The office holiday party was held on the Wednesday before Christmas. As usual, a group of junior agents had been tasked with planning the event. This year they had managed to squeeze quite a bit out of a rather meager budget – a wide selection of appetizers, sparkling lights and other decorations, a string ensemble playing holiday selections, a tree decorated with an international assortment of ornaments, and a seemingly endless flow of punch.

It wasn't official, but the senior agents somehow managed to overlook the spiked punch in the far bowl. Most of them even sampled it – making sure it wasn't poisoned, as one of the agents put it.

There was mistletoe as well, though the floor's high ceilings made it a problem to find a way to hang it. Jones solved the dilemma by liberating some miscellaneous supplies from cold case evidence. Nothing with any fingerprints or DNA, as he explained.

One of his wire creations wound up around Neal's neck.

"Everyone's been waiting for this anyway," Jones explained as he adjusted the wire under Neal's collar, leaving the mistletoe hanging over his head.

"Everyone?"

"Oh, yeah." Jones grinned and leaned in, planting a big kiss right on Neal's lips.

Neal came up for air, a surprised smile on his face. "Jones, I never knew."

Jones just laughed, and then he was shunted aside as Marsha stepped up. "Clinton always said you were dangerous," she said with a wink.

"Oh, I am," Neal agreed as he leaned in to kiss her. It was a little less intense than the previous buss, and when he finished he leaned close to her ear. "You know you've got a pretty good guy there, right?"

"I do know," she whispered back, turning away to rejoin Jones.

"I like this so far," Neal said, grinning, as he pointed to the mistletoe.

"My turn then."

Neal turned to find Christie beside him. "I'm all yours."

She smiled and pushed him back against the nearest desk, stepping in close. And then she kissed him… really kissed him…

"Wow," was all he could say when they parted.

"Lesbian doesn't mean oblivious," she said with a smile. "Besides, Diana told me you were a good kisser."

"She did?"

"I did," Diana confirmed. "I maybe didn't mind the flirting and the kissing as much as I said," she admitted.

"I figured you would have hurt me if you did," Neal replied.

"You're right." She stepped in, initiating the next kiss.

"Oh, Diana, we could have been so good together," Neal said when he finally caught his breath. "If only…"

She laughed and slapped his shoulder. "Yeah, maybe in the next life."

"I might hold you to that," he replied. Except hopefully her life expectancy was a lot longer than his might be right now…

They moved on, mingling amongst the other people from the office and their guests. For Neal, that meant a lot of kissing, made socially acceptable by that little piece of plant hanging over his head. But he knew that for most of them, it was really a way of saying goodbye, and there were tears in a number of eyes. It made him feel good, even as his gut twisted. Fortunately, he was a master of hiding his own true emotions…

At one point he turned around and found himself face to face with Hughes. He felt a little foolish just then, with the mistletoe bobbing over his head.

"Don't worry, I'm not kissing you, Caffrey."

"Thank you."

"We still have a week," Hughes said softly, his voice pitched just for Neal's hearing. "I want you to know I have not given up."

"Thanks for that too," Neal said. And now there was a lump in his throat…

Even some of the agents who had traditionally been opposed to Neal's presence seemed to have mellowed – though whether it was because of the holidays, or because they figured he'd soon be out of their hair, was unclear.

Ruiz actually admitted he had been wrong in assuming the worst about Neal – words that Neal had certainly never expected to hear come from the agent's mouth. And he didn't even appear to have had much of the special punch yet either.

Neal shook his hand, and offered his sincere thanks for the admission.

Tony Lake offered something of an apology as well. Neal hadn't actually seen the agent since the day he'd almost been blown up – the day he'd saved Lake's operation… Again, Neal was gracious, accepting the apology and the well wishes.

And why not? Holding a grudge wasn't going to save him from whatever was going to happen in a week, and it certainly wouldn't keep him alive if he went back to prison. It didn't seem to offer much advantage if he did decide to run either.

Peter and Elizabeth were 'fashionably late' to the event, coming in after a late afternoon visit to the obstetrician.

Neal met them near the door and Peter stopped, a look of quizzical disbelief on his face. "What is that over your head?"

"It's mistletoe, Peter."

"You're supposed to kiss him," Diana said, suppressing a giggle.

Peter shook his head. "I am not kissing you."

