PRENTISS

African American male in his early to mid-thirties. Serious but stable.

The words repeated over and over in her head as she gripped the door handle tightly. Everyone had wanted to go to the hospital immediately, but they couldn't just drop their investigation on the hope that this survivor was Morgan. JJ, Reid, and Rossi had stayed behind to continue looking through the information. They needed to deliver a profile soon, and the faster they eliminated other possible targets the sooner they could focus on Rinks' life.

Prentiss had been designated the navigator as Hotch broke every speed limit sign they passed. Her phone beeped at her, and she checked their route.

"The 119 goes straight to the hospital," she said, "go right." Prentiss leaned with the turn, gripping the overhead handle as Hotch hit the siren to warn cross traffic.

"Oh God," Garcia whispered from the back seat. "I can't let myself hope, Emily, but if he's alive..."

"I know," she replied, turning just a bit to look at the near-distraught tech, "just...let's not jump ahead."

Prentiss twisted back in her seat and caught Hotch's eye. A whole conversation passed between them in the blink of an eye, but neither said a word as Garcia just wrung her hands nervously. If Morgan really was alive, it was a miracle. The odds of him being the survivor, however, were slim.

"How much longer?" Hotch called.

"Nine miles," she said after checking her phone, "maybe ten, fifteen minutes."

Hotch sped down the winding road as fast as he dared; it was sparsely populated in the early afternoon, though there were enough cars to cause him to press the brakes a few times.

Weston, West Virginia was populated by little over 4,000 people, according the welcome sign they passed. Hotch slowed a bit as they entered the city limits, but he kept the siren on to warn others of their urgency.

"There," Prentiss pointed ahead to a two-toned building that stretched out to the right of the road. Hotch slowed and took the turn, pulling into a front space marked reserved.

Stonewall Jackson Memorial Hospital was tucked neatly against the side of the road, just on the edge of Weston. The nurse at the front station greeted them with a smile, but her face quickly changed to confusion as Hotch flashed his badge.

"Agent Aaron Hotchner, FBI," he identified himself. "This is Agent Prentiss and Garcia. We were informed that you have a patient who claims to have survived the plane crash."

Prentiss guessed there wasn't anyone in the whole state who hadn't heard about the crash, and the small nature of the community worked in their favor.

"301," the nurse nodded. "Doctor Stevens is the attending for that floor. I'll page him."

Doctor Stevens arrived after only a few minutes, but it was enough time for Garcia to pace around the small area a few times. Prentiss grabbed her hand to stop her, squeezing once in reassurance before joining Hotch and the doctor.

"You got here fast," the doctor was saying.

"Can we see the patient?" Hotch asked directly.

"Follow me," the doctor waved them back, leading them through a series of corridors as he spoke. "A couple of days ago, a pair of campers brought him in. They found him wandering along the side of the road muttering. He looked like he'd been through hell, but we assumed it was a car accident or maybe he'd just gotten lost in the woods. We heard about the crash, of course, but it's so far away we never entertained the idea that he'd walked all that way. We kept checking, but no one was ever reported missing. When he woke up he couldn't remember anything, not his name, not what had happened to him, nothing."

Prentiss heard Garcia gasp next to her, and she quickly patted the younger woman on the shoulder.

Stevens must have noticed, too, because he offered a sympathetic smile. "It's not uncommon for someone who experiences a traumatic incident to lose memory of the event, or even personal details. We hoped it would wear off with rest and recuperation."

"And has it?" Hotch asked.

"Some of his memory has returned," Stevens answered. "This afternoon, just after lunch, he had an episode. We thought he was having a reaction to new medication, but when it was over he claimed he remembered what happened. He started talking about a plane crash, and we called you immediately." They stopped in front of a closed door with a small plastic plaque that read 301.

Hotch frowned slightly. "You said some of his memory has returned?"

"He still doesn't remember his name, or anything about his life more than images and flashes. It may still come back to him, but he remembers the plane crash pretty vividly. I can't believe someone actually managed to walk away from that. I've seen the pictures on the news." Stevens shook his head and ran a hand over his face wearily. "You can question him, but don't stress him. He's still recovering from his injuries, and he may tire easily." He glanced over Hotch's shoulder at someone at the end of the hall. "Excuse me."

Hotch waited until he was gone, then turned to the other two. "Perhaps it would be best if I went in first," he began, but Garcia shook her head.

"I need to know, Hotch," she whispered.

He looked at Prentiss for help, but Emily just shook her head as well. "Alright," he caved, gripping the handle in his hand.

The room was dark with the curtains drawn, and the steady beep of machines filled the silence. A figure occupied the lone bed in the room, and the rise and fall of his chest told them he was sleeping. As they entered he stirred, and his eyes opened slowly to meet their gazes.

"Hi," the man spoke softly, swallowing a few times to clear his throat.

For a moment Garcia was frozen to the spot, her hand tucked tightly within Prentiss' grip. The sob that had caught in her throat upon seeing the man tore loose, and she turned and bolted from the room.

"I'll go," Prentiss told Hotch, not even waiting for his approving nod before chasing after the tech.

She was slumped against the wall just outside the door, her knees drawn to her chest. Her sobs were muffled by her arms, but they quieted a bit as Prentiss slid down next to her. Not for the first time, Prentiss wondered why JJ hadn't been the one to come instead of her; she and Garcia were closer friends, and the younger woman was far better at comforting and consoling distraught loved ones.

"Shh," Prentiss slipped her arm over Garcia's shoulder, accepting the woman's weight as she leaned just a bit into the warm embrace. "I'm so sorry, Penelope." She'd almost expected to see Morgan lying in that hospital bed with that cocky half-grin on his face when they walked in. The face that had greeted them hadn't been Morgan, but it had been familiar.

As she held her grieving friend, Prentiss wondered how she was going to break the news to Stephanie Wilkers.