Okay guys, here's chapter two! There's a lot of technobabble in this chapter that I'm totally making up, so bear in mind that I really don't know what I'm talking about.

In other news, on with the chapter!

After my talk with Uncle John, I'd gone to the mall, to the salon I'd gone to since I was younger. Going there was the only time I really felt feminine, it was a place where people with a little more money usually went. My mom had gone there even before I'd been born, before she moved south.

I hadn't made an appointment, but from listening to my hairdresser, Gerard, an old coati who'd been working there twice as long as I'd been alive, I knew that Tuesdays were his slow days and he often found himself sitting around bored.

I was lucky and today was one of those Tuesdays. I was able to walk in on a bored Gerard, tossing a Koosh ball up and down as he spun around in his chair enough to make anyone else dizzy. He'd greeted me warmly, for all I dragged his chair to a halt and snatched his ball out of the air, but he was as startled as I'd ever seen him when I asked him to cut my hair short. He was usually just a big kid, albeit a big kid armed with scissors and hair gel.

Still, after he got over the initial shock, he was the same as ever. A veteran hairdresser like him knew how to keep conversation going while their customer was stuck in a chair; he'd even changed to accommodate my short answers with one-sided conversation when I'd returned last year and gotten all funny and nervous at him for being around my head with scissors. It was my shame that two months had made me paranoid, but he bore it better than any of my acquaintances.

Before I left, my hair tickling my jaw-line, I'd stuffed a twenty in his cup of pens when he wasn't looking. I didn't know when I'd be seeing him again either and I had a month's budget in cash that I'd received from my dad the day before, most of which I'd use by day's end.

The reason for this was simple: my audition.

I had to find Sly by the day after tomorrow. It was a challenge that I could meet, Bentley wouldn't have arranged it if it weren't. I figured that this wasn't so much to make my life difficult as it was an actual audition. Whether or not Bentley had a job for me, he'd need proof that I could think like one of the gang, like him, so I got to work.

Before leaving the mall, I made my way to an electronics store, purchasing a set of walkie-talkies, and stopped by another on the way home, walking away with a headset and a set of transmitters that could be stitched into clothing. I didn't even know they sold that sort of thing in stores, but I was glad to see them.

I picked up these things for a few reasons. I'd done only a handful of things alongside the gang and most of them consisted of watching the binocucom station, but I remembered them well. All I had to do was think like Bentley, like I was making a challenge for myself, looking at what he'd know of me, of what I could do, and the answers slid into place.

I took my truck through the carwash and picked up some food on the way home. When I arrived, I parked in the garage, something I generally avoided doing because I was too afraid of navigating what I felt to be a small space in such a long vehicle.

I ran my hand over the faded blue paint of my truck before heading inside; I'd miss the old thing. I ate, took a shower, then spread my purchases on the table and settled in.

A good eighty-five percent of the things I'd gotten into with the Cooper gang involved binocucoms. I knew a lot of their inner workings from watching Bentley work on the prototype he let me use sometimes and I knew a thing or two from the time he taught me how to turn transmitters into bugs. The transmitters spread before me were of a much different model than those implanted in the bear teeth I'd worked with before, but I was able to find enough commonalities that I could work with them.

My plan was to find the coordinates of the waypoint Bentley always dropped on a Safehouse so we could find it even if we were lost. I knew the code for making waypoints in binocucoms, but not if that would help me to find one; and I'd never known the code for Safehouse waypoints, which were different than those for missions. But I had to make do with what I did know.

First, I set to rigging the transmitters. The last time I'd had my hands on such things, I'd been coding them to send to Bentley's work station, not to locate its signals. I hoped that, with some creative thinking, I'd be able to figure out how to reverse the process.

Any hesitations I'd picked up on the way home fell away as I worked. I knew that whatever work Bentley had for me to do, I'd be glad for it, even if it wasn't fieldwork. Just having a goal to work toward, a problem to solve, got me out of a funk I didn't know I'd been in until the tension started easing out of my shoulders as though it had never been.