Neal put on his best pouting look. "Peter, after all we've been through? Jones kissed me."

"I did," Jones confirmed. "Peter, it's tradition."

A chant of KISS KISS KISS rose in the background.

Peter's jaw was set, and he was shaking his head – until Elizabeth nudged him forward. "It is tradition, Peter," she said, trying not to laugh.

Neal was trying to keep a smile off of his face too, but really, the way Peter was scowling and squirming, it was hard to do.

Peter finally squared his shoulders, stepped in, and planted a quick peck on Neal's cheek before nearly jumping back.

"That's it?" Neal asked, arms spread and lifted in disappointment. "That was kind of wimpy, Peter. And after all we've meant to each other..."

"It was wimpy," Elizabeth agreed. "But maybe I can make up for it."

Neal offered her a smile – genuine, gentle – as she stood in front of him. "You are absolutely glowing," he said softly.

She smiled back. "I think this motherhood thing agrees with me."

"You'll be the best."

The smile stayed as she stepped in for her kiss. He let her lead, and it was deep, long…

"Whoa!" He leaned back, surprised – and by more than the kiss.

Elizabeth had her hand on her abdomen. "She has been getting pretty active recently."

"She?"

"It's a girl. We just found out today." Elizabeth reached for his hand, bringing it to her…

He could feel the baby moving, and it was an incredible experience. Which just highlighted the fact that he wouldn't be there… "A girl, that's great," he managed to whisper. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, Neal."

A few other people came up to offer congratulations, which let him slip away. Which was good, because he could feel the façade starting to crack. He turned toward the door…

"Hey, where are you going? We just got here."

Neal turned back, forcing a smile. "Bio break, Peter," he said with a shrug. He didn't wait for a reply, simply pushed through the door.

And as soon as he was out of sight of the people in the office, he was all but running. He couldn't reach the restroom fast enough, but finally he was there, and fortunately it was empty as he ripped the mistletoe off and shut himself into the last stall…

The façade broke completely, and he started to shake. The tears came and he couldn't stop them, and it wasn't fair. He'd done everything asked of him, and it just wasn't fair…

He heard the restroom door open, and he knew whose footsteps were out there.

"Neal?"

Deep breath… "Really, Peter, I've been doing this by myself for a lot of years. I don't need help." Hopefully that came out as light as he had intended.

"I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

"Well, you may have just gotten here, but I've already had quite a bit of punch." He took a few more deep breaths, running his hands over his face. Then he flushed the toilet, took one more deep breath, and opened the stall door. "Why wouldn't I be all right?" he asked, moving to the sink.

Peter hesitated, seeming to consider his answer. "No reason, I guess."

Neal busied himself washing his hands, finally splashing some water on his face. It helped him regain control, and he looked up again, his smile back in place. "This is really touching, Peter. Especially since you wouldn't kiss me."

"Yeah, well, you lost your mistletoe crown anyway," Peter said, pointing at the floor.

Neal dried his hands and picked up the mistletoe. "I think I've kissed everyone anyway," he said. "Maybe you'd like to wear…"

"No," Peter said quickly, taking a step back and raising his hands. "I would not like to."

"You're just no fun, Peter."

"It's who I am, buddy."

Buddy… That almost led to another crack, but he managed to control it, and keep his carefully crafted façade in place.

"Don't change, Peter," Neal said softly. And then he opened the door and walked out.

"You do realize that many people would insist that you are certifiably crazy, right?"

"Thanks, Moz. That makes me feel good." Neal paused for a sip of wine and then stepped back studying the painting he was putting the finishing touches on.

"It's not supposed to make you feel good," Mozzie replied. "It's supposed to make you stop and think about what you're doing."

"I know what I'm doing, Moz."

"Of course you do," the other man said, though his tone indicated total skepticism.

"There are still eight days to go."

"Assuming the Suits don't change the schedule."

"Moz…"

"Neal, look at the facts. They tell you that the release agreement is void at the end of the year, letting you think you know when they're coming. But since you have escaped a supermax…"

"Special circumstances," Neal said.

"Whatever. They know you're an escape risk."

"Peter would tell me."

"Assuming that they would tell him."

"You're always such a comfort, Moz."

"Someone has to tell it like it is."

Neal set his glass down and picked up a brush, making a small adjustment on the canvas.

