Disclaimer: I do not own LOST. Grr!

Author's Note: Okay, when you are done reading this, you need to do two things… okay, three things. 1. Review. 2. Visit my profile and vote for your favorite LOST character (no one has voted yet. Come on, guys!). 3. Watch LOST tomorrow. Okay, that's all. Enjoy!

I sit there for another two minutes before deciding to get up. I can't sit there alone anymore. I know I'll end up driving myself crazy if I keep thinking about all the ridiculously insane things that I've learned in the past two days. I need a distraction.

I walk around camp for a while. I would love to strike up a conversation with someone, but everyone I pass looks like they don't want to be bothered. I look around for any familiar faces, but when I do see someone I know, I decide against approaching them: Charlie is having a conversation with Claire, Sayid looks like he's busy tampering with the transceiver, Shannon and Boone are arguing with each other, Lock is… approachable, but I'm still not so sure about him yet, and Sawyer is nowhere to be found.

My eyes scan around the beach, looking at the faces of all the 47 survivors (48 if you count me). I finally see a boy sitting by himself looking at something on the ground. I recognize him as the black guy's son. I'd seen him yesterday morning when Charlie decided to go find the cockpit with Jack. He was the boy who corrected Hurley's spelling of "bodys".

I walk over to him, and as I get closer I can see that he's young, probably around 10. He looks sort of closed off, like he's not really too concerned with the people around him or the crash. I guess I can kind of relate.

As I reach his sitting place, I can see that he's poured over a backgammon game board. He looks up at me.

"Hey," I say, being friendly. "You play backgammon?"

"Sort of," he replies. He looks at the game board then back at me. "I just learned how to play today."

"Oh, yeah?" I say, sitting opposite him in front of the board. "Your dad teach you?"

"No. Mr. Locke did," he says, rolling the dice through his fingers. "He's the guy with the bald head."

"I've met Mr. Locke," I say. "So, do you want to play?"

"Sure," he says, a spark in his voice.

He hands me the dice and we begin to play. I go easy on him at first since he just learned. I have the opportunity to jump one of his blots, but I let it slide by. He doesn't let me off so easily, however. Ten minutes into the game, he's jumped two of my blots. He's better at this than I thought. I grab the dice, ready to roll so I can land on one of his blots, but I hear a noise, and my hand freezes.

It's coming from the makeshift infirmary that Jack has set up. The place where the U.S. Marshall is. Moans of pain. Of agony. I can sense a stillness move throughout the camp. No one knows what to do or what to say. I look at the boy, and we hold each other's gaze for a few seconds. Neither of us knows what to do.

I put the dice down, not caring much about the game anymore. He must have the same feeling, because he puts away the pieces and closes the board. A few minutes of silence pass between us. We move our fingers through the sand, giving us something to do. The moaning continues on.

I remember what Hurley said. About how the Marshall would be dead soon. A shudder creeps through my body, and I fight back tears.

"What's your name?" the boy asks, looking for a distraction from the grim sound.

"Lenny," I say quietly. "What's yours?"

"Walt."

It's quiet again between us. All we can hear is the Marshall.

I look around for something - anything - to talk about. But as I do, I see Walt's dad walking quickly over to us.

"Walt, buddy, come on," he says when he reaches us. "Let's find something to eat." He wants to protect his son from the horrible reality of what's happening around him.

Walt doesn't move. He looks up at his father and says, "Did you find Vincent?"

His father looks taken aback for half a second before saying, "Not yet. But I'll find him. Don't worry."

Walt gives a kind of half-sigh before standing up. He looks back at me and asks, "Can we play again later?"

"Of course," I reply, smiling.

He gives a half smile before walking away with his dad.

The smile drops from my face almost immediately. The moans, the agony, and the horror of what is happening to this man permeates throughout the camp. Almost everyone is quiet. We are all listening to this guy slowly and painfully die. It reminds me of my brother. Except with him, no one was around when it happened. He died alone.

I can feel tears creeping up into my eyes, threatening to overflow and stain my cheeks. I consider letting them fall, to just succumb to my emotions and let three years of grief spill itself out into the sand, but I decide against it. Instead, I wrack my brain trying to think of a song I can hum to drown out his screams. Anything to make it stop.

