The door clangs open, and Sally jerks back to full awareness.

"Here, you should eat," the woman says, and puts two bowls down. One a mixture of rice and vegetables, the other full of water. The woman leans back against the door, and folds her arms, looking bored. "I'm supposed to wait till you've finished, you don't want to make him angry."

Sally most definitely does not want to make him angry, but she also doesn't want to have to eat her food like a dog in front of her guard. The woman rolls her eyes, and lights a cigarette. Sally looks at the water.

She is so thirsty.

And who is she kidding? She can't bring herself to care any more. She wriggles herself to a kneeling position, and bends her head to the water bowl. Her wrists are tied behind her, and weakly she struggles to find the right balance. By the time she finishes the water she is dizzy, trying not to hiccup.

"Now eat," the woman says, nudging the other bowl with her foot.

Sally shakes her head. She feels sick, and eating like this would be too much of a challenge anyway.

"Your choice." The woman flicks her cigarette to the floor, grinds it out beneath her foot. Sally flinches when the woman bends down to get the bowls... her proximity, the nicotine smell of her... it's too much. She gags. The woman gives her a filthy look, and kicks, a well directed thrust to her abdomen. Sally swallows down her gorge. She refuses to lose what precious liquid she has left in her. She absolutely will not let them kill her. She will not die.

By the time her eyes stop running the woman has left the room. Sally sits as the silence returns, shaking a little, and stares at the cigarette stub, with it's hideous lipstick smudge. She realises that she never did like that shade of pink.

Bao, she thought, what are they doing to Bao?

…

Meg Thatcher was finding it hard to concentrate. It must be the "incident" with Fraser, but for the last few days she was feeling... what? It was hard to put it into words. That feeling you get when someone runs their nails down a blackboard. Or as though she had itching powder inside her skull.

If Turnbull stuck his head through the door one more time requesting one more pointless clarification to a task a trained monkey could do then there was a strong chance that she would throw something at him.

The door opened, and she glared up, fiercely. "What?"

Turnbull smiled, that half craven kiss ass look he had off to perfection. "I thought you might like some coffee, Sir?"

Yeah, like she wasn't tense enough already. Let's throw caffeine at the problem.

But she hadn't slept, so she shrugged. "Fine. And Turnbull?"

"Yes Sir?"

"When you're done, close the door."

…

It wasn't going to be as bad as he thought, Ray told himself. His friend was tired, he could tell that much, and as they left the hospital he had been none too steady on his pins, but he'd smiled at some of Ray's jokes, even made one of his own. When they stopped for hot dogs Diefenbaker started whining, and Benny rewarded him with most of his meat. "You do understand that this is cannibalism, Dief," he pointed out, and Ray was so delighted to hear his friend joke, even a corny joke, that he completely lost it. He laughed so hard that he choked on his hot dog. He was still chuckling as they pulled up outside his house.

Yeah, maybe it would be okay.

Ray walked round the car, and reached out a hand. Benny staggered a little bit on the way up, and blinked. That must be the medication, Ray told himself. The doctor had warned him that Fraser would be woozy, that it might take some time for his body to adapt to the pharmaceuticals while the professionals worked out his "optimal dose". "He'll be feeling over medicated. That's quite normal at first. He'll get used to it."

Ray didn't like to think of Fraser getting used to what were, after all, pretty hard drugs. But since Fraser seemed to be more normal he could only assume the meds were working. Didn't mean he had to be pleased about it though.

"Come on buddy," Ray put his hand on his friend's back to steady him, and walked him up the steps to the house. "Let's get you inside."

…

Ray seemed to be spending a lot of time on the phone.

Of course it was to be expected that the family would call ... Ma Vecchio, the two Vecchio sisters, particularly Francesca, a cousin or two, Tony, even Ray's brother, who Fraser had never met.

"How's he doing?" And it was always... "yeah, we're doing all right, don't worry about it... hope you're having a good time..."

It felt somehow more intrusive when Elaine called, and though Ray pretended she was only calling about work he took the phone into the hall and talked behind his hand so that Fraser wouldn't hear.

He knew Ray was trying to spare him embarrassment, and was glossing over all the more humiliating features. It was not that he wasn't grateful... he was. Deeply grateful. But he found, to his shame, that he resented his friend for being so... so kind. So understanding. Fraser knew that he was broken. And if this thing was true, if he really was... broken, then he would never ever be able to return Ray's kindness. He had become a tumescence, an unnamed, untamed something, a thing that could only ever be a burden.

