Things are starting to make sense now. I have been left behind. The young ones grow and die fast; so much faster than me. So they build fast, consume fast. And they have grown faster before I noticed. After eons, a sudden spike of pain, and suddenly I was running out of time that I never knew I was in danger of losing.

Kwame is the first. He is right. Young enough to not be imbued with that of his kind, old enough to grasp the value of what you give him.

But I need more. I am one that has many parts. I am one part of the whole. Kwame is alone.

I go where the Spirit moves me, and I wonder now more than ever who it is that sets me on my path. I have never been steered wrong before.

I can only reach as far as the ends of the Earth, and I can see the stars as well as the humans do. Highly diverse the humans are. They too, each have many parts, each of them a part of their own whole.

There may be enough in common after all.

I go where the Spirit moves me, trusting it to help. It takes me to a hive, a hive of the humans. It's nothing unusual. I have seen it before. They are not the first of my children to reach their structures many times taller than they are; they are not the first to dig their way beneath my surface.

The hive is something apart from me. If I strain, I can see fractions of life here and there, but the majority of it belongs to them now.

I wonder what has brought me here. The pulse of this place is agony to hear. They are too much, too fast and too many. Surely there would be nothing here for me; nothing that would help... For a time, I consider just raising a wave ten or twenty feet, and washing the whole thing clean. My oceans reach down for miles. What are ten or twenty feet to me?

I find my focus is drawn to one young man, Kwame's age. He has spiky red hair and fair skin. He has the scent of soil on his fingers, and the tiniest of seeds carried on his person. His action and manner is aggressive and direct, he has fire beneath, just as I do. It is a lesson in humility, that even in this place, so full of un-life; there is potential.

Wheeler.

He is important.

Wheeler was at the top of a half finished construction project, a good twenty six stories in the air. Most of the guys went off-site for their breaks. Wheeler just levered himself up to sit on the edge of one of the steel girders.

It took no small amount of courage to handle an arc welder that high, with no guard rails to lean on, and a safety line you were barely aware of. Wheeler volunteered for most of that duty. The pay was excellent, and it made him look good, doing something that most workers on the site still didn't have the nerve to do.

Wheeler was worried about a number of things, but heights were never one of them. His lunch break was spent heading down with the others, just long enough to get a cup of coffee from the staff room; which he drank back up on the top floor, using the girders for his seat.

It was a position that left him high above street level, surrounded largely by open air. Wheeler went there for his breaks because he loved the view. As the day came to a close, he could see the sky change colors in a way that nobody could on the ground in New York. Some people spent millions of dollars for mountain, or skyline views; Wheeler got one every day, and was paid to be there.

"Hey James!"

The young man looked down at the foreman, who waved up at him. "Get down from there!"

"Why? I'm harnessed." Wheeler called back.

"Nobody works up above gantry level alone."

"I'm not working, I'm having a donut."

"Will you just get down here please!"

Wheeler sighed. "It's getting so a guy can't get a few minutes to himself at the top of a half built skyscraper any more."

He came down a level, back to where there were gantries and walkways put in, and disconnected his safety line.

His foreman was waiting, looking quietly furious. "Now then. Would you mind telling me what the hell that was about?"

"I was having a break. It's lunchtime. Most everyone has lunch and I happen to like having mine up there. This is New York; why spend a thousand bucks for a plate at a restaurant with a view when I could take a donut up to-."

"It's against Workplace Safety regulations. It's dangerous, its irresponsible; much like yourself, and it's not happening on my site."

"I've been doing it for months, it's never bothered you before."

The foreman glared.

Wheeler wilted. "It's because you didn't know. Well, then that was the wrong thing to say."

The Foreman rolled his eyes and waved Wheeler off. "Get outta here."

"Yes boss." Wheeler said quickly and hurried away.

"And they need more supports up there before laying the girders, so be back by one!"

"By one what?" Wheeler quipped.

The Foreman rolled his eyes. "You know what your problem is James?"

"I can think of a few women who'd be happy to tell you." Wheeler commented under his breath.

The day ended, and Wheeler traded in his safety gear for a cargo vest and headed out of the site, toward the warehouse district. He still had a few hours before his brother got out of school. Construction started in the middle of the night and stopped midday to avoid adding to the New York rush hour.

Wheeler flicked thorough the packets in his pocket. He was already drawing up the plans for his patch in his head. Which seeds would sprout fastest, which ones would grow taller, which ones would need more sun...

The Patch was a mostly vacant lot in south Brooklyn, New York. What remained was a few torn down walls and burned out debris. Once, several years before, it had been a warehouse, and even then, long abandoned. The area wasn't worth much in property value, and nobody really owned it. Once upon a time it had an owner, but they had gone bankrupt and the bank had claimed it. The bank couldn't give it away, and so it sat unused and unwanted. Wheeler planned to buy it outright one day. There was little to no chance that anybody cared. Nobody had cared about this place for decades. When the warehouse had burned down, nobody had rebuilt it, or cleaned it up.

