He pulled into the driveway and brought the rumbling SUV to a halt. He turned off the engine and just sat for a moment, closing his eyes. He'd been driving for so long that he could still feel the road vibrations pulsing through his body. He took a breath and opened his door, climbing down from the seat. He came around the front and saw his sister heading towards him from the porch. She reached him and wrapped her arms around him. He returned the embrace, holding her close.

"You're really home? To stay?" she whispered into his chest.

"You know I'm going to get my own place," he said softly.

"But you're staying. You're not going back and forth to Albuquerque or whatever anymore."

He sighed. "I'm not. I'm here." He kissed the top of her head.

"Good," she said, burrowing tighter into his chest.

He kept hold of her. His sister had been in contact with him much more frequently in the past weeks. Instead of the weekly (or so) phone calls or emails that he used to get, she'd been calling almost daily. He made every effort to talk to her when she called; not letting her go to his voicemail. Sometimes she seemed to just want to check in; other days she would go on and on, needing to share her day, her life. He realized that she was used to doing that with their parents; that she was really the only kid at home. And that right now she didn't feel like she could do that. Or should.

He shut his eyes, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He hadn't had that role in a long time; being the go-to, every day big brother. And he needed to get used to it again. He took another deep breath, opened his eyes and looked up. He saw his father coming down the steps of the front porch. In a few steps, he was in front of him. He felt his father's hand rest on his shoulder. "Donnie," he said softly.

"Hey, Dad."

"Your trip was alright? You didn't push too hard, did you?"

A small, tight smile crossed his face. "It's okay, Dad. I'm fine." He saw the doubt on his father's face. "Really. I'm used to it."

His Dad shook his head. "Right." He looked over at his daughter. "Why don't you let your brother go inside and use the bathroom so that we can get to unloading the car." He looked back at Don. "You don't want to have to pay an extra day on the car rental if you don't have to."

He gave his father a strange look. "Huh?"

"If you take even part of an extra day on a rental…"

"I know how rentals work, " he interrupted. "But that," he gestured to the SUV, "is not a rental."

His sister looked over to the vehicle. "You actually drive that? Like every day?"

"Yeah," he answered incredulously.

She gave the big black SUV the once over. "Does it come with its own black helicopter?"

"That's the CIA. I'm FBI," he deadpanned.

She squinted her eyes at him, trying to tell if he was serious. "Really?"

"Gullible," he muttered. He didn't want either of them to know, or even think about, what he sometimes did carry in the back of his SUV. He didn't think that anyone in his family would be comfortable with that knowledge.

"Ha ha," she said.

"Okay. Enough you two," his father said. "Julie, let him go. Don, inside. We still need to get it unpacked, rental or not."

She took a step back. "I'm glad you're here," she whispered for only him to hear.

He looked away. "Yeah," he said softly. And then he added loud enough for both of them to hear, "Don't try to unload until I come back. There's a method to how everything is in there."

His father shook his head again. "This from the same person who couldn't find his bedroom floor for three months."

He rolled his eyes. Did parents ever forget anything that you did that could be used against you? "I was, like ten at the time."

His father waved his hands at him, meaning to shoo him to the house. "Go," he said. "We won't touch anything. We promise."

He thought about giving some kind of wiseass response, but decided against it and instead turned towards the porch and headed up the steps. As he went to open the door, he noticed the book sitting on the small table. So, that's how she was there almost as soon as he pulled in the driveway; she'd been sitting there, reading, waiting for him. For a moment, he wondered how long she'd sat there, but that thought was gone as soon as he opened the door.

He was home. It didn't matter whether he was at Quantico, living in Detroit, Albuquerque, D.C. or roaming the country. He'd always thought of this house as home. But even though he thought that, believed that, he never actually thought that he would ever live here again. He visited here. He had his memories here, but live? No.

It crashed into him. He was living here again. It wasn't a couple of bags that they were going to unload from his SUV; not the stuff of a couple weeks visit. It was his stuff – the things that he needed for everyday living, for going to work, for his down time. He glanced up and saw a picture of himself as a kid, maybe ten or eleven, on the ski slope. A picture that he'd seen a thousand times. All of a sudden, he bolted for the bathroom.

A moment later, he was sitting on the bathroom floor, back against the green tile wall. He realized as soon as he reached the bathroom that he wasn't going to be sick, but the near panic attack was unsettling. He struggled to catch his breath. "What the hell," he mumbled. This was the third time he'd been back since he'd made the decision to move home and it had never hit him like this before. Not when his mom had surgery. Not when he met with the Bureau Director to discuss his transfer. He leaned his head back, feeling the cool tiles against his head and neck. "Pull it together, Eppes," he told himself. "Get your shit together." He pushed himself up from the floor, went to the sink and splashed some cold water on his face. He rested his hands on the sink and took a deep breath. "You can do this," he told himself, pushing himself away from the sink.

He opened the bathroom door, headed down the hall to the porch and out the door. "Okay. Let's get it unpacked."