It had been two days of anxiety for Scott. Two days of trying to get work done and failing, putting off clients, checking the camera feeds on his laptop to make sure the sites hadn't been disturbed, spending the day talking softly to Ben's image on the monitor, offering comfort, hope.

"Your dad's gonna figure it out, sport," he'd say, doubt gnawing in his belly. "I've seen him in action. He is one determined little fella."

(do you)

"I know he's got his faults. I know sometimes it feels like he doesn't love you."

(really)

"But he does. He'll always be your father. Always. He's coming."

(want him to scottie)

"This is going to be the best thing that ever happened to the two of you. You'll see."

His nights, he spent drinking and waiting for John, who was depressingly absent. He wanted to apologize, to ask questions, to see his other half at peace with him again, but even in the half-sleep that Ben was capable of in the rising water, the face remained stubbornly Ben's. Scott had to go out on the late afternoon of the second day, he just had to. He was starting to lose his mind with nothing else to distract him inside the apartment.

He ran into Melissa on the stairs again, and he backed up to the landing outside her apartment to allow her passage. "Hey, you," she said. "You look tired."

"You really know how to give a guy a compliment," he smiled back. "Yeah, I know I'm a little scruffy right now. I'm in the middle of something big."

"God, your job must be so exciting, Mr. Shelby." Her eyes were shining. "I can't believe I live right next to a real private eye. You know, I haven't had dinner yet. Want to go get that sandwich you promised me?"

He scratched his unshaven chin thoughtfully. Might not be a bad way to pass some time. She really is a sweetie. "Maybe," he acknowledged. "You sure you want to be seen stepping out with someone looking this disreputable?"

"I need a little excitement in my life," she shot back. "You can take me out for food and give me all the juicy details on that 'something big' you're working on."

"Hey, hey, I can't do that," he protested, warding her off with his outstretched palms. "There's a code of ethics and everything. You wouldn't want me spilling the beans on you if you were one of my clients, right?"

She'd opened her mouth to answer when the phone rang in his breast pocket. He felt like he'd touched a live wire, a flood of energy and panic radiating out from his chest. He pulled it out and checked the screen – yes, it was the phone from the station sending him its automatic alert. "Gotta go," he barked at Melissa. "Sorry! Important!" He didn't even notice if she responded.

He took the stairs two at a time up to his own apartment, tie swinging wildly, muttering to himself the message he knew by heart. The message he knew Dad had to be listening to right now in that tinny female voice: "Are you ready to show your courage in order to save your son? Listen carefully: Go to the northbound side of Platform B in Lexington Station. Go to the far end, through the maintenance door, and out onto the tracks. Make it to Franklin Station on foot to receive your reward."

Slamming the apartment door behind him, he hastily wrestled his way into the secret room and had to force himself to carefully close it behind him before seating himself at the laptop.

"See, Ben?" he said gleefully, "I told you. He's got the box now, and he's going to figure out how to save you." He impatiently shrugged off his overcoat while the laptop came slowly to attention. This trial hadn't been a hard one to arrange physically – simply making sure that the locks to the rarely-used maintenance room were disabled – but figuring out whether the train schedule made it possible at all times of day had been a headache, and for as to how he could verify the trial's completion? Forget it. He'd finally had to accept that he needed help to manage that end of things, snapping, "You don't need to know why, Marty," as the two of them struggled with how to set up a remotely accessible surveillance camera in the subway station. Right now his nerves were humming with tension over whether or not the jury-rigged system would work. If it didn't, Scott knew a certain technology whiz/small-time embezzler who was going to be very, very sorry.

(pico power plant sorry)

The sleepy laptop brightened into life, and he worked his way through to the link set up for the Franklin Station camera; he'd just run by this morning to make sure it was still perched uncertainly on top of the Coke machine he'd picked for its vantage point. He growled faintly in impatience while he waited for the picture to appear. It flickered into life – jerky, silent, fuzzy, but there. Good enough. He loomed over the laptop screen expectantly, waiting for Ray Carver's bandy-legged figure to appear. Time dissolved once again, and he flinched when a train came flickering into low-resolution existence. His heart sank as he searched the screen for signs of Dad in its wake.

The ache in his spine told him he was pouring too much tension into sitting ramrod straight, the pounding in his head told him he'd been staring at the screen without blinking, and he made his eyes squeeze shut. Hey, settle down. His mantra. It's all right, fella. That train would've stopped if it'd hit him. He cleared his vision, and checked the message history on the phone. Only been ten minutes. That's fine. Hell, he'd have to be an athlete to have made it by now. Think. Before he even starts, he's gotta have the time to read it, have the time to understand it, time to get his courage together. Time to remember that he's a father. He made himself relax a little, and looked up to address Ben, keeping one eye on the screen.