So Wheeler took it over. He was strong. Breaking through the old concrete wasn't too difficult, and the beauty of it was, he didn't have to break through much. When he left for college, he planted seeds in the broken concrete, where soil was visible. The burned roof was collapsed, sunlight could get in. Rain flowed from the broken concrete down, and the plants grew. Cracks in the concrete gave way to the strength of growing things underneath, and when Wheeler returned two years later, getting some dirt to work with was easy.

And after a few years of methodical work; a burned out abandoned warehouse was a garden. Vines grew over debris, snaked over torn down walls, working their way into ash-covered grillwork, and the vines blossomed into small flowers of every color.

And every spring, Wheeler came back to tend them, and to plant more. Nobody stopped him. If anybody noticed, they moved on. It was rare that anybody would so much as stop to look.

In this part of town; nobody got involved.

Almost nobody.

Rolling his shoulders back, Wheeler suddenly heard laughter. Somebody was here.

He came back to the patch. There were people there. Wheeler slid the seed packets deeper into his pocket and checked again. Six of them. Not a one of them was over twenty five years old. They were wearing ripped leather vests with yellow marks on them. Gang signs; from the DemonZ gang.

Wheeler growled low in his throat. His Patch had been taken over by a gang of thugs; known by everyone in this part of Brooklyn as drug dealers and muggers. And here they were, in his Patch, drinking and tossing their bottles around; probably shooting up too.

Wheeler ignored them. He went in through the warehouse door, useless though it was. Next to it was a locker he'd set up to keep his tools, and a change of clothes for working in the dirt. This time, he didn't bother to change. Instead, he collected a shovel, and went out into the rest of the Patch where he could be seen.

The DemonZ gang was aware of him as he walked straight past them to the nearest patch of dirt, and started digging. He crouched low against the dirt, poking holes in the soil. The omnipresent noise of the traffic was far away from him, though he let himself focus on the sounds of his intruders; always aware of where they were. He just planted his seeds.

Construction. He told himself. The simplest way to make something from almost nothing.

The gang had noticed him, and had spent a few moments discussing what to do with him. A taller thug with a Mohawk; got to his feet, tossed his beer away, and gestured his gang to follow him. "Shove off." He said immediately.

"Bite me." Wheeler said back without turning.

It was by far the politest opening to a conversation Wheeler had ever had with a gang member.

"Who the hell are you?" Mohawk demanded.

"Name's Wheeler. You're in my patch."

"Your patch?" The gang leader repeated, mocking and harsh. "You made this fairy garden?"

"Better than dirt. And bottles." Wheeler sent a glance over at various gang members. Some were wearing long sleeves; the rest had bruises up and down the insides of their arms. "And syringes."

Mohawk glared. Something in his brain registered the implication. "Well this patch of yours is on our turf."

"DemonZ turf ends at the 32nd Street intersection." Wheeler gestured at the lot. "I'm across the street."

Mohawk didn't take the hint. "And we don't like looking across our street at a Fairy boy planting his fairy garden."

Wheeler stood up, and stretched out his broad shoulders, casually bringing up the shovel to sit on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. What did you just call me?"

No subtlety. The gang was spreading out a little, covering him from all sides.

Mohawk moved closer. "I called you: Fairy Boy."

Wheeler glared. "Well that is not a nice thing to say to a man with a shovel." He said, swinging the shovel up onto his shoulder, nice and slowly. "Especially, when you're out of your territory."

Clik!

Wheeler heard the switch-blade and reacted. The shovel came around fast and nailed the knife-man in the hand. Wheeler could hear fingers break and the knife-man screamed. Wheeler shut him up with a hay-maker that knocked him on his butt.

Committed by their fallen member; the rest of them attacked. Wheeler brought up the shovel sideways to block the lead pipe, and then rammed the business end of it into a set of ribs. He swept the shovel back again; lower this time; to knock the next man off his feet.

The numbers were against him, so Wheeler darted back around the fire barrel, wondering if he dared kick the thing over to scatter his opponents.

Another knife; and Wheeler dropped the shovel to get hold of his attacker's wrist. "Drop the knife or I'll make you eat it."

The gang member swung on him with his free hand and Wheeler decked him; as a chain went around his throat from behind.

Wheeler grabbed the chain and tried to get free; unable to breathe; when he heard a siren.

"COPS!" Someone yelled.

The pressure around Wheeler's throat eased instantly and he dropped. he kicked out at his attackers, barely able to see them through eyes blurring from the oxygen loss and the exertion. He managed to knock over a fire barrel instead; and a small wave of burning debris came raining over three of them; including Wheeler himself.