Why did Ray have to be so good about it?

"So Fraser, what's it to be for dinner tonight, I'm cooking," Ray said, as with perfect discretion he handed him a little plastic cup with the medication in it. He turned his back casually, allowing his friend privacy, as though swallowing the tablets down were some biological embarrassment, like urinating, that people didn't do in public.

"Thank you kindly," Fraser replied, and took a decision. If he was mad, then he would be mad, not some lumbering creature in a medicated twilight zone. If he was bad enough even Ray would see it. He wouldn't have to be so self sacrificial. Then he would have to let him go. Fraser tucked the tablets high up, between his cheek and his gum, and swallowed only water. The tablets came out later, when Ray was grinding roast almonds in a pestle and mortar, with his back to the kitchen door.

And now that he'd made a decision Fraser finally relaxed. It was odd, how giving up afforded him such relief.

Ray turned with a flourish from the oven, smiling, and served up Sicilian pesto with long fat wobbles of noodly pasta. There was more. Crisp salad, fresh olives, and garlicky oven baked eggplant took their place upon the table, and a bowl of freshly grated cheese.

"Eat, eat," Ray said, grinning, imitating Ma Vecchio, "Come on Benito, eat already."

Fraser laughed. "Thank you kindly Raimondo."

Ray pushed a steaming plate towards him, and Fraser found that he could eat.

…

It seemed like the case was going nowhere, and Welsh would have been ready to write it off if it hadn't been for the boy's mother. She arrived early the following morning to make a formal complaint about the way his detectives had treated her.

"What's Vecchio done now?"

"No, not your Detective Vecchio, he very nice to me, nice man. The other two, the young ones, Rushton and Brown."

"Ah," Welsh sighed. At least it wasn't Huey and Louie this time. "I'm sorry Mrs Chang, we borrowed them from another station, we've had a very heavy case load lately. What did they do?"

"They tell me that my son is not missing, he just does not want to be found, and that I am being … what did they say... 'one of those mothers' and not letting my son to breath. That I am a nag."

"Well, I'm sorry you feel they didn't take it seriously, and they certainly shouldn't have talked to you like that." Welsh steeled himself to make the unpleasant suggestion. "However, there does seem to be some evidence that he has run off with his girlfriend... they both disappeared at the same time."

Mrs Chang gave him that look that only an angry mother can give. Her English deteriorating under the weight of her anger she laid into him."You not know my son, he loves his girl, but me also he loves, he not do anything to frighten me. If he go with this girl he let me know. He let me know."

Welsh shifted uncomfortably under her chilly glare. She reminded him of his own mother, completely convinced of her son's integrity. He thought of all the times that he'd let his mother down, forgetting how often he had made her proud. It was suddenly important to him that this woman was not hurt.

"Okay," Welsh said, "I've read the case reports, but just to be absolutely sure that we've covered all the angles I want you to tell me everything you can about your son. Any little clue could be a help."

And Mrs Chang leaned forward in her chair, gazing over the silver rim of her glasses, and fixed him in her sights.

By the time she had finished Welsh was as sure as she was that her son, her "Bao," her treasure, would not have run away leaving no word. Dammit, he thought, we still have a case.

So he called every available officer and started again from scratch.

…

Bao is finally thinking clearly for the first time in... how long? He can't be sure, but it's been days. They took him suddenly, grabbing him from behind, and he knows that he fought back, and he knows that he got hurt. It's only now that he's really coming back to himself.

He remembers them talking about Sally, and he remembers thinking it was some kind of a trick. But that night when in dizzy boredom he played the radiator like a drum she tapped back. Their dance. Their waltz. They have her somewhere. Sally is here.

But his captors haven't said a word to him, he has no idea what they want. Is it her family, he wonders. She was always very secretive about them, told him that they "wouldn't approve." Surely they couldn't be as disapproving as all that?

He thinks of their meeting places, their seat in the park, their little café off campus which wasn't trendy, where all the grandmothers went, driving away students like leaves on a gusty day. He thinks of holding her hands across the table, while they share food from each other's plates. He thinks of going to the library, tucking notes into the back of fat volumes about Chinese architecture that nobody would ever read, of finding her own notes, folding them smooth and tracing his finger over her handwriting.

