Even as he made the decision, Neal had always known there was a chance – maybe even a good chance – that he'd chicken out. That he'd be a coward. That he wouldn't go to Storybrooke.

He'd thought it might be fear that did him in. Or maybe guilt. Or simple shame.

It looks, however, as if the reason is going to be far, far more mundane.

"Yes," he mutters into the receiver, gritting his teeth as he does so. "Yes, I will continue to hold."

He'd let himself push the trip off for a couple days. There had been the preliminary deliverable for that big client. Larsen would probably have had a coronary if it had been late. Tamara had had tickets to that play on Wednesday night and he'd promised two weeks ago to sit through the thing. Mrs. Feeg from downstairs' cat had gotten out and … okay, so it was going to suck, and he'd been pushing the sucking off a bit, all right?

But he'd woken up today, Friday, and found himself flat out of excuses. He'd figured he might as well just do it tomorrow. Power through it. Leave early in the morning, turn right around, be back late Saturday night.

He'd procrastinated a little bit more over coffee, a bagel, and The Times – and then decided he might as well just suck it up and plan the trip.

And that's where the trouble started.

First there'd been the surprising realization - and, really, the only surprising part should have been his actual surprise – that he didn't know where Storybrooke was, other than "in Maine."

Then there'd been this fun corollary: There was no way for him to find out.

He couldn't exactly look it up on Google Maps. Wikitravel wasn't going to have a section on enchanted towns. And if he strolled into the local Triple A and requested information on "Cursed Hamlets of New England," he'd probably find himself touring New York's best mental health facilities instead.

In short, within fifteen minutes of starting to plan, Neal had found a terrific excuse to give up. This was no longer about emotional insecurity; it was about logistical impossibility. Against all the odds, the desperate wishes he'd been trying not acknowledge had been answered. Here was the chance to stay the hell away from magic and turmoil and heartache and still be able to look himself in the mirror every morning because he hadn't chickened out - there just hadn't been a way for him to go.

Instead, for some insane reason, he took it as a challenge.

When Tamara called at noon to see about grabbing dinner that night, Neal was standing over a printed-out map of the Pine Tree State, crossing off swathes of the territory based on little comments August had dropped when he stopped in New York several months back. Not that far off 95. Along the coast. Forested. Nah, I can make it tonight. It's only about four hours outside of Boston.

Three hours before he would have sworn he'd ignored the man's barely-cloaked locational hints. Or, at least, that he hadn't remembered them. Hadn't etched them into his brain.

Yet here he stood with a map that, if it didn't specifically spell out Storybrooke's location, at least narrowed it way down. Things weren't impossible now. It might be a full weekend trip since there were a couple of areas he'd need to check out. But it was doable.

He told Tamara dinner wouldn't work, that he wasn't feeling well. He figured he might as well lay the groundwork for a weekend of under-the-weather unavailability and, really, he just didn't think he could focus on Tamara and the future when he knew he was – briefly – on his way to Emma and the past.

He took a break, grabbed a sandwich from the deli across the street, and headed back upstairs to figure out how to get to – and between – the several Greater Storybrooke possibilities. This was where he ran head-first into major issue number two: he was going to have to drive.

Neal knew how to drive. He'd spent years of his life pretty much constantly driving. He just … didn't drive anymore. It had been almost twelve years now since he'd been behind the wheel. He'd tried for a while, but it just brought back too many painful memories. So he'd come to New York, that magical place where fleets of trains, buses, ferries, and even horse-drawn carriages awaited to serve your every transportation need.

The bigger issue wasn't getting back on the proverbial bicycle. Physical age aside, Neal was centuries old. He didn't forget a skill in a mere dozen years. Give him a car, and he'd have no problem making his way to and around Maine.

But he did need the car. And that's where the problems started.

He'd kept a valid driver's license, of course. You needed some form of ID for everything in this country.

But he didn't have insurance, which the rental companies really kind of wanted. And he didn't have a driving record, or a being-insured record, or the desire to have insurance for any period of time. Or even the ability to wait until the next business day for proof of insurance.

So, by four in the afternoon, Neal is talking to his sixth unimpressed insurance agent and wondering if it is really going to be car insurance of all things that keeps him from Storybrooke. He briefs considers "borrowing" one of his neighbors' vehicles.

Finally, just before five, he strikes an outrageously expensive deal with a cut-rate insurance company that basically offers no protection at all – but will satisfy a rental company and get him legally on the road.

Exhausted, he calls to order Chinese for dinner and then moves on to the actual rental process – which quickly proves to be just as frustrating. It's as if something out there doesn't want him coming to Storybrooke and is using red tape and dropped calls to stop him. This annoys him and, absurdly, makes him even more determined to go.

He doesn't want to do this. He is absolutely dreading doing this. But, dammit, if he gives up, it's going to be because he chickens out – not because Phyllis at Hertz can't transfer his call without disconnecting him!

Finally, finally, Neal reaches someone with a modicum of intelligence – and gets more bad news. If he wants to head off to Maine at the crack of dawn tomorrow, he needs to come get the car tonight.