Oh, god, the little trooper was trying to tie his windbreaker to the grating. Scott'd had them do that before, create those little makeshift slings to hold them out of the water while they slept. It was such a small, touching act of bravery that he involuntarily reached up to grab the edge of the monitor. "He's on his way, buddy. He knows what he's got to do." The doubt at the back of his mind cut through for a second: You weren't lying when you said Ray Carver was determined, Scott, that's an important reason you picked him –

(because he's short)

– but is he smart enough to figure out he should wait for a train to pass before he makes a break for it? "Just hang on there, Ben. You're a smart kid, and you got your brains from somewhere, right?" He tightened his grip on the edge of the monitor in a sort of symbolic hug; he wasn't even sure right now which one of them he was trying to comfort. Another train filled the screen, and he flinched, his eyes returning to the monitor. It was still the tail end of rush hour, and all of the trains in the station were expresses, wouldn't be stopping at Franklin. No indication of a disaster was in view, but also no sign of Dad.

Maybe he didn't even open the box at the station. Maybe he took it home first. He might have to come all the way back. Might take hours. It was a depressing thought, and Scott steeled himself for a long wait. He looked back at Ben, whose height was making him struggle to reach the bars. "It doesn't matter how long it takes, kiddo. I'm here for you. I promise that. I'll stay with you until Dad comes. Until your dad comes, no matter what." He felt as though it were an intimate moment, and was wishing that Ben would look him in the eyes when yet another train flickered by.

He watched it go, gasping a little with anticipation. It's going to be a bad couple of hours, being on tenterhooks the whole time. But when its shuddering image had left the screen, there he was: Ray Carver, facedown on the shadowy end of the platform, one foot nearly off the edge.

Scott pounded the tabletop in excitement: "I told you, John! I said he'd come! He made it! He's coming to get you!" His delight was genuine and overpowering. He wanted to grab the kid through the monitor, give him a hug, give him a noogie, let him ride piggyback. He rushed to grab the phone and send Dad the message, nearly flubbing the process on the tiny keyboard in his excitement. He was so worked up that he hiccoughed a little, and laughed at the sound.

Looking back up at the monitor sobered him. Ben had apparently finished the sling, and from it hung a small body, awkwardly supported with its head and one arm and shoulder thrust through the loop. A small body with John's wary eyes.

"I'm sorry, John. I . . . just . . . he did it. I got so excited."

"I know, Scottie. But I'm still not sure."

Scott breathed a sigh of relief over the fact that they could at least have a normal conversation again. "You watch. You'll see."

"I don't like that you're planning ahead, Scottie."

"He'll make it, John. Dad'll make it."

"I love you, Scottie. But how in love are you with your pain?"

Scott was again speechless. No kid should know – no kid would say – that – is that John talking? He moved his mouth to ask a question and felt John leave at the same time he saw it, a rush of sadness that left only poor, dangling Ben Carver grasping a few hours of sleep in the dim light of the warehouse.

Ray stared blankly at the concrete floor in front of his eyes, gasping hoarsely. It felt like his heart was going to explode. He could've sworn that train was going to cream him. Oh Jesus, he was too out of shape for this shit. Too out of shape and too drunk. He dragged himself a foot forward to vomit off the edge of the platform, a torrent of beer and bile, then immediately jerked his head back fearfully to safety and rolled onto his back to continue panting.

He nearly had a heart attack when the phone in his pocket buzzed imperiously – he'd forgotten it was there – and answered it, remaining on his back. "Your reward," the voice said – he'd already begun to think of her as that bitch – "is taped to the bottom of the newspaper vending machine." He hauled himself to a sitting position and, spotting the nearest ubiquitous blue metal box, dragged himself towards it. Sliding his hand underneath, he encountered gum, grime – and a smooth expanse of electrical tape that he immediately yanked on, sending a small item rattling to the floor. He had to take a minute to understand what he was grasping before he fumbled it into the phone's slot.

Oh, shit, that was Ben. Dark and small and blurry, but he'd lived with Ben every day of the kid's life; he knew Ben. Ben in trouble, in some kind of darkness. Ray barely had time to process the image before the screen filled instead with a kind of shitty hangman puzzle. An address. Part of an address. He was seeing part of an address, and if he did all of these fucking puzzles, he'd get the whole address. Where Ben was. He understood now.