The first song that comes to me is "Return to Pooh Corner" and I don't hesitate to let the melody vibrate through my lips. I close my eyes and concentrate on the tune, but I'm not even halfway through the first chorus when the Marshall's cries break into my thoughts. I start from the beginning of the song, this time quietly singing it out loud

"Christopher Robin and I walked along, under branches lit up by the moon." His moans edge their way back into my thoughts, so I sing louder. "Posing our questions to Owl and Eeyore, as our days disappeared all too soon." I'm outright singing now, and I don't care. Anything to distract me. "But I wandered much further today than I should, and I can't seem to find my way back to the Wood." I begin to relax. I feel better. I can't hear him anymore. "So help me if you can, I've got to get back to the house at Pooh Corner by one. You'd be surprised, there's so much to be done. Count all the bees in the hive, chase all the clouds from the sky. Back to the days of Christopher Robin and Pooh. Winnie the Pooh doesn't know what to do, got a honey jar -."

"Well, ain't that just too damn sweet."

Sawyer. What a surprise.

I look up at him and notice that night has drastically begun to settle itself in around us. I can barely see his features in the gathering darkness. Although of one thing I am absolutely certain: he's smirking that stupid little smirk of his. I just want to reach up and rip it off his face, but I can't. Now that I'm not singing anymore I can clearly hear the Marshall, crying out in agony. It sends a chill through my body.

"Never took you for the singing type, Goldilocks," he says to me. He plops himself down in the sand and looks at me, waiting for a reaction.

"Please don't call me Goldilocks," I say half-heartedly.

I pick up some sand and slowly let it fall through my fingers. I'm not in the mood to argue with him. I have no energy for it. The sand is cold to the touch, and as the last few specks drain through the cracks in my fingers, I pick up some more and repeat the process.

"Well, sheesh. I was just tryin' to lighten the mood, Sassafras," he says in that Southern accent.

I don't respond. I can't. He doesn't understand how horribly I feel about everything. I just want the Marshall to be okay. I can't stand the screams anymore. It scares me.

My eyes flood with tears again, and the world blurs. No, I think to myself. Don't cry now. Not in front of Sawyer! Hold it back. Just hold it back. Everything will be fine. It'll all be okay. Just hold it back.

A single tear slides down my cheek and drops into the sand. I hope beyond all hope that Sawyer doesn't notice. Please don't let him have seen.

I chance a glance up at him, but he's looking off in the direction of the infirmary. Just staring off. I wonder if he's feeling the same way I am.

I decide to break the silence between us.

"So, is that the Marshall?" I ask. "The guy you took the gun from?"

"Yeah," he says, breaking his gaze to glance at the sand and then at me. He pauses for a moment before saying, "It's all just as well that Kate has it now."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"What I mean is that this poor sucker ain't gonna live too much longer and every damn person here knows it. So why not just do him a favor?"

"You mean kill him?" I'm not as angry as I thought I'd be. Oh, I am angry, don't get me wrong, but I guess part of it makes sense.

"Yeah, I ain't none too thrilled with the idea either," Sawyer admits soberly. "But he deserves to be put out of his misery. He doesn't deserve this."

I'm surprised at Sawyer's sudden spark of humanity. It makes me feel better about this whole situation. He's right. As much as I want the Marshall to live and to have everything be okay, I can't lie to myself. This guy is not going to make it. He's just going to slowly suffer until his body gives out. That's no way to live. He shouldn't have to go through that. He should be able to move on to Heaven and be happy. It's the best thing for him.

I feel Sawyer stand up and begin to walk off.

"Where are you going?" I ask before he's out of earshot.

"To talk some sense into Kate," is his only reply before he heads in the direction of the infirmary.

I sit in the steady darkness on the beach, hugging my knees to my chest. My heart is pounding. Could he really do it? Could he convince Kate to kill the Marshall? If what Hurley said was true, about Kate being a fugitive, then wouldn't she have no problem killing the guy who was going to put her in prison? Would it be that easy for her? I try to convince myself that this is what the Marshall needs. He might even welcome it.