With a sigh that clearly said he thought Neal was being an absolute fool, Mozzie walked around to the other side of the easel. "That may truly be some of your best work," he admitted. "Ever."

"Thanks, Moz." He had to admit, he was pretty pleased with it himself. The other canvases, already complete, wrapped, and set in the corner, had turned out well too, even if he did say so himself.

"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve," Neal said, setting his brush down again. "I really don't think they'll do anything on the holiday."

"You hope."

Neal just nodded.

"Have you decided what you're going to do yet?"

"No, Moz, I honestly haven't."

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house…

For some reason the lines of Clements' famous Christmas work were running through his head as Neal made his way silently down the stairs. At the Burke house, however, there were definitely no mice stirring – just him.

And Satchmo, he amended, as the dog padded up to greet him at the bottom of the stairs.

Actually, it was already Christmas morning – the clock on the stereo read 1:15.

Christmas Eve had been a quiet affair, a simple dinner with Peter and Elizabeth. He'd done his absolute best to be a good guest, supplying the wine and the sparkling cider Elizabeth liked, and making conversation like he hadn't a care in the world.

The Burkes knew better, of course, but they played along. No one wanted to talk about what might be happening a week from then.

He'd been invited to stay the night, and join them for Christmas Day as well, when some of Elizabeth's family would also be there. But he kind of thought that might be pushing even his skills at maintaining a con to the max, or beyond.

Besides, Christmas was for family, and he should let them have the time together.

He'd brought in a few small gifts the day before, and they were under the tree that sat in one corner of the living room. But he had one more to bring in.

Opening the door carefully, he slipped outside and down to the curb. He'd borrowed June's Bentley – with permission, as he'd pointed out to Peter – and he made his way to the car now.

Package in hand, he let himself silently back into the house and put the present in place. Then he knelt down, hands scratching Satchmo's ears, as he buried his face against the dog's neck.

"Take care of them, Satch," he whispered.

He stayed there a bit longer – longer than he had planned, for sure. But, just like Santa, he had other deliveries to make, and he couldn't stay.

He got to his feet, his knees feeling a little shaky as he paused, looking around the comfortable downstairs where he had spent so much time.

Then he let himself out the door, locking it behind him, got into the car, and drove slowly away.

Elizabeth yawned as she pulled on her robe and tied the belt. A quick glance back at the bed confirmed that Peter was still sound asleep. Good thing she had a fairly reliable internal alarm clock in her head for things like this, so she hadn't had to set the actual alarm. And maybe she could still catch a little more sleep once she had the turkey in the oven.

There was no sound from the guest room either, she noted, as she walked into the hall. Hopefully she could keep from waking either Peter or Neal while she worked.

Reaching the stairs, she paused, puzzled. There was a glow coming from the living room. Going down partway, she realized the lights on the tree were lit. But she remembered them being off the night before – didn't she?

She reached the bottom of the stairs, turned toward the tree – and gasped.

So much for not waking Peter, she thought as she hurried back up the stairs and into the bedroom, shaking his shoulder.

"Huh?"

He was always so brilliant when woken out of a deep sleep. "Peter, come downstairs."

"El, is something wrong?" He was trying to get up, but seemed caught up in the blankets.

She helped him get untangled. "You just need to come downstairs and see something."

He pulled his robe on and slid his feet into his slippers and followed her down the stairs. Elizabeth moved to one side when they reached the bottom and pointed.

They approached slowly, both of them just staring.

There, on an easel, sat a large portrait – their wedding portrait to be exact. Nearby, on the end table, was the photo that had served as the inspiration, as well as a note.

I borrowed the photo when Elizabeth showed me the wedding photos.

(Yes, borrowed, Peter – it's been returned!) I hope you like the portrait.

Merry Christmas! NC

"Oh, Peter, it's beautiful," Elizabeth said softly, a catch in her voice.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, though whether it was more to steady her or himself he wasn't sure. "It is," he agreed.

They stood that way for a long time, holding each other, looking at the portrait that so elegantly captured the joy of their wedding day.

Finally, Peter pulled away and went upstairs. He knocked on the guestroom door, called out Neal's name, and finally went in.

The bed was made, everything in place, as if no one had even been there.

Diana found the note when she got up. It had been slipped under the door during the night.

Look outside the door.

She checked the security peephole, but there was no one in the hallway. And really, it was earlier than most people would be up anyway. She had just always been an early riser.