This means an extra day of fees – plus trying to find parking on a Friday night in Manhattan. Oh, and either paying the rental car company's exorbitant "extra insurance" fees or having to hope that, assuming he can even park the car, no one so much as dings it. On a Friday night in Manhattan. Because there's no way his recently-acquired super-expensive insurance is going cover as much as a paint buff.

He grits his teeth again. Nothing for it, then.

Bowing to the inevitable, Neal stuffs some clothes in a duffel bag and grabs his laptop. He'll leave tonight, crash at some hotel off 95, get some work in tomorrow morning, and then continue on his ex-girlfriend-seeking tour.

When the Chinese food delivery guy rings the buzzer for apartment 407, there's no answer. Neal is standing in a ridiculously long line at Hertz, directly behind a harried woman with five screaming children and an ancient man who's deaf as a doornail – but unwilling to acknowledge that fact. The clerk has been full-out yelling at him for the past fifteen minutes, and he just keeps fiddling with his hearing aid and muttering, "You'll need to speak up, sonny!"

Neal has a migraine-quality headache. His left eyelid is twitching in time to the youngest child's shrieks. And his stomach is starting to make agonized sounds of its own. He smacks his head into his palm and makes a mental note to call Ming's and apologize. Then he goes back to hating whatever Powers That Be that are attempting to subvert his trip via a kindergartner's bat-like shrieks.

Finally, finally the clerk finishes with the lady and her hell-spawn and Neal finds himself facing his latest torment: the unflappably cheerful customer service representative.

"A compact car? Excellent choice, sir, really excellent. What with gas prices these days, and, of course, we all have to do our part for Mother Earth, don't we."

Neal's head is killing him, but he manages a brief nod and smile.

"And where are you going this weekend? Maine? Don't you just love New England at this time of year? Planning to peep at any leaves?"

Neal has never understood this obsession with foliage. He gives the guy a slight shake of the head.

"And I'll just need to see some ID. No way! Turned the big three-five, I see. I'm about to do that myself! Any tips on facing down forty?"

Here Neal just gives up entirely and stares blankly at the clerk. He's completely out of patience – and he doesn't think he could answer that question even if he wanted to. Depending on how you look at things, he either hit thirty-five centuries ago while biologically fourteen and stuck on an island where you couldn't physically age - or he's still four years away from it.

When he'd landed in 1990s America, he'd realized pretty quickly that he was going to have to do a lot more lying than he had the last time he'd visited the Land Without Magic. And almost at quickly, he'd realized that if he was going to make up his birth date regardless, he might as well give himself as many additional years as he pull off. He'd met several Lost Boys who'd came to Neverland via the American foster system. He hadn't been interested in having the experience himself.

Eventually, the clerk gives up on conversation and Neal gets a Civic and hits the road.

Four hours after that, he passes a Holiday Inn just off 95. It's perfect for his purposes – but he keeps going. He tells himself that he's just thrilled to finally be past the congestion around New York and Boston, and able to fly down the highway. As long as he's making such good time, why not keep going?

Ninety-minutes after that, he admits that he's a little tired. His legs are cramping. His butt's asleep. And there are signs for another hotel just off the highway. This is the point to stop for the night.

But he doesn't. He takes the fork for 295 instead. And this is insanity, because he's at the end of his actual known directions now. He's heading toward one of three possible areas that might hold Storybrooke. Areas that he needs to thoroughly canvas sometime that's not two in the morning and pitch black and completely devoid of other people – except that one car that's pulled off 95 behind him.

Twenty miles later, it's still hanging out in his rearview mirror. He takes the exit for Route 1 not because he thinks Storybrooke's that way, but to see if the car will, too.

It does. And it's crazy, crazy to think it's following him. These are major roadways serving Maine. He's tired and stressed and that's all there is to it.

Sixty miles later, the thing is still behind him. Neal tries one random turn, and then another and another and another, just trying to lose it. It stays on him. They are in the middle of nowhere Maine, flying down dark, tree-lined roads and there is just no way that car is doing anything except tailing him.

Neal's completely confused. He's also exhausted and emotional. He loses it. Gives in completely to panic and slams on the gas.

It's pitch black. The road's windy and is thickly bordered by sturdy-looking trees its entire length. This may be the stupidest thing he's ever done.

Well, second stupidest. The stupidest was at a level of dumb he can never hope to match, and, insanely, he takes some measure of comfort in that. And also at the fact that he's pulling ahead of that car. And now farther ahead. And now farther ahead …

He's bidding his stalker a mental adieu in his mirror when his peripheral vision manages to transmit a dire message: Tree. It's big and it's solid, and he's on track to hit it at over 100 miles an hour. His heart jumps, his hands jerk at the wheel, and his foot slams down on the brake.

He's not aware of blacking out, but he is aware of waking up, so he must have. It's sometime later, but not that much later. The sky is just starting to take on that dark-blue-rather-than-black hue it gets before dawn. So … a half-hour? Less?