Yelling in shock, all of them patted the sudden flames madly, trying to put them out. For a moment, Wheeler felt something hard against his fingers, when he heard a loud voice bellowing "FREEZE! BOTH OF YOU!"

Three arrests were made. Wheeler, the DemonZ that Wheeler had knocked out, and the one that had a chain around Wheeler's throat when the police car arrived. The unconscious DemonZ needed medical attention, and Wheeler and his opponent had both been handcuffed for the ride. They spent most of the trip trading glares and angry curses all the way to the Station.

Once they got to the station, Wheeler's companion in the arrest went silent. He was young and full of anger, but at the station, surrounded by New York's Finest; he suddenly went quiet. Wheeler figured he was more than a little intimidated at the station. It was probably his first time getting arrested. looking closer, he noticed the kid's gang tattoos were smearing a little. They had been done in ink. Which meant he probably wasn't old enough to get a real tattoo, and not brave enough to get a fake ID.

The first stop was the seized property lot. The cop behind the counter stood up; unimpressed, unconcerned. This was purely routine. Every prisoner gets processed, has their belongings taken and returned on their release. And when she saw Wheeler, she smirked despite herself.

Wheeler knew her. "Hey Amy."

"Wheeler. Must be Tuesday."

"Funny girl." Wheeler croaked.

Amy noticed the friction marks, shaped like chain links on Wheeler's throat. "What the hell happened to your neck?"

Wheeler jerked a thumb at the DemonZ, waiting in line behind him, with his own police escort. "Ask him."

"Right. Please turn out your pockets, and put your belongings in this envelope, you know the drill."

Wheeler's hands were uncuffed and he did so. He sent a glance back over to the DemonZ member and saw how much he was smothering his nerves.

Wheeler couldn't resist. "So, what's your name?"

"Avery." The kid answered.

Wheeler blinked. "Really? Well listen Avery, there's only two things you need to know about getting arrested. One: don't mouth off to the cops; and two: relax when they do the body cavity search." He looked back at Amy. "Get them to send Detective Smith. He's got the big hands. It's his first arrest; he should get the five star treatments."

There was no detective Smith in this precinct, Wheeler had made the whole thing up; but it had the desired effect. Avery paled white as a sheet, and the cop escorting him through smirked, just a tiny bit as Wheeler signed the manifest. Wheeler winked at Amy and slid the large envelope back. "Want to get some coffee later? You can bring the handcuffs if you want."

Amy rolled her eyes. "Every time you come in here you make that joke. One day I might take you up on it just to see what happens."

Wheeler laughed, and then grabbed at his throat in pain. "Ooh. Well, maybe one day."

Amy looked to the gang member. "Turn out your pockets right now."

Avery started turning out his pockets on the counter as Wheeler was led away to the holding cells.

"Wheeler?"

Wheeler looked up at the thick Irish accent. "Detective O'Malley."

The older man, grizzled by years of work in a job where he was required to fight Gangs and criminals, and never succeed in stopping them, glared down at Wheeler, who was stretched out in the holding cell. "So. 'ow's the neck?"

"Good enough that they still stuck me in here." Wheeler said, clearing his throat again. "I want my phone call."

O'Malley waved over at a plain-clothes cop. "Give 'im 'is phone call."

Wheeler was quickly escorted to a pay-phone against the wall and the Detective in question was kind enough to put a quarter in so that Wheeler could keep his hands cuffed together.

"Hello?" Was the answer.

"Hey Parrot?" Wheeler said by way of introduction. "I've been arrested."

"Good god, is it Tuesday already?" Polly responded.

"Can you make sure JJ gets in okay; and does his homework? I'll be home late."

"Will do. Need a lawyer?"

"Nah. O'Malley's here."

"Okay. See you tonight."

Wheeler had not been taken back to the holding cell, but rather to the interrogation room. He had been allowed to sit there for much longer than usual. Enough that he was getting annoyed. He knew he was clear of any charges. By now the police knew it too, so why were they letting him stew this long?

He stood up and glared at the glass set into the wall. "What the hell is taking you people so long? You think that mirror fools anyone? We watch television y'know!"

The door opened and O'Malley came in, cigarette in one hand, large bottle of high caffeine cola in the other. "Siddown."

Wheeler did so. "What kept you?"

O'Malley puffed on his smoke, and stretched a bit as he sat. "I was at the hospital. The one you knocked out woke up fine. We were hoping he would give up some names, but no luck."

"Try the one you brought in with me. He's young. He'll break."

"Gee, having been a cop for thirty years, leaning on the new guy was a tactic that never 'ccurred to me. 'ow lucky I am to 'ave you 'ere." O'Malley said quietly. "Wheeler, you can't keep doing this. For one thing, that lot isn't yours!"