He shouldn't have been secret about it. If it had been his choice he would have told the world. It was bursting out of him. He vibrated with the size of it as he was walking down the road. The whole world must know that he's in love.

But it was not his choice. She couldn't help her family. Now he wishes he had told someone other than Frank. Frank would keep a secret to the grave. But as Bao sits with his eyes shut and her face behind his eyes he feels guilty.

He wishes that he'd been more honest with his mother.

…

The next morning Fraser seemed altogether brighter, and offered to do the dishes. "You know that's a mountain out there," Ray said, then tongue in cheek adds, "no point doing it today if we can put it off till Ma gets home. You know she loves to clean."

"That won't be necessary, Ray, I'm sure your mother has better things to do when she gets back."

Ray gave his friend a wry grin. He couldn't figure out if he was being overly literal as a joke, or if he really believed Ray would leave the dishes in the sink for his Ma.

"Come on Frase, leave them for now. We'll do them after we take Diefenbaker for his walk."

Fraser looked down at Diefenbaker, who cocked his head quizzically and whined.

"Really, Diefenbaker, you don't have to take that tone with me," Fraser said mildly. "I wasn't going to forget about you." Dief stood, tongue hanging out, and yipped. "No, really, I was just going to suggest to Ray that we take you for your walk." Dief's tail swung madly, like a big duster, bashing into things. Fraser looked at Ray. "Diefenbaker would like very much to go for a walk."

"Okay, Benny boy!" Ray couldn't keep himself from smiling. Fraser conversing solemnly with his wolf, and playing the ultimate straight man, that was the kind of crazy Ray could handle. Those meds must really be working, Benny seemed almost back to normal.

…

After the walk Fraser managed to get his own way, and stood washing dishes by himself. Ray had insisted that he would come in to help any minute now, but when Fraser looked through he saw, with a pang of guilt, that his friend had fallen asleep on the sofa. He looked worn out. Now that he was asleep Fraser could see clearly the toll of the the past few days. His skin had taken on an unhealthy pallor, and he looked... well, he simply looked ill.

Fraser shook his head at himself, and returned to the dishes, making an effort not to clatter.

"Hello son."

Fraser jumped, and clutched the damp dishcloth to his chest.

"Don't do that Dad, I nearly broke a plate."

"Do you want to talk to me now?"

Fraser glanced at his father, then away, pained. Carefully he continued to stack plates. He remembered his last words to his father, and was ashamed.

"I'm sorry Dad," he said. "I don't know why I said that."

"It's all right son. You weren't well."

"Remember once I asked you, 'does insanity run in our family'?"

"Yes son?"

"Did you ever..." Fraser pulled out the plug and watched the water as it drained away. "Did you ever know that I was... well, did I ever show any signs of... being..." Dear Lord, this was proving impossible to say. Finally he managed to spit it out. "Did you know I was going to go mad?"

"No son. I never for a moment worried about you that way. You're an embarrassingly sane man."

Fraser smiled at his father thankfully, then rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry Dad... I just realised, I'm seeking reassurance that I'm not a schizophrenic from one of my most persistent hallucinations. I should have realised when you first popped up that something wasn't right."

"Son, I'm not in your head. Well, perhaps I am, but that doesn't mean that I'm not real."

Fraser leaned against the counter, arms folded across his checked shirt, and pondered this. When he was a child the Inuit had welcomed him, taught him that the world was a strange place. He knew that a man could turn into a raven, a caribou into a man. More in heaven and earth...

He nodded, and smiled at his father. "Understood. Appearances can be deceptive."

"So, you're feeling better son?"

"Actually, yes. Yes I am." He looked puzzled. "Which is odd really."

"What's odd?"

"I started to feel better when I stopped taking the medication."

"Why is that odd?"

"Well, the doctor told me that I'd have to be on anti psychotics for the rest of my life to prevent relapse."

"Really?" the ghost snorted, derisively. "What does he know? And I suppose he told you there was no cure?"

"As it happens yes. He did say something to that effect."

"I'm sure that he's a very nice man, very well meaning, but I wouldn't take him too seriously son. I'm just glad that you've not been walking so deep into the borderlands."

"What do you mean?"

"I was worried about you son. You got in far too deep. I shouldn't have been able to taste that sandwich."

"It wasn't that bad, surely?"

"What I mean is, people can walk between worlds, but you should always remember which one is your home. For now your home is here."

"Chicago?"

"That too." The old man smiled.

His heart strangely lighter, his son smiled back.