The warehouse was quiet, as always. He happened to know that most of the surrounding properties were used for various illicit purposes, and so were occupied only during odd hours. Very odd hours. He couldn't have asked for better neighbors, and he owed them at least the small favor of not scaring them into thinking the police were investigating their dealings. He awkwardly wrestled his way into his overcoat before he left the car, buttoning it up to obscure his uniform. The things I do for the scum of the earth. He scooped John out of the passenger seat, and the small, wiry body moved sleepily in his arms. Good. Ben will be up soon.

Shouldering his way into the building with his small cargo, he felt the familiar grief beginning to creep up on him. It was so difficult, trying to help these boys to be saved, helping their fathers to express their love. Nobody knew how he suffered. Impulsively, he squeezed John tightly, and as he laid the body on the floor beside the well, the face became Ben's, the eyes fluttering open. Perfect timing. It was meant to be.

"Hey, there, bud," he said to Ben's glazed eyes. "How are you doing?"

The pale face screwed up in distress, and Scott just barely managed to roll him on his side before the boy puked. A lot of them took it that way. "It's all right," he said, rubbing Ben between his thin shoulder blades. "It'll pass. Let me know when you feel better." He waited patiently while the kid coughed and spat.

Ben rolled back towards him. "Where am I?"

"Nowhere special. Do you think you can stand up?" Ben nodded, and was already surprisingly strong on his feet as Scott helped him up.

"What happened, mister?"

"You went to sleep for a little bit, Ben. Hold on, I've got to just do this thing." Scott clasped his huge hands under the kid's armpits and lifted, while Ben reflexively grabbed at him, confused. It was a testament to the big man's strength and control that he was able to smoothly lower the boy into the well, lowering himself to one knee as he did so. Ben gasped as he hit the cold water, now fully awake.

"What?" he sputtered, "What the hell, man?"

Scott winced. It seems like they learn to swear younger and younger now. He released his grip and quickly closed and locked the grating while Ben floundered in the cold water.

"What are you doing?" the boy pleaded. "What's going on? What did I do wrong?" His inflection was rising, panicked.

"You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't. You've got to stay in here for a little bit. It's going to be hard, but you've got to be brave, okay?" Ben's face was frozen with fear, and Scott grimaced in sympathy. It's always so hard to explain. "You just need to be brave and smart and patient. You're going to get out of here, but it might take a while."

"Let me out!" Ben shouted up at him. "Let me out of here! I want to go home!"

Still on his knees, Scott looked up and away, his eyes beginning to tear up. "It's gonna be okay. It's all arranged. I'm going to leave now, but your dad's coming to get you out." When he looked down, he was startled to find himself confronting John's solemn, pale face. He's already here?

"Do you really want him to, Scottie?" There was mistrust in those brown eyes, and sadness.

"What?" he gasped. He could hear his own voice, uncharacteristically breathy. He blinked, hard, and suddenly was looking instead at Ben Carver, whose green eyes were wide with terror.

"I'm sorry, mister! I'm sorry!" Ben splashed frantically in the pit. "Please! Don't GOOOOOOOOO!" The long vowel of the final O stretched out and up, filling the warehouse.

Scott lurched backwards, clumsily, landing on his rump. Fleeing Ben's rising wail, he scrambled to his feet and out the door, letting it swing shut behind him. Outside, he'd almost made it to the car when his gasping turned to the familiar wheeze of an asthma attack, and he automatically went through the sequence of responding: the fumble for the inhaler, the habitual quick rattle of it in his hand, and the hasty pumps that he tried to suck down into the bottom of his uncooperative chest.

That's not what happens, he thought, leaning against the car. John comes when they're

(dead)

still. When they're not so frightened. He straightened. Did I do something wrong? He felt guilty about having left Ben terrified. It's not his fault. Should I go back? He thought about it and then shrugged, rubbing his face. There was really nothing left to say – not to Ben, anyway, and he felt oddly, newly shy about facing John. What did he mean? Why else would I be doing this? Of course I want Dad, Ben's dad, to come save him.

His breathing had settled down, and he had other details to attend to. There was still time to think about this. Later. The hinges of the driver's side door as he drew it open squealed so loudly that he flinched. In his imagination, their rusty metal screams blended with those of Ben, of Bobby, of

(John)

all the others, of the rubber tires whickering against the wet pavement as he peeled out of the lot.

When he opened the street door to his apartment building, he stared for a moment, uncomprehending, at the tomatoes tumbling down the stairs in front of him.