She opened the door, and found the package.

Unwrapping it at the kitchen table, she caught her breath.

It was the bridge scene that Neal had drawn in the hotel room…

A note fluttered to the floor and she picked it up.

You asked for an original Neal Caffrey work, so here it is.

I'd never told anyone else about that bridge, but I'm glad I told you.

Merry Christmas! NC

"Oh, Neal…"

Jones found a similar note when he got up off the couch that morning. His mother was visiting and he'd given her the bed, but even sleeping that close to the door he hadn't heard anything.

He unwrapped the package, revealing a portrait of himself behind a microphone, wearing his jazzy beret, and obviously totally engrossed in a song.

There was a piano in the portrait as well, but no pianist at the keyboard.

He was still staring at the painting when his mother got up a good while later and claimed the portrait of her baby boy as her own.

Neal stood on the balcony, looking out over the city. The late December weather was really too cold to make it comfortable out there, but he was well aware that his opportunities to enjoy this view were dwindling.

He wondered when the Marshals would show up the following week. At the stroke of midnight as the year changed, or would he have a few hours to savor the New Year? He guessed he should be prepared either way.

Which meant that he'd better decide what he was going to do soon.

The knock on the door brought him out of his thoughts and back to the present. June was out of town, visiting her children, and Mozzie would have simply let himself in. So…

"Peter."

"You left without saying goodbye."

"I think I sort of did say goodbye," Neal countered, stepping back to let the other man in. "Just not exactly in words."

"It's a beautiful portrait," Peter said. "It made El cry." He paused a moment. "Me too," he added softly.

"I wanted you to have something special."

"An original Neal Caffrey work. You always said you weren't any good at that."

"Maybe I just hadn't found the right subject."

Peter just nodded and then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small package. "You also left without your presents," he said. "Most of them are still under the tree."

"I really don't need much right now, Peter," Neal said softly. Considering that in a week's time he'd probably either be back in prison or on the run…

"Open this one," Peter replied.

Neal took the package and, hands shaking, tore the paper off. "Peter…"

"That's something you just might need."

Neal looked down at the item in his hand – the electronic key to his tracking anklet. "Peter, I can't let you do this."

"It's been on my keychain for a while now," Peter said. "As you well know." Neal gave a slight nod, so he continued. "I don't know what you're planning to do, and I'm not asking you to tell me. But it certainly would have been easy for you to lift my keys and take that, without me knowing."

Understanding hit him, and Neal nodded. "Yeah, that would have been easy."

"If you use the key, Neal, that's the story I'll have to tell. That you managed to steal it."

"Of course. I mean, I'm a thief. But they might not believe you."

"They won't be able to prove otherwise," Peter replied firmly.

"Peter…"

"Keep it close, just in case."

Neal took a deep breath and nodded, closing his hand over the key.

"Now, let's talk about you slipping out in the middle of the night," Peter said.

"I really think that's best for everyone. I mean, you have family coming over."

"We invited you too, Neal."

"You'll have enough going on."

"Help me out here, buddy. It's El's mother. Her older sister, with three girls. And her younger sister, with two girls."

"You're the only guy, huh?"

"Except for Bobby, who's two months old."

"Peter…"

"Let me put it another way, Neal. If I don't come back with you in tow, El has promised to come and get you herself. And she has made it clear there will be dire consequences if she has to leave her dinner preparations to do that."

"How dire?"

"I don't want to find out."

"I think this might qualify as blackmail, Peter."

"Not on Christmas."

"There's a holiday exception?"

"Oh, yeah."

Neal finally gave in and smiled. "All right, I'll get changed."

The week after Christmas was… strange, Neal decided.

Some people at the office could barely even look at him, while others tried to be overly friendly. He wasn't sure which one was harder to take.

Those closest to him tried to keep things as normal as possible, but that was a difficult task because there was nothing normal about the circumstances.

There were no urgent new cases, so Peter set his team to reviewing what they had tried – and looking for any possibilities they had overlooked. They dug deep into old cases, both those from the White Collar unit and from Neal's alleged past. He suggested a few things to look into – with the clear stipulation that he was only providing hypothetical situations, not admitting to anything.

