Author's Note: Sorry this chapter is so short. My real life responsibilities require me to write in spurts. Now I have to go change to laundry. Hurrah. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this. I might have quit if not for your encouragement. I hope you enjoy this next bit. Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to these characters.

When they finally arrived, Splinter set down the box. "I will be back," he said. "I just have to get the rest of our things." He hurried to fetch the items he had left behind, hoping that the turtles would still be there by the time he returned. Fortunately, they were all accounted for when he came back, but once again the shy turtle had played escape artist. He was contentedly examining the leaves on the ground beneath the tree.

Splinter tipped the box to let the rest of the turtles out and fed them the soggy remains of the head of lettuce. He kept an eye on the grate above them, waiting until it would be dark enough to venture out to retrieve his belongings.

In the meantime, he played with the turtles.

"Now, let's see," he said, talking more to himself than the turtles, "what was that sculptor's name? It started with a 'D'—Da Vinci? No. That would be Leonardo Da Vinci." He searched his memory, trying to remember any of the artists' names. He wondered if the only reason he remembered Da Vinci was because of the pizza place.

Tang Shen would have laughed at him for this. He could almost imagine her now, saying something like Of course you know food, Yoshi, but not who painted the Sistine Chapel!

With a chuckle, he imagined himself quipping backthat he very well knew that Michelangelo had painted the Sistine Chapel, thank you very much.

Da Vinci. Michelangelo. Who were the other artists? When another name popped into his mind, he remembered that Raphael was a painter, not a sculptor.

It would come to him eventually.

Finally, when night fell, Splinter put the turtles in the box and sang them to sleep. His own voice sounded lonely to him; he was used to singing this lullaby in two part harmony with Tang Shen. Nevertheless, the turtles easily drifted off to sleep. Once he was sure they were asleep, he folded the box shut. A gap allowed plenty of air in for them.

With that, he hurried off to retrieve his belongings.

The task was a long and arduous one. While he had never thought that he owned that much, it was a feat to move it out of his fourth floor apartment. He was sure that some of the things would not fit through the manholes. He could disassemble some of the furniture and take it piecemeal, though. He had at least another two weeks before the rent came due. Until then, the landlord would be no cause for worry.

Over the next several days, he repeated this process; scrounge for food and anything useful, feed the turtles, rest briefly, wait until nightfall, bring more of his belongings into the sewer. By the time he had his entire apartment empty, he was drained from more than a week of ragged labor with little sleep. He had neglected his practice in order to conserve his energy, and he could already feel certain muscles losing some of their strength from disuse.

All of his worldly possessions were now in an awkward pile on the floor of the large chamber. He opened a box that was on top of the pile and looked at the contents.

There was the picture of him with Tang Shen and Miwa. It had not been destroyed because he kept it at his dojo in Japan. There were a few other sundry items he had kept there—little good luck charms and statuettes that Tang Shen had given him to ward off bad spirits.

He had not looked at any of these since he packed them up months and months ago, along with the beautiful silk screens that divided the sections of his dojo. He had removed the screens from their wooden frames and rolled them like posters. Even so, it had cost so much to ship them, but at the time he could not bear to leave behind what he had invested so much of his money in. Not once since his arrival in New York had he unrolled them to look at them.

The statuettes now seemed as though they had done the opposite of their intended purpose, drawing in bad spirits to haunt him. He felt as though Tang Shen and Miwa were in the room with him, asking him why.

Why did you fuel Oroku Saki's rage? Why did you let him take you by surprise? Why did you let the house burn down, fighting him in spite of the blaze that seethed around you? Why did you not leave the battle to save us? We are dead because of you.

Because of you! Your negligence. Your self-entitled sense of honor.

You lost all honor when you let us die.

You deserve to be a rat, choking on the poison of your own guilt.

Splinter fell to his knees, dropping the box and scattering its contents across the floor. He sobbed until his chest hurt. He sobbed as though his own pain could be enough to wash away his iniquities.

Every sin he had ever committed against his wife rose to accuse him. He never thought that he had been a bad husband, but now every slight and error he had made in his relationship stung him. The times he had snapped at her. The times he had selfishly dedicated himself to his students and training instead of her emotional needs. His mockery of her interest in Renaissance art when he had only celebrated the life in her womb for a few moments.

Even if you are pregnant, he had said as they left the museum, a silly statue of a horse and rider by some Italian fool named Donatello? That was what you liked the best?

She had burst into tears at that. He thought it was hormones at the time. Now the memory tormented him like the flames that shrouded his home in death.

His own grief was interrupted by a cacophony of turtles crying. With a deep breath, he swallowed his emotions and went to tend the needs of the helpless creatures.

If he had failed Tang Shen and Miwa, he would not fail these new lives that depended on him.

His apartment had not had a stove, and so he had purchased small gas-operated camping stove to prepare his meals on. He measured dry rice and the cleanest water he could find into a pot and lit the stove. How long would his supply of rice and fuel last? He couldn't bear the thought of more scrounging in the dumpsters. He pushed the notion away and decided to focus on the task at hand.

As he fed slightly cooled rice to the turtles, he smiled slightly at the shy turtle's calculating appraisal of the food. The turtle seemed to be unsure of the small sticky grains. He picked up a single grain and ate it. Then he started to line the grains up on the ground in front of him like he was planning to draw a picture or something.

"No, turtle-bo," Splinter reprimanded softly. "This is for eating, not playing, see?" He took a clump of the rice in his chopsticks and placed them into his own mouth. "If you are bound to be an artist, I can find you something better than rice."

An artist.

The sculptor.

Donatello!

Shen's favorite of all the artists they had seen.

Like it was an act of penance, Splinter scooped the shy turtle up into his arms despite the turtle's fussing protests. "Donatello," he said softly. "I'll call you Donatello." When the turtle's fussing became a full-blown protest, Splinter put him down. "Fine. Here, Donnie-bo. Just eat the rice instead of playing with it."

Then he left the turtles alone with the rice for a moment, turned away, and wept silently.