The box; god, where was the shoebox? He'd dropped the box, dropped it by the tracks in the last few feet of panicked sprinting. He once again pulled himself to the edge of the platform and peered cautiously back into the darkness. Ah, shit, there it was, overturned, the lid off. He looked down the tunnel and lurched down onto the tracks, fumbling for the cardboard. When he lifted the box, the remaining four animals were, miraculously, still resting underneath it, protected from the tornado of the passing train. He quickly scooped them back inside, hastily tossing them in with a handful of gravel and candy wrappers, clapped the lid on, and hauled his ass back on the platform.

He was realizing, with slow, surprised delight, that he'd won. Whoever that bitch was on the phone, she'd fucked with him and he'd beaten her stupid game, and he was going to keep on doing it. He started laughing, raggedly. He was going to get his kid back, and then he was going to find that bitch, and he was going to show her what happened when bitches fucked with Ray Carver. He made it to his feet, whooping, and it took him a while to calm down enough to check the train schedule. Once he realized he was going to have to go to the other side of the platform to catch a train that wouldn't even show up for another twenty minutes, he still felt such a sense of triumphant joy that he yelled, "I can wait, motherfuckers!" while he headed to the escalator.

Ray stopped the Pontiac at the liquor store to get another case of beer on the way home, feeling that he'd earned it. God, he was starving. He noted as he arrived at his house that even the hardiest of the reporters had given up; the street was empty. Pity; he'd sure have a few interesting things to say to those assholes now.

"Sue!" he called as he slung the beer into the fridge. "We got food? What've we got to eat?" She didn't respond. "SUE!" He began rummaging through the cupboards.

She appeared palely in the kitchen doorway, rumpled with sleep and despair. "I don't know, I don't have anything ready, Ray. I think there's some frozen dinners."

"Okay, yeah, that'll work," he said cheerfully, and dug into the freezer. "Jesus, babe, you know I hate Salisbury steak, why don't you think when you go shopping? You know what? I got this all figured out. I got that bitch all figured out."

"What?" Sue was still frozen in the door frame, confused.

He tore open a box and threw the food in the microwave. "I'm on top of it. I'm gonna fix this whole Ben thing. Don't you even worry any more."

"What are you talking about, Ray? What's going on?"

He cracked himself a fresh beer. "What's going on is that we are gonna get our shit together, and Ben is coming home. Leave it to me. I've got that bitch's number!"

"Who, Ray?" He had to laugh at the mystified expression on her face. Poor Sue. He was proud of his secret; it made him superior.

"Got that cocksucker on the run now!" he crowed, grabbing her waist in delight. She looked distressed, pushing weakly at him.

"Let me go, Ray. You're not making any sense." Instantly, his excitement turned to irritation; he chugged from the beer can to calm himself.

"I told you, dammit, I'm taking care of it. I'm getting Ben back. Just fucking listen to me." Sue backed warily out of the kitchen, eyeing her husband. "I'm the man of the house, and I'm doing my fucking job. You do yours, and support me."

She didn't respond, but turned to scurry back to their bedroom and Gracie, nightgown swinging.

"I said do your job, Sue!" Ray was pissed now, furious at her failure to share his triumph. He shouted after her, "I'm gonna go get Ben, and you better have this place cleaned up by the time I get back with him! It looks like shit in here!" His only response was the sound of the bedroom door closing, but he knew she'd heard him. Well, he'd just fucking well show her. "Clean the fuck up!"

The microwave dinged, and he began to wolf down the dry chicken dinner, chasing it with another beer. As he ate, he pulled the flowered butterfly – number two – from the box, and forced it open. On its patterned surface, he read:

ARE YOU PREPARED TO SUFFER

TO SAVE YOUR SON?

THE OLD POWERPLANT ON

EMBARCADERO STREET

That wasn't too bad, Embarcadero Street. The Pontiac would make it there. Fuck, yes, he'd suffer for Ben. He suffered every day of his life for Ben. Fuck that bitch for thinking he didn't. He checked the clock on the wall. It was getting late; he'd better get a move on.

He'd almost lost the box during his first task, and he didn't want to risk it again. He'd leave it here on the kitchen table, where it was safe and not going to be run over by a damn train or dropped in a river or set on fire or whatever that bitch was going to ask him to do. "Too smart for you, you whore," he muttered. He shoved the flowered square into his pocket, opened the fridge and grabbed a couple of beers for the road.

Coaxing the car into life, he grinned fiercely.

"Gonna show you what happens when you fuck with Ray Carver."