In desperation, Peter even asked Wendy Leone, his friend at the US Attorney's office, what would happen if Neal was charged with a new crime. Could they work out a probation agreement on the new charge, without touching the old sentence? Unfortunately, the federal sentencing rules didn't allow her to bypass procedures like that.

Jones suggested that Neal might qualify for witness protection based on one of the cases he had worked on. Without being able to show an active threat from one of the main players, though, the word from the marshals was that he wouldn't qualify. Diana pursued trying to get Neal assigned to a prison far, far away, in the hopes that his name would not be as well known. But it appeared that the kill switch in the system stopped that inquiry as well.

Peter tried, again, to get the technology team to look into the flag that appeared on Neal's name, but apparently they received the same flag and followed it, with the result that no one followed up. He even brought in one of the Cyber Crimes unit's specialists – AKA, a hacker – but Charlie824 (he only used his screen moniker) had no better luck than Mozzie and his sources.

Neal gave serious consideration to Mozzie's suggestion to kill Neal Caffrey.

Mozzie had pointed out that Neal had plenty of aliases. If necessary, they could create a brand new one. And Mozzie promised he could have complete documentation – social security number, driver's license, passport, credit cards – within a few hours. Alive and free under a new name was better than any of the alternatives they had considered, right?

It was tempting, Neal admitted to himself, especially late at night when he was alone and had nothing to do but think. The problem was, he liked being Neal Caffrey – especially the Neal Caffrey he was becoming now. And really, even with a new name, he'd still lose what he most desperately wanted to hang on to. He couldn't expect his friends to lie, and risk their jobs, to pretend they didn't know him. Which meant that he wouldn't be able to stay in New York, since someone would wind up giving him away. And if he couldn't keep his friends – something he had discovered was the most precious commodity he'd ever had in hand – there was little reason to lose his name. If he had to run anyway, there was no sense in killing off his true self.

So, yes, he gave it serious consideration. But Neal Caffrey wouldn't die – at least not yet.

The question of prison or running continued to weigh on him as well. Sometimes he was sure he wanted to take his chances on surviving seventeen months inside, and in return, hopefully, have something of his current life to return to.

Other times, he knew he had no chance of surviving that long inside, and his only choice, if he wanted to live, was to run from everything he held dear here.

At one point he decided to try an experiment to see if he should revise his refusal to accept the relative protection of administrative segregation. He gathered a few books and other items he knew he'd be allowed to have in his cell and shut himself in the bathroom. He tried to read, and then he tried thinking about maybe getting a visit from someone to break the boredom, and he tried to read again…

He made it less than two hours before he was scrambling for the door, breathing hard. And that was even though he had known he could open the door at any time…

No, ad seg was definitely out.

In deference to Mozzie's paranoia – and his own inability to make a decision – he took to wearing a money belt that final week of the year. He had enough cash to get out of the city, the state, the country. He also had a passport, and the key to the tracking anklet.

Mozzie replenished some old accounts, and saw to the filling of a few strategic stashes, just in case.

The pressure, and the decision he faced, finally took their toll. When he was supposed to be reviewing old files, his attention wandered to his own problems until he could barely recognize what was even in the file, much less identify any useful information that had been missed.

Somehow, Peter didn't seem to mind.

Peter, Jones, and Diana took him out to lunch each day, picking places they knew were among his favorites. Hughes joined them on Friday, picking up the tab at a very trendy, very expensive new restaurant. By then, Neal's gut felt so twisted into knots that he could barely swallow. He wondered if this was what it felt like, to be on death row, and face that final meal… But he forced himself to eat, and his outward façade of calm remained in place.

Friday night arrived, and with it the party at June's. She had spared no expense, telling Neal that the house hadn't seen a good party since Byron passed away, and she was going to do it up right.

June was the gracious hostess, welcoming everyone to her home. She alternated between greeting people at the door, and making sure that everyone saw the new portrait of her with Samantha that hung over the mantle in the parlor. The painting had been waiting when she got home two days earlier.

For Neal, it almost seemed as though some of the pressure had passed, now that he was so close to the deadline. At some point tonight something would tip the scales in favor of waiting for the marshals or running. In a lot of ways it would be a relief just to decide, one way or the other. And there was a bag of essentials waiting by the back door, just in case…

Despite the number of FBI agents invited, Mozzie had agreed to attend. And he had promised to run interference – if needed.

Neal put on his game face and mingled.