"It doesn't belong to anyone." Wheeler protested. "Least of all the DemonZ."

"Nothing belongs to the DemonZ." O'Malley snapped. "You think I'm taking their side? Three of my guys were put in hospital this week alone from Gang Violence. And that's not even countin' the drugs they sell. The DemonZ 'ave the good people scared and the bad people on their side so we can't get any of them to testify! You think I want to let them get away with anything at all?"

Wheeler forced himself to calm down. "I know you don't."

"If it was just a matter of beating them up, more than 'alf the cops in 'ere would 'ave stuck their badges in a drawer ages ago."

"I know."

O'Malley sighed again. "Your fellow prisoner won't press charges. I think maybe 'e wanted to, but I think I convinced 'im that the other members of his Gang would like it better if they knew 'e got arrested and walked away."

"You gave him that?" Wheeler roared.

O'Malley clipped him hard against the shoulder. "Kid, you and I go back a way, but don't think I'm on your side 'ere. Every time you mix it up with some thug that looked at you funny, it makes my life difficult, and it turns up the heat. I've got my guys out in force again right now; trying to keep the rest of the DemonZ from going nuts. A lot of them think you came from a rival Gang."

"ME?" Wheeler yelled, outraged. "After what they did to-"

"I KNOW!" O'Malley yelled over him. "But they don't know that. Don't be such a hot head. Your little Charles Bronson The Gardner routine may have tipped off a Gang War. You could 'ave just walked away and come back even an hour later!" The old cop glared balefully at him. "But no. You 'ad to go pick a fight. And over what? Some flowers you planted in the broken concrete of an abandoned warehouse that burned to the ground years ago."

Wheeler sat glaring at nothing. "You know why."

"Yeah. I do. But I also know that you're a hot head. What would your mom say about this?"

Wheeler didn't answer. He didn't have an answer, so he sat there, quietly doing a slow boil.

"We're releasing the kids you beat up. They all say you started it."

"Six against one and they say I started it?" Wheeler repeated. He couldn't help the slight grin.

"I know." O'Malley almost seemed amused himself for a second, then sobered. "The one who 'ad a chain around your neck when those officers arrived on the scene is getting grilled by my people now. If we can scare him straight, so much the better. There are forms for you to fill out that mean you aren't pressing charges either."

"What makes you think I don't want to press charges?" Wheeler demanded with hollow and futile frustration.

O'Malley rolled his head back. "You're killing me 'ere, you know that? Wheeler, you know, and I know, that it won't make a tiny bit of difference. Sign on the dotted line, and we can all go home."

Wheeler didn't look up. "Yes sir."

O'Malley started to leave, when Wheeler spoke again. "What WOULD make a difference?"

"Sorry?"

"You said that beating them up won't make a bit of difference. Pressing charges wouldn't. These guys sell drugs, do drugs, they hurt cops, vandalize things… Beating them up myself doesn't work and is technically illegal. Pressing charges is legal but wouldn't work either. What would work? What would make a difference? You're a cop, and have been for decades, you tell me: What will make it stop? Give me an answer; I'm really asking here!"

O'Malley drained the last of the bottle. "I really don't know. I'll get your forms."

Wheeler let it go, fed up and tired of fighting it. "Drinking that stuff will kill you y'know."

"Between a cigarette and a large bottle of cola, you focus on the soft drink?"

"Yep." Wheeler grinned. "You recycle?"

"Don't start."

"I'm just saying, if you don't want it, I'll take it."

O'Malley tossed him the empty bottle and walked out. "Killing me Wheels. Absolutely killing me."

Wheeler stretched as he left the Precinct. He opened the large envelope and emptied it out, checking through his personal effects. Wallet, everything there; the seed packets, unopened; house keys, subway ticket...

...And a ring.

Wheeler blinked. It wasn't his. But it was listed as his. He checked the manifest. Sure enough, there it was, listed as one of his possessions when he entered the Station. So it wasn't somebody else's...

He slipped the ring on. It fit flawlessly. Wheeler blinked. It was warm to the touch, and had a flat oval jewel on top, red with flecks of yellow and orange, looking like a flame carved in a precious stone. It had a rune carved into it; but he didn't recognize what it was...

Wheeler looked around, almost expecting someone to accuse him of stealing it.

Nobody did.

Wheeler considered a moment. The only person being dragged in at the same time as him was the Street DemonZ moron. And if it was his; then Wheeler wasn't about to go track him down.

Adjusting the ring and forgetting about it; he headed back to the Patch...

It was wrecked. The plants had all been torn out, the shed smashed, the tools broken and the pieces scattered everywhere, and the dirt sprayed with paint and what smelled a lot like bleach or paint thinner.