I shake my head in frustration at all these conflicting emotions. What is the right thing to do? My heart beats faster - threatening to break my ribcage - as my senses focus on hearing the moans, shrieks, and screams of the Marshall. I know he doesn't deserve this. No one deserves this. It's too much for him. It's too much for me. I can't sit here anymore. I need to move.

I stand up, my legs wobbly, my hands shaking. I look for anyone I know amongst the campfires on the beach, needing a distraction, someone to talk to. I walk through the crowd, finally catching Walt's eye as he eats by the fireside. His dad is beside him.

Walt smiles at me as I walk over and take a seat beside him. We are quiet for a while. I gaze into the fire, hypnotized and entranced by the dancing flames. For a moment, I forget about the Marshall. I forget about the polar bears, the French lady. I forget about losing Desmond's cross and crashing on this island. I forget about Oceanic 815 all together. I forget about Oxford and living with Donovan. I forget about losing Desmond and attending his funeral. I forget about everything. I just exist. I just… am.

"Do you want some food?" Walt's voice knocks me back into reality, and I let all my frustrations out in a single deep breath.

"I'm sorry," I apologize. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'Do you want some food?'," he politely explains. He shows me the little bit of food he has in his lap. Remnants of an in-flight meal.

"Sure," I reply. "Do you mind if I have the cake?" I recognize some of the pound cake that Charlie ate from my meal on the night of the crash.

He looks down at the cake, then back up at me. "Can we share it?" he asks.

Of course he wants the cake. He's a 10-year-old kid. What 10-year-old kid doesn't want cake?

"Deal."

I take the stale cube of cake and break it in half, giving him the slightly larger piece. He takes it hungrily and shoves the whole thing in his mouth. I watch in amusement as he tries desperately to chew, but can't due to a full mouth. A smile breaks across my face as I watch the spectacle.

He looks up at me, and in that instant, we both burst out laughing. Well, I laugh at least. He makes a kind of muffled cackle sound that I understand to be laughter.

After a minute or so of this, we both finally calm down and he swallows his cake. We end up splitting the chicken and ignoring the salad all together. Walt's dad, whose name I learn is Michael, polishes off the wilty lettuce. I realize this is the closest thing I've had to a family dinner in years.

Bang.

It's as simple as that.

One noise is enough to rock the camp. Every person falls silent and their eyes gaze off in the direction of the infirmary - of where the Marshall is. Or, rather, where the Marshall used to be. It happens so fast.

Slowly, hurried and concerned chatter breaks out.

"What was that?"

"Was that a gun?"

"Do you think he's okay?"

"Who did it?"

And then whispers, all around me. Just as before. I know what's next. I anticipate His voice.

"Sawyer missed. He's not dead."

Then, nothing. No whispers, no voice.

I know His words are true, and I know that there is nothing I can do to change what's happened. The Marshall was shot, but he still lives. I stare back into the flames, longing to forget.

Then I hear it. Coughing, sputtering, choking, wheezing. The Marshall is still alive, just as He said. Sawyer missed.

Sawyer missed, not Kate. Sawyer fired the gun, and Sawyer missed.

The camp's chatter continues in a terrified uproar. They're scared. They know there's a gun and, and they're scared. I feel Michael stand up furiously, demanding information from the closest person, who happens to be Sayid. Sayid is calm, although I can see he has questions of his own.

I quietly slip away from a distracted Walt. No amount of worrying will do any good. What's done is done. I'm tired. I know Sawyer will find a way to sneak back into camp undetected so as to avoid any questions. I head for the wing of the plane where I know he will soon join me.

As I lay down and shut my eyes, I hear silence fall over the infirmary. No more wheezing. Jack, I think to myself. Jack has put him out of his misery.

"Jack," He confirms. No whispers this time. Just Him. "The Marshall is gone."

His voice slips away, and with a deep sigh, so does consciousness.

Author's Note: Okay, guys. You know what to do! Review, vote, watch LOST. Then repeat. Well, okay, maybe not repeat. But you get the idea. Ready? GO!