Still, for a party, it was a subdued affair…

And the clock ticked steadily on toward January 1st.

Traffic was, fortunately, very light as she made her way through the streets in this unfamiliar part of town. Of course, everyone who was partying was already there – and the rest of the city was probably ensconced somewhere warm, watching the scene in Times Square on the television, waiting for the ball to fall.

That's where she would have been herself, if this hadn't come up.

There were a lot of cars around the house, and she had to park a block away, hurrying through the cold darkness to the door. A uniformed maid let her in and she quickly scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar face…

"Peter!"

He turned at the sound of his name, excusing himself from Elizabeth's side when he saw who it was.

"Julie?"

"It came through," she said, holding up a large manila envelope.

Hands trembling, he took it, opened the clasp, and pulled out the contents…

Halfway through the first page he actually started breathing again. "This is for real?" he asked, voice shaking as much as his hands had been.

"It was faxed over from my contact in the Office of the Pardon Attorney about half an hour ago. The actual document will come by courier tomorrow."

Peter looked up at the clock – five minutes to midnight. "Talk about cutting it close."

"It was signed earlier today," Julie said, pointing at something on the page. "Along with quite a few others. Then it had to be recorded…"

"It's here, that's all that matters. And the rest of what we talked about?"

"All in there."

Peter nodded, scanning the room. "We need to find Neal."

He was standing alone in the back hallway, staring at the duffel bag waiting there, when he heard his name being called. A quick look at his watch confirmed that it was only a few minutes until midnight.

Right, time to make an appearance for the midnight toast. But he wondered, with his release agreement officially void, was he considered a fugitive when the clock finished striking twelve…

He stepped back into the parlor, where it seemed everyone had gathered, and picked up a glass of champagne.

Was that Julie Cole standing near Peter? He hadn't realized she had been on the guest list. Not that he minded at all – she had certainly tried to help.

And why did Peter suddenly look like the proverbial cat that ate the canary…

Peter was tapping a fork against his glass for attention.

Good thing June only believed in using real glasses and silver, Neal thought. Plastic simply wouldn't have done the job.

Peter set his glass and fork down and held something up. "I have some news to share," he said, and he cleared his throat before starting to read. "By order of the President of the United States, Neal Alan Caffrey is hereby pardoned for all crimes and misdemeanors previously prosecuted or committed under the laws of this country. Effective this 31st day of December…"

The hushed silence that had filled the room when Peter started to speak changed to a buzz of whispers as the impact of those words started to sink in.

Neal found himself pushed forward, until he was face to face with Peter. "A pardon?" he asked, still not quite believing.

"Yup, a pardon," Peter confirmed, handing Neal the papers. "It was Julie's idea."

"It was such a long shot," she said. "That's why we never said anything. I think your actions a couple of weeks ago really pushed it over the top. But they like to do these last minute, end of the year. It really just came through."

"So what happens now?"

"It's a pardon. You're free and clear. There's something else in that packet for you to read and consider. But that can wait." Peter reached for his glass of champagne again and lifted it in a toast. "Happy New Year, Neal."

As others in the room echoed that sentiment, the grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, stately peal on the hour, ringing in the New Year.

Jones started a chorus of Auld Lang Syne, and around the room the guests joined in…

Except for one, who stood as if rooted where he was, staring at the words on the paper in his hands.

It was nearly an hour later before Neal had a chance to look at the rest of what was in the envelope. Not that he minded, of course. Once the shock wore off, he was perfectly happy to talk, and sing, and play June's piano.

But there was finally a lull as guests started to depart, and he flipped through the pages…

Wow.

There was no other way to describe his reaction, despite his rather prolific vocabulary. He could only imagine what words Mozzie might use when he shared this bit of information.

It was definitely something to think about…

It was almost another hour until the house cleared. Peter and Elizabeth were the last to leave, but none of them really seemed to have the words to sum up what had happened.

Amid hugs, and tears – this time of relief and happiness – he agreed to a late lunch at their home later that day.

Finally, he found himself back in his apartment. He closed the door and leaned against it, sliding down to the floor as he fumbled for his phone in the dark.

He keyed the contact list, found the name he wanted, and hit the send button.

"Hi Gayle. Did I wake you? Yeah, it's already the next year here. And close for you, right? Happy New Year to you too. Listen, I have some news…"