Wheeler glared; fire blazing in him again. He knew exactly who had done it.

But he knew it would never matter, because they would never pay. The police wouldn't be able to make anything stick; and it wasn't his property anyway. If he went after them himself, he would be the one punished.

Sighing, Wheeler went to work; and started cleaning it up.

Wheeler let himself into the apartment in Brooklyn, and ran through the checklist. The television was blaring, so his little brother was home. He didn't smell take out, so nobody had eaten yet. He saw a pack of tarot cards on the table, so his neighbor had been here.

So far, everything was normal.

Her reached into his bag, pulled out the empty bottle, and tossed the pack against the wall. His first stop was the fridge. There was little to nothing edible there, as normal. He took the carton, sniffed the milk, dry heaved in revulsion, and stuck the carton back on instinct. Wheeler opened the freezer, and saw an ice cube tray full of frozen orange juice. He smirked and pulled a glass out of the dishwasher to put a few cubes in.

He paused on his way out and noticed his brother's homework on the kitchen table. On the top was a paper with an 'A+' written in big red ink. Pleased, he picked it up.

Next stop was the living room. His brother was lying on his stomach, about six inches away from the television, as usual. "Hey bro."

"Hey." JJ called back without turning. "You're back?"

"And I'm front." Wheeler quipped.

"The Parrot said that you were arrested."

"DemonZ."

"The warehouse lot?"

"Yeah."

Wheeler was constantly amazed at how he and his brother could have a full conversation, using less than five seconds and ten words. Wheeler held up the paper. "This is new."

JJ smiled and finally looked up. "I didn't wanna make a big deal."

" It's an A. It's your first A since mom died too. It is a big deal."

JJ flushed and looked down. He and Wheeler had one thing in common. Neither of them knew how to take a compliment.

The phone rang. Wheeler answered it. "Incredible Hulk's Pizza Delivery; pay cash or Hulk smash."

"Son, one day you gotta answer the phone like an adult."

"Hey dad." Wheeler said. "How's life in the desert?"

"Hot and dry. Just wanted to check in, see how things are going."

"Junior brought home an Ace today."

"Fantastic! Put him on."

"Hey JJ!" Wheeler called. The kid came in grudgingly. Wheeler waved the phone. "Dad."

The phone changed hands, and Wheeler went back to his room.

A quick change of clothes, and Wheeler went to the workshop. Originally his father's room, Wheeler had converted it into a container garden. The walls, the floor and the windowsill were all converted into growing space. Large storage tubs on the hardwood floor, the bases wrapped in plastic tarps to prevent making a mess, filled with tomato plants. The walls had been strung with large bottles, cut to make them into small pots for lettuce, strawberries, carrots, shallots and onions, a big barrel stood over in the corner for potatoes, and the windowsill was covered in empty ice-cream containers filled with growing herbs and spices.

The room always smelled so fresh, so alive. For a man who spent his day working on construction sites and warehouses, full of the omnipresent New York grit and exhaust, it was a refreshing change.

Kept open to the sun, and luckily, the window was facing the right way; these plants could grow all year around. An indoor garden did not have to worry about the seasons, the frost, the cold, animals, parasites, insects or birds.

Also present was a small table for working and preparing. Wheeler went to the table and cut the empty plastic bottle across the top, making it a decent pot shape. A few small holes drilled in the bottom for drainage, and a piece of old guttering that Wheeler had salvaged from a dumpster to catch the drips.

He could string this one up on the wall with fishing wire, right next to the others. Having the plants in separate containers meant no problem with the roots getting tangled with each other. Each pot kept in place with a loop of tied line, all of them linked together in one complete piece. It was a good solid fishing line, unlikely to break under anything that would grow here.

Fishing line was solid enough to keep the loops in place, and Wheeler strung the bottle into the next free loop of fishing wire. He'd have to fill it with dirt and plant something.

Another few minutes, and JJ brought the phone in. "He wants to talk to you again."

Wheeler took the phone. "Yessir?"

"What's this about you getting arrested?"

"The DemonZ again."

"Did you win?"

"Yessir."

"Anyone get hurt?"

"Just them."

"Good." The veneer of proud camaraderie dropped instantly. "What the hell were you thinking!"

"They started it! Six against one and nobody will believe that they started it!"

His father laughed mirthlessly. "I believe you kid. I believed you when you got bounced out of Yale too. But at some point you've got to learn when to pick your fights. What if they had guns?"

"A lesson I never seem to learn." Wheeler sighed. "They trashed the Patch, dad. They wrecked Mom's Patch."

His father sighed. "Sorry to hear that."

"They wrecked everything. All the tools, all the plants, they even ran paint thinner through the soil. Nothing will ever grow there again."