Enough time, at least, for someone to call the authorities. He can hear the sirens screaming closer.

He groans. He's basically going to have to buy Hertz a brand-new car. He can tell that without even lifting his head to see the damage. And he's going to have to do it out-of-pocket because he stupidly balked at their extra insurance rates and there's no way his actual so-called insurance is ponying up the cash for this.

So, he's out probably about $20,000. That's almost funny, really. He lost twenty grand when he left Emma; he loses it again when he comes back to … well, not to her. But to make sure she's okay.

If his ribs didn't hurt so much, he'd be tempted to laugh.

A squad career marked "Sheriff" comes screeching into view, and he realizes his ribs and the $20,000 are the least of his worries. That was some seriously unsafe driving he just did. He's lucky he didn't hurt anything besides himself and the car. And the tree, he supposes. He could very well be looking at criminal charges. Maybe even jail time.

That, too, would be kind of poetic.

The driver's side door of the squad car is thrown open and a tall, blond Ken-doll-looking guy jumps out and starts running toward him. Two smaller deputies exit the car behind him.

One of them is wearing pajamas.

Neal blinks, and the one deputy resolves itself into the sheriff's kid, who's still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He obviously got pulled out of bed and dragged along when his dad got the 911 call.

Neal's heart twists, and not just because he's interfering with the kid's rest. He knows what it's like to be that age and motherless – and there's no way the kid would be at a crime scene at this time at night if his mom was around. He wonders vaguely if the woman's dead or if she, too, just up and left her son.

At least the boy still has his papa. His papa, who has just all but ripped the Civic's door out of its frame.

Oh, well, Neal thinks. It was totaled anyway.

"Are you okay?" the man asks urgently, shining a flashlight into Neal's eyes and gently shaking his shoulder. "The ambulance should be here any second."

Neal would really prefer not to go to a hospital. He dislikes paperwork-requiring authorities on principle, even though he now possess everything he needs to satisfy them.

Of course, as he may be bleeding to death internally, it might be a good idea to make an exception in this case.

The sheriff gestures and the actual deputy – the one who is not a child, just a … shorter, grumpy-looking man – steps forward to take the flashlight and shine it on Neal, freeing the sheriff's other hand. The man uses it and its fellow to quickly pat at Neal, checking for injuries.

He seems to pass inspection. The sheriff draws back and asks him if he knows his name.

"Neal Cassidy."

The sheriff and the deputy share a quick, confused look.

"What about your … other name?" asks the shorter man.

Neal blinks. "My … other name?"

The sheriff looks startled for a second and then jerks around to look at the full scene. "My G-… you drove into town!"

Huh. Apparently Neal turned the wheel so hard that he did a 180 – and gave the first response team the idea that he was heading out of town.

"Yeah, I did …" he starts, and then notices that the sheriff looks horrified and the deputy looks even less friendly.

Oh. Obviously, he was being given more lenient treatment because the local police force thought he was a member of the community. Just some guy on his way home from the late shift – or the town bar. Maybe the father of some kid their kids had class with.

Now that he's a known outsider, though … well, he's probably seconds away from handcuffs.

There was one time in Neal's life when he wanted to go to jail. This is not it.

"Look, I know this is going to sound crazy," he starts, "but this car was chasing me up the road. It had been following me for miles, I have no idea why, I was just trying to get away …"

Luck, for once this day, is with Neal. The gruff deputy barely has time to snort at this story when the kid gives a yell and points into the distance.

A man has just come into view over one of the rises in the road. Neal squints, and hazards a guess at the guy being late thirties, early forties. He's baby-faced, but his hairline's started to recede. He wears jeans and a pea coat and is shouting angrily into a phone practically glued to his ear.

"You told me you were tracking him! You told me you'd know if he made any kind of move! You were our insurance!"

The sheriff, deputy, and kid turn to stare at Neal, who shrugs even as he feels his blood freeze.

Why would anyone be tracking him? He hasn't done anything ... at least anything that's still within the statute of limitations. Unless … is his father having him tracked down? Is this some kind of magical bounty hunter trying to deliver him to Rumplestilskin for a cash reward?

Suddenly, jail doesn't sound so bad. This is the Land Without Magic. If Neal confesses to some sort of dangerous driving crime and refuses any kind of defense, he's safe from his father as long as he's behind bars. Rumplestilskin won't be able to do anything about it.

He's trying to think of a way to make what he did sound as horrible as possible. He wishes the man on the phone would go away, as he's not helping Neal's current case by helping his initial one.

Seriously, why is this guy still shouting away like he's the only one around? Surely he's got to have noticed the crashed car, the accident victim sitting half in it, and the three people huddled around him.

The sheriff moves forward, blocking his boy and the rest of the scene from the man on the phone. But it's an unnecessary move. The man doesn't see them. It slowly dawns on Neal that he can't see them.

That's when Neal notices the brilliant line on the ground between the sheriff and the other man. The sheriff is carefully keeping to their side of it. The man can't seem to see anything unusual past it.

Oh. Well, then.

He guesses this is his welcome to Storybrooke.