and neither had Don's memories abandoned him.

"Charlie, look at me. Now," he demanded, face suddenly in mine. "I will get you through this, but I need your help. We-we can do this, buddy, okay? I know we can – so… so why don't we…" Don blinked, momentarily confounded with his train of thought, then snatched up blue and green pens and a sheet of paper from the pad. He scribbled something hurriedly and shoved it in my face, a deformed equation that made me cringe perfunctorily. Noticing my reaction, he moved the paper closer, desperate in his insistence. "Go on, you know you want to correct it-"

I took it from him silently. Then I tore it up and threw it away. "No. No math. No math!" No math. The words hurt, even as thoughts; feeling strangled, I reached up and grasped the loose collar of my t-shirt and pulled, my eyes wide and blinking frequently to maintain enough moisture. No math. No math. I can't say that. No math. I can't say that; I cant. Stop saying that. I need chalk. I need chalk; where are my boards? Garage- No math! Where are my boards?

Hands on my shoulders. Charlie. Charlie. Charlie. Charlie. "…ath, okay, it's okay, I get it. I get it Charlie. It's okay." Cursing under his breath. "Charlie-"

But his phone rang instead, and I knew it wouldn't be good news, just by the way his eyes hardened and his mouth set itself in a tight, serious line. And when his gaze flicked to me like a nervous hornet, I knew it could only get worse from here; it always did. It was Murphy's Law.