My hair dried as I worked, wetting the collar of my T-shirt. I'd cut it about as short as remembered it being when Bentley cut it last August, but I'd also had Gerard add layers, thinking it'd be better if it were lighter. What I hadn't thought of, I found when I looked in the mirror after I changed, was that made it far easier for my hair to curl. Where Gerard had straightened it earlier, it now curled as I'd never seen it do, though, thankfully, it stayed near my scalp, where it belonged, instead of gaining volume.

In yet another T-shirt and cargo pants, I returned to my work. It sounds complicated, but it's not really. The transmitters came with software to locate them; screw around with the options enough, tweak a simple code here and there to fiddle input and output, and they'll work however you like.

For that, I hauled out my oldest desktop, a dinosaur of a computer that by all rights shouldn't work anymore. I wouldn't put it past my dad to have my current laptop bugged, it's one of his privileges as an FBI parent and so long as I was careful, it didn't really affect me much.

Even so, I barely touched the desktop, even as I hooked it up and installed the transmitter software, a task that took a half hour where my current computer could have done it in under two minutes. If the computer didn't look like it had been disturbed, it would take longer for it to be checked, if it was at all.

If I'd known a bit more about gadgets I could've programmed a GPS to pick up the waypoints via the transmitters. As it was, I had to use the software from the transmitters to get a location and from there, had to use a good old fashioned paper map.

So I had to have a look at the transmitter software yet again. Or at least I would, once I had a signal to piggyback it off.

My mind tried to run ahead of me with how to find that particular signal, but I reined it back in with difficulty to focus on how to widen the range of the transmitters. If Sly was across the city, it would do me no good to have short range transmitters. I was sure that, with the aid of cell towers, I could get a wide enough range, but it was the issue of how to get the software to talk to me in miles instead of meters that was presenting an issue. These were for families with sleepwalking children or those with mental difficulties that might up and leave in the middle of the night with no notion of the danger, people that couldn't get too far too fast.

Thankfully, my old comp still had a program for writing code from my days in Computer Science, years ago, where I'd learned the skills that let me understand some of what Bentley said. I wrote a simple program to do the calculations for me to five decimals, so I didn't make a mistake getting impatient and trying to do them in my head.

Once I'd loaded that into the computer, I retrieved a map from a desk drawer in my dad's room, returned to my workstation, and sat back, resting my chin on my fingers and letting half-formed thoughts settle at the pressure behind my eyes. I hadn't slept last night, too busy worrying over what I'd do, and now it worked to my advantage. Not sleeping lets a person get easier access to their subconscious and that's where the truly great ideas linger.

Linger and surface when one is so sleep-deprived as to develop an eye-twitch.

I'd purchased the walkie-talkies on a whim, because they could pick up chatter on different channels, but I wasn't sure how that was to help me when I was searching for a channel that could carry video as well as audio. But then, Bentley's signal was always strengthened to blanket the whole city and do so well, so any of the gang on a job could find the Safehouse from anywhere.

When I found a channel that was dead silent, when unused stations were filled with static, I set the transmitters to that channel, rather than their default, and changed the options of the software to pick them up again and find the origin of the signal.

The transmitters took the one seeking straight to them, with no regard for streets or buildings. With more math than I'd had to use in ages and some pretty solid abuse of the Pythagorean Theorem, I was able to take those directions and apply them to the map.

After checking and rechecking my work to make sure I hadn't made an error in the math (far too likely a possibility) I found myself staring at an address across the street from an airport parking lot.

After calling a cab, I stood, went into my room, and packed my backpack. I couldn't take that much with me, but I made sure to take the important things. A photo album, my senior yearbook, my CD case, the external hard-drive that held all my up to date documents and files, things like that. I lifted the mattress from my bed and took the two things that lay there, the necklace Sly gave me and Ahanu's goggles, and they went around my neck.