"I'm sorry son. I know how much work you put into that."

"S'okay. Wasn't mine anyway." Wheeler said with forced indifference; fighting down the anger in his voice from a moment before.

"It may be for the best." His father said carefully.

"Why?"

"You've been going there a long time since the warehouse burned down Wheeler. Maybe too much."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Not how it sounded. I know you spend a lot of time working hard Wheeler, and JJ tells me about how you look after him. You've always done right by your family Wheels, and by your job too. And you're a twenty three year old guy in New York City. Of all the obsessions to have, Gardening is probably one of the weirdest, but I don't lie awake worrying about you. Not for that anyway. But Wheeler... your mom's been gone a while. You keep going back to that lot and-"

"It's not just because of mom." Wheeler promised. "I... It's like what you did last year in Afghanistan. You go marching through with guns to make it safe, but then you go around the safe areas building the schools and the hospitals... This is New York. There's not a whole lot of opportunity to... to make things grow."

"From what I hear, you've found a few places in the apartment."

Wheeler smirked. "Keeps the Parrot happy."

"Don't call her that." The Colonel said lightly. "She's a good woman."

"I know." Wheeler said. "She's been good to us too. You know how she is."

"Yeah, I do." His father said softly.

Knock Knock.

Wheeler glanced over his shoulder. "Dad, there's someone at the door."

"I'll let you go then." His father responded. "Stay outta trouble."

"And you keep your head down." Wheeler returned. It was the standard end to all their phone conversations.

He hung up the phone and went to the door. A slim woman with spiky black hair was waiting, an inviting gleam in her eye. "Hey baby."

Wheeler smiled charmingly. "Lena. I wasn't expecting you till tomorrow night."

"I know, but I wanted to surprise you."

Wheeler closed the door enough to free the chain, and threw it open. "Well I do like surprises. Especially ones in short skirts."

"So I hear." Lena drawled. She stepped forward and slid her arms easily up around his neck. Wheeler didn't hesitate to give her a long slow deep kiss.

There was a long wolf whistle from inside the apartment and Wheeler hooked the door shut behind him with one foot; without breaking contact. His brother's entertainment for the night was over.

After a while Lena pulled away and smiled happily. "Mmm. Well that alone was worth the drive."

Wheeler smirked. "Who owns a car in New York?"

"I do. A date's more fun when you have a backseat in a car than a ride on a subway." Lena smiled, still clinched against him. "Anyway, I was thinking about tomorrow night, and I decided I couldn't wait."

"I'm glad."

Lena's face changed and her fingers tightened a little on his shoulder. Wheeler was suddenly nervous as she continued in that same flirtatious, easy manner. "Then I heard about Kyra and Lanie."

Wheeler felt his heart do a hard thump. "What about them?" He asked carefully. "I broke up with both of them back before I even met you."

"'K-y', 'L-a' and 'L-e'" Lena ticked off on her fingers. "And then I see you and Libby having conversations at the diner; and I add 'L-i' to the list. Tell me Wheeler, are you really just working your way through the alphabet or-"

"Okay, I can explain that." Wheeler floundered.

Lena slapped him viciously, and stormed off down the hall toward the elevators. "Die soon, Wheeler." She spat over her shoulder.

JJ opened the door; clearly having heard the whole thing. "You deserved that."

Wheeler rubbed his jaw. "I know."

Later that night, JJ zoned out in front of the television, Wheeler harvested some of his container garden. He had planted the seeds a few weeks apart, container to container, so that he always had freshly ripened fruit and veg, not having to worry about the weather or the time of year, growing indoors. It was a trick that required maintenance. Every few weeks, some of the plants would be removed and replaced with new seedlings. The same day he would plant new seeds to sprout by the time they were needed.

Collecting the latest, Wheeler set them in some shopping bags that he never threw out, and carried them down the hall. JJ had barely noticed him as he went.

At the end of the hallway; he hiked the bags up a bit and knocked on the last door.

The door opened as far as the chain would allow and a rail thin old woman, peeked out, her hair tied behind a purple bandanna, her eyes behind huge square glasses. "Who's there?"

"C'mon Polly, these bags are awkward."

She saw the young man and smiled, opening the door properly. "Wheels! How was life in the joint?"

"Evening Parrot." Wheeler brought in the shopping bags. "I have lettuce; I have tomatoes; I have cucumbers; I have onions; I have shallots and I have strawberries."

Taking the vegetables and sniffing them one by one; she took a bite straight out of one of the onions. "Ooh, fresh. No pesticides." She hooted pleasantly. "I'm a lucky girl. Only place in New York that has organically grown food. You grew all these yourself?"

"In my container garden." Wheeler said, taking a seat at her counter.