"Oh, Mr. Shelby! I'm sorry, I'll get them in a minute!"

He jerked his gaze upwards to the second-floor landing, his hand flashing to the collar of his coat – okay, still fastened high enough to cover the uniform – as he simultaneously, immediately pulled the identity of voice's owner out of his internal filing system: Melissa-twenty-apartment 2A-waitress-harmless.

Sure enough, she was crouched on the landing, still in her baggy uniform, scrambling after various grocery items that appeared to have spilled out of one of her bags. He smiled at her through his weariness.

"Let me give you a hand, Melissa. Looks like you've got enough to cope with up there, as it is." She shot him a relieved grin as she fumbled a set of keys off the floor and stood to open her door. Scott carefully plucked the tomatoes off the floor – the skin had partially split on one of them – and continued up the stairs, stopping to add a stray block of cheese and an onion to the pile cradled in his elbow. Melissa was already dragging the overfull bags inside when he reached the landing, and gratefully accepted his armload of food.

"Thanks so much, Mr. Shelby! I just already had my hands full, and then when I got out my keys – " she rolled her eyes expressively and shook brown bangs out of her eyes. "I'm such a klutz."

"With your job? Oh, now, that can't be true," he teased, gently. "You wouldn't be making enough tips to buy these groceries."

"Ugh, I hardly am," she said.

I think I believe her, thought Scott. He felt sudden, deep pity for her youth, her vulnerability. Skinny minny. Aloud, he said, "I should take you out to lunch sometime, do the neighborly thing." Hope she doesn't think I'm hitting on her.

Melissa giggled, appearing to have taken the offer in the spirit in which it was intended. "I don't know," she said. "Believe it or not, I can eat a heck of a lot. Do you really want to – "

(do you really want him to scottie)

" – make that kind of an offer? Mr. Shelby? Are you all right?" Her thin face looked suddenly concerned.

It took him a minute to push aside the disconcerting echo ringing in his ears. "Yeah, I'm fine, Melissa, I'm sorry. I was miles away for a second. It's been a rough day."

"You and me both," she said, more solemnly now. "I'd better get cooking, I guess. Talk to you later?"

"Yeah, sure," he replied. He smiled again, vaguely, flapped his hand in a farewell gesture, and trudged further up the staircase.

Back at his apartment, Scott leaned heavily against the inside of his door for a moment, his encounter with Melissa already forgotten. In his memory, there was a parade of small, anxious faces peering up at him, chapter upon chapter. Damn, that's always so hard to do, leave them there. He tried to push John's sudden appearance out of his mind, sighing heavily as he removed his damp coat and pulled off his shoes. It had been a trying day, and he hoped the worst was over.

He needed a break. He lumbered into his bedroom, already unbuttoning the uniform top. Not worth a shower. I'll take one in the morning, anyhow. He began to run through the mental checklist of items he needed to have had accomplished by this point. For some of the items, it was the twentieth time he'd checked them off today, but there was a comfortable sing-song about the kind of rhythm that they assumed in his head.

Sites prepared. Messages written. Origami folded. Shoebox filled. Shoebox placed. Weather checked. Sites double-checked. Cars switched. Kid gathered. Kid placed. Backpack disposed of. Letter mailed. Cars switched back. I'll wash and press the uniform later.

He emerged from his bedroom in a worn undershirt and sweatpants, rubbing his neck wearily, and headed towards his desk. There, he sat, and retrieved his comfortingly familiar bottle of whiskey from its usual drawer. Better be careful with the hooch, Scott my boy, he cautioned himself, as usual. You know all that drinking stuff runs in families. And, as usual, despite his own warning, he opened and drank straight from the bottle, rather than fetching a glass. A handful of thin file folders were piled on his desk, representing the few legitimate cases he still took in order to keep up an income. Damn, that new divorce investigation. Ugly. He absentmindedly began flipping through the files as he thought about what he still had to do.

Gotta get in touch with Mendez, have him get some more chloroform out of Doc Baker before I run low. Boy, I don't know which of those weasels I hate dealing with more. At least with the real aggressive sonsabitches, those pitbulls like Mad Jack, you know where you stand. Maybe I'll start tracking down some of the old boxes that got picked up from the station, figure out where all our little animal friends ended up. See if Blake'll hand me any tidbits about what the force is looking into, too.