I didn't dwell on what I was doing too much as I walked from the house to the waiting cab, I'd talk myself out of what I wanted to do, take the path of least resistance. But even so, under the hesitance I felt an excitement building. This was it, what I didn't even know I was waiting for through the past twelve months. Energy hummed in my veins, my bones practically vibrated with it.

I slid in to the cab and gave the driver the address.

Sly stared.

And stared.

And stared…

And then, just for good measure, he stared a little longer.

Kaia passively stared back, drumming her partially-extended claws on the table between them.

He wasn't sure why, but he hadn't actually expected her to come. He'd wanted her to, of course, had hoped she would, but he hadn't expected it. Why would someone with a normal life, someone who hadn't been born and raised into it, leave that life to be a thief?

He found himself smiling as a fist-sized knot of tension resting just under his ribcage relaxed. He hadn't felt this at home with himself since Murray left the gang. "Took you long enough. Nice haircut, by the way."

She gave him a mock-scowl, "Hey, I'm two days earlier than my deadline. I'd say that's an achievement."

He shook his head, still smiling, "How'd you even find me here anyway? This wasn't where you were supposed to meet me."

The green-gold eyes that were usually so sharp leveled a flat stare at him. "Yes, because it's not like this Wafflehouse is next door to the hotel or anything. And it's certainly not like you're in a booth by the window. And it's not like glass is see-through at all."

The raccoon waved off her sarcasm, "Give me a break I haven't had my coffee yet." And he flagged down the waitress.

After he assured Kaia he was paying (or rather, the corrupt politician he'd robbed a couple of days ago out of boredom was), they both ordered copious amounts of food and he called Bentley.

"Hey pal, you'll never guess who's sitting here with me…"

I gaped at the tickets, "First class?"

Sly grinned at me, "You're adorable. Never flown first class?"

I smacked him upside the head with the tickets, "Can't afford a lot of traveling on FBI pay, Sly. And when you can, you fly coach."

He held up his hands placatingly, "Alright, alright. You make a good case. To be fair, we don't usually fly first class, it draws too much attention, but apparently Bentley felt like splurging, especially since you're a legal adult now. Even if I strolled through the terminal in full thieving gear with you on my arm, the police couldn't do anything about it."

"Except charge you with kidnap, endangerment, assault, attempted murder, grand larceny," I ticked off the charges I could think of on my fingers until Sly grimaced at me. "Love the disguise, by the way. I had no idea you had that many piercings."

He shrugged languidly, pulling a tattered biker jacket on over a torn muscle shirt, "When you have piercings, people tend to remember them rather than your actual face. Bentley talked me into it last May. Ready to go?"

I hefted my backpack as he picked up his suitcase, "Ready as I'll ever be."

The sun had nearly set by the time we walked through the automatic doors into the airport. We both only had carry-ons (how Sly could fit everything he needed into one bag would be something I'd have to ask Bentley), so we went straight to the security checkpoint. Not together, of course. I was using my real passport, so I lingered by some advertisements while Sly walked ahead in his disguise, not moving to follow until there were a few people between me and him.

When I flashed my passport and boarding pass I got a double take from the guard, but he must have been seasoned enough not to mention anything, just gave me a smile and told me to have a nice trip. I was impressed; most people who met me after the national news got a hold of my photograph couldn't keep their mouths shut. If it would have been appropriate to give him a tip, I certainly would have.

After we were through (it was hilarious to see Sly take out all his piercings for the metal detector), I wandered a bit. After locating the gate, I browsed the book and gift stores. Sly went straight to the gate, sat down, and started listening to music. I heard what sounded like 'California Girls' when I walked by once, so I just smirked and continued on my way.

After about fifteen minutes, the plane landed and people started lining up to board. Only then did I think to check my ticket.

"Paris?" I muttered, in vague surprise. That didn't make a lot of sense; that was the first place I'd gone with the Cooper gang and I didn't think the dilapidated old apartment could be their real Safehouse.