Polly smiled at him while she chopped and sliced some of the vegetables; putting the rest away. Wheeler sometimes wondered if the refrigerator was Polly's only concession to the usefulness of electricity. Her kitchen was bare of all equipment and white-goods except for the fridge; and the room was dominated by a large cast iron pot, which was left permanently hanging over a large gas flame burner set up on the tile kitchen floor, which seemed to be permanently set on low. Polly sliced some of Wheelers vegetables with a blur of motion and swept the whole thing into the pot. "Wheeler, I know it's not the first time I've said this; but you just don't strike me as the type."

"For gardening? I'm not. My mother was. She was... a bit like you; only not as insane. Always grew her own food on base. I think she missed it when we moved into the city."

"You don't do this to honor your mother though." It was not a question.

Wheeler smirked. He was never exactly sure how much the wily old woman was playing him like she did her clients; or if she was really just that perceptive. "I'm in construction Pol. I like the idea of making things grow. You know how small the seeds are for an oak tree? Or one of those tomato plants for that matter?"

"To make something from nothing, and have it sustain you." Polly hummed mystically. "For an ignorant townie, you get the point at least."

Wheeler shrugged. "There's a guy in upper Manhattan that grows all his stuff. Read about him in a blog. Has one of those hundred square foot penthouse apartments, lives alone, so he set up room after room of containers full of dirt, grew his own food. Hasn't been to a store in years. I read about him in the Times." Wheeler gestured out the window. "Everybody's talking about gas prices, and natural disasters. Did you know that there's only a weeks worth of food in America at any given time? The trucks roll in to supermarkets and keep giving us new stuff. If that ever stopped, for just a few days…"

Polly slid the chopped onions into her pot. "Well, this is a fun conversation to have over food."

He sighed. "Sorry. I'm venting."

"Bad day?"

"Frustrated. Nobody seems to know how to make anything better."

"Sit." Polly directed, and he did so automatically. "Stay and eat something with me. It's early, and you know JJ sneaks Mickey D's on his way home. He can wait a few minutes."

Wheeler snorted and glanced around while he waited for her. Polly's apartment was filled with Chinatown trinkets and New Age paraphernalia. Palmistry posters, crystal balls, colored crystals hanging like wind-chimes, draperies were lining the walls and the doorways; in place of the actual doors, which had been turned into bench-tops and shelves; by using large cement bricks provided by Wheeler's construction sites. The light fixtures in the ceilings had no bulbs, and the room was lit by dozens of candles of all shapes and sizes... Wheeler sat at the only table. A small round one with runes and symbols painted and carved into the tabletop. Wheeler checked and noticed that one of the table legs was held together with duct tape.

Polly spooned something out of the large pot into two small mismatched bowls and brought them over to the table. The delicious smell of stew warred with the omnipresent incense candles around the apartment. "Tell me something happier."

"JJ got an A on a report." Wheeler offered.

"Fantastic. Which report?"

"I don't know. He said he wrote it based on my container garden of all things. Let me tell you, the sheer lack of things people in New York know about growing food and where it comes from…"

"But not you?"

Wheeler gestured at the pot. "When I was in school, the one thing they drill into you in kindergarten was the food groups. I'm an Army Brat; so food was always provided for us back before JJ was born... It's either learn to cook or keep bringing you the good stuff."

Polly gave a wrinkled grin. "And that's why I love you." She stirred the pot gently. "How's business?"

"New York construction. Pays as well as it ever did; but there are fewer construction sites to go around these days. How about you?"

Polly chuckled. "Fortune Tellers are actually doing pretty well. Everyone wants to get a glimpse of the future." She suddenly hunched her shoulders, hid her face behind her hair a bit and put on her crackling crone-like 'Fortune teller' voice. "You cross my palm with silver; I tell your fortune; and you find out." She reached into his pocket and withdrew the pack of tarot cards she had left in his apartment. "Or if you like I could read the cards for you."

"Well, I don't really believe in either, but..." Wheeler reached back into his pack and pulled out a washed out peanut butter jar, with fresh picked fruits in it. "Would you settle for strawberries?"

"Ooh, strawberries." Polly said happily; coming out of character instantly and popping one in her mouth.

"I don't like you bringing those cards into my apartment. Don't get me wrong Parrot, I love ya and so does JJ. And it's nice to have someone who can keep an eye on him while I'm in jail on Tuesdays, but... JJ's got a lot of questions since mom died; and I don't have answers for him. I don't like you putting stuff like astrology and tarot into his head. I mean, I know it's your bread and butter, but I also know that you don't really believe its true yourself; and how many people out there…"

"Lots of people do Wheeler. And a lot of them you would consider to be very smart people. Shakespeare said that there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in philosophy. These days, full of science and discovery and knowledge that nobody cares about, we're discovering just how much more detail, more depth there is in every facet of life. But nobody seems to notice."