He'd never really lost touch with the physical training he'd received in the military, and countless poor saps had been surprised by just how unexpectedly quick he was for his size. Quick, and even graceful. But his decades on the police force had left him an even more generous gift: Scott Shelby was a man with fingers in a lot of pies, and he prided himself on being able to keep a perfect mental record of everyone who was still grateful to him, who still owed him favors. Everyone he had so much dirt on that, as long as he was still alive, they'd never be clean. Reluctantly, he added to his list, Guess I should stop by Marty's place and get some more of those little web cameras, too.

Scott liked living out his self-image as a private detective, based heavily off the old films his mother, his real mother, had liked to watch on television: The Maltese Falcon, Kiss Me Deadly, all those wonderful black and white treasures. When he'd started as a P.I., he buried himself in their era – his car, his typewriter, his clothing, his "velvet rhinoceros" approach – appearing easygoing at first, then, if he was crossed, coming down hard on the bastard who'd done it. The new technology he'd come to rely upon made incredible things possible, almost all aspects of his job easier, but it was in many ways an unwelcome intrusion into the world he'd crafted for himself.

No sense putting it off any longer, Scott thought, heaving back his chair, taking the bottle with him. I'm not going to get any work done on these cases tonight, anyway. Standing, he left the folders splayed open, and moved to the wardrobe, opening it to shove aside the few garments it contained. He steeled himself as he revealed the way to his secret room, his other life, his second half.

The grow lights over the orchids transformed the nodding flowers into a chorus of tiny ghosts, and he moved through their fragrance to the room's single chair. Sitting, he let his fingers lightly caress the shelf of origami before rolling his way over to the monitor and laptop. He peered cautiously at the monitor, and was both relieved and saddened at the sight of Ben Carver's small hands waving up at him. He's spotted the camera. They almost always do. Ben looked like he'd already moved past terror and into dread, and Scott felt an answering sympathetic lump in his throat. No little kid should have to look like that, like they think

(know)

they're going to die. What a terrible goddamned world we live in.

Scott, fascinated, gazed at Ben (john) fumbling his way around the circumference of the well. As yet, the water was only up around his hips; it took a while for it to back up around the undersized outflow drain. If he was smart, the boy would try to get some sleep tonight. Only eleven years old and he's got to figure out how to go to sleep without dying. Scott felt the grief rising up through his belly and let the tears begin to escape, his palms pressed against the tabletop, his big body quivering. Time ceased to register for him as he allowed himself to sink into that other pit that always occupied his mind: the one filled with regret, with grief, with rage, catharsis. He wept, and he drank. He didn't even consciously notice Ben easing his way to the concrete floor, resting his damp head against the wall to keep his face above water, relaxing into stillness, not until John spoke.

"Scottie."

The conversation he'd anticipated was here. Scott blinked up into the monitor, knuckling the shimmer of tears out of his eyes. The small body on the screen had become motionless, the upturned face – John's face – just breaking the surface of the backed-up rainwater. It shone wetly in the dim light.

"Oh, John," he said brokenly. "I miss you."

"Scottie, am I going to get out this time?"

"Yeah, John. Dad's coming."

"Not Dad, Scottie. Ben's dad. You're sending Ben's dad to get me out."

Scott was again taken aback. They didn't usually discuss the details of what allowed them to speak to each other – it seemed obscene, taboo. "Well . . . yeah. He's coming. I got help. He's going to come get you out."

"Did you pick him because you know he's going to get me out? Or because you know he isn't?"

"What?" Scott was horrified; these conversations had already become the only thing that kept him going, and this was taking a terribly dark turn. "John, what are you talking about? I – I've tried, you know that! I've always tried!"

"What are you planning ahead for, Scottie?" John's familiar round face was suddenly terrible in its impassivity.

Scott was speechless, his mouth hanging open. "John, what's wrong?"

John's voice had taken on the furious tones of a child's unreasoning rage: "Is it because you think he'll come, or because he's short?"

The accusation was simultaneously so hurtful and so bizarre that Scott was incapable of responding. He recoiled as though he'd been hit, pushing his chair away from the screen, stumbling to his feet, knocking over the dregs of the whiskey in the process. He let the bottle fall, unheeded, and backed out of the room, John's dark eyes following him. He hurriedly shut the sliding metal door, and then the wood paneling over it. As he floundered to the bedroom, he could hear John calling after him:

"Why are you sending him to the power station, Scotty?"

After the first rush of whiskey-induced unconsciousness, Scott Shelby slept badly that night.