"Maybe, but I don't see what looking into a crystal ball will give you; when a microscope can't."

Polly was silent a moment, and suddenly one withered hand flashed out and caught Wheeler's wrist in a death grip. She turned his hand over. "Nice ring."

Wheeler had honestly forgotten about it. It was so light and hugged his finger like it had grown there, like it was already part of him. "It's new."

"Where'd you get it?"

"Don't know. Found it."

Polly held his hand a little firmer and looked closer. "This symbol on the top... it's an elemental sign. Native American."

"Really." Wheeler said, disinterested.

"It's the symbol for fire."

Wheeler looked. "Doesn't look like a fire to me."

The ring shimmered against the candlelight as she turned the ring in her grip, and the candle flames, unnoticed to them, flared many times their height and brightness.

"I didn't say it was a fire, I said it was the symbol. The Native Americans thought the spirits of the animals, and of nature to be sacred; who gave parts of themselves to the worshipers. Their strength, their speed, their wisdom."

Her voice had taken on a spooky quality, a slow awful rhythm, and just for a second, Wheeler could have sworn that the room had grown dim; and the candles were... beating.

"Fire is one of the key signs. One of the most central elements. It is warmth against the cold. It is light against the dark. It is food and it is life. It is protection and it is death."

The candlelight flared and calmed as though in a tiny breeze. They pulsed in perfect unison, in perfect rhythm. Wheeler noticed them, but Polly didn't. He assumed, incorrectly, that she was doing it somehow, as the tiny flames beat to the rhythm of his breathing, quick and short as Polly wove her magic with just the tone of her voice. The candles were alive with the force of her tale...

"It came to you Wheeler." The sulphuric voice intoned, as a supernatural judge passing sentence. "You did not seek it; it sought you."

Wheeler's throat was dry. So was his mouth. But his hands were sweating. Wheeler pulled away and started gulping air.

The spell was broken, and there was a full ten seconds of silence, in which Wheeler tried desperately to move or breathe properly again.

Polly laughed hysterically at him. "And that, my dear; is how I make my living."

Wheeler laughed, relieved. "I bow to the master."

Polly laughed and went to the fridge.

Wheeler gestured around the room at the open flames, now normal again. "But how did you do that thing with the candles?"

"What thing with the candles?" Polly called over her shoulder, not really caring; as she pulled out a bunch of Tupperware. "For you and JJ." She said, pressing them into his hands. "Strawberry cobbler, vegetable stew, Italian style lasagna; steak and mushroom pie. You grew most of it; so enjoy."

"Where'd you get the meat?" Wheeler asked in surprise; then looked around, suddenly suspicious. "What a minute. Where's your cat?"

Polly swatted him. "She's fine. Asleep on my windowsill as she always is when she's not eating."

Wheeler smirked and gestured to the food. "Don't tell me you actually spend your money on food now?"

"I'm not above playing the butcher's superstitions." Polly said cannily. "He can be very generous when the stars are right."

"And... when exactly are the stars right for that sort of thing?"

"Whenever I feel like having steak for dinner usually."

Wheeler laughed, adjusted the ring, and took the food back to his apartment.

His brother was already asleep on the couch. Wheeler considered moving him to his room, then decided against it and spread a blanket over him. He stuck the Tupperware in the fridge, and went to bed.

His ring was glowing.

He didn't realize it until he turned out the light, but his ring was glowing with a soft yellow and orange light, born from the red jewel, not unlike a small candle.

But for some reason, Wheeler didn't question it; didn't feel confused...

In fact, it was getting harder to feel anything at all...

Wheeler's thoughts came into focus with sudden clarity; as a sudden stillness came over him. He tried to move. He couldn't. It wasn't paralysis. His limbs were relaxed, but they weren't moving as he told them to.

Oh god... how? He asked himself. Polly? What did you put in my dinner?

His ring glowed brighter, a blast of red light that somehow shifted through the spectrum to pure white in an instant, and did not go dim.

Wheeler could feel his body floating off the bed.

Where... where am I?

With me.

AN: I've done the container garden thing myself; though not inside for more than seedlings. Simple matter of having no room. But I did the math, and what I describe here can be done. It's been done before.

Wheeler's character was meant in the show to be the guy who had no clue, so that the show could take the opportunity to explain the situation to him, and in doing so, the audience. This had the result of making Wheeler somewhat of a moron in regards to the Environment. Given what he was in the show for, that annoyed me. I know that there was some information about his back-story in the much later episodes, but I didn't see it. This fic isn't canon anyway.

How am I doing so far?

EDIT: Chapter re-uploaded. The only changes are correcting some spelling, grammar, etc.