"Just at first."

The whisper in my ear almost made me jump, I just barely controlled myself. "Thought we weren't supposed to interact before we got on the plane." I hissed back.

"Hey, all any bystanders will see is a bad boy hitting on a pretty girl."

I thought about jabbing him in the gut with my elbow, but decided that would probably look pretty bad on the security cameras. "Alright then, smart aleck. Where are we going?"

He hesitated briefly. Then, "Bentley… doesn't want you to know until we get there."

That stung. It made total sense that Bentley would be paranoid about me turning them in to the cops, especially with all my talk when I first met them, but it still stung.

Then the line was moving.

"Jinx, wake up."

My dream was already fading when Sly started to shake my arm, but that didn't stop me from being properly disoriented until I looked out the window and saw the clouds much closer than they usually were.

I wiped the grit from my eyes and sat up straight, unsticking my tongue from the top of my mouth, "How long was I asleep?"

He smiled and handed me the pillow that had been propped against his arm, "About four hours. No wonder either, with what you were reading." He hefted my collector's edition of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

I took it and stuck my tongue out at him before stuffing the tome in my backpack. "Sherlock Holmes is interesting." But I paused and gave him a quick grin, "Though reading Watson's reports in Hound of the Baskervilles is about as interesting as watching paint dry. Hey, you need to stop smiling so much, get in character, practice scowling- see, that right there? Perfect." Before he could respond, I noticed gravity was pulling in a different direction and asked, "We landing?"

"On approach, yeah." He answered, just as the flight attendant started giving the landing speech in English, then French. "It's about ten am, Paris time."

I groaned, rubbing my head. I was still exhausted, "It feels like closer to two or three in the morning."

He tousled my hair, "No worries, we'll get you some coffee and you'll be right as rain."

"You're awfully perky for being confronted with so much daylight." I grumbled, making sure my bag was secured under my seat and my seat belt was fastened, as well as folding a blanket that certainly hadn't been there when I'd fallen asleep. Come to think of it, the pillow hadn't either. And I'd fallen asleep against the window.

"A benefit of being nocturnal, jet lag doesn't really bother me unless I need to be alert for a job, but that's what coffee's for."

"Oh yeah?" Everything secure, I sat back and favored Sly with a skeptical look, "Ever caffeine crash on a job?"

He leaned forward, a glint in his eyes. "Actually, this one time, in India…"

He told me all about that one time in India when he didn't see the trip wire until we landed, which helped me keep my mind off the landing. I may have gotten better, but a frequent flyer I was not.

After landing and getting off the plane, we were able to leave pretty easily, and not having any baggage to claim certainly helped.

"That is a far step from the van." I said as Sly led the way through the parking lot to a small, white, four door car I didn't know the name of.

He shrugged, popping the trunk so we could stow our bags, "Yeah, Bentley's kind of disturbingly practical. No cherry red sports cars that could draw attention, sorry."

"Yes, because the van was so inconspicuous. It had your calling card emblazoned on the side, remember?" I asked, sliding into the passenger seat. "I'm surprised Murray hasn't put turbo engines on the back of this thing."

About to turn the ignition, Sly paused, "Murray… left the gang. A couple of months after the Clock-La incident."

"What?" I jumped, then gripped my head tightly when I banged it against the top of the car. I managed to grit out, through the sound of my companion's poorly-muffled snickers, "You didn't mention that in New York."

He took the key out of the ignition, then looked me in the eye. "Would it have changed your mind?"

I thought about it for nearly a minute, "Probably not. A large part of my joining didn't have to do with you guys particularly, but with some stuff I worked out about myself."

His lips quirked up slightly, "Glad to hear it." Then he turned on the car, revved the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot.

One Starbucks (thank God for international chains) stop later, we were on the road. We barely skimmed the end of the morning rush and headed out of Paris.

"Umm, do I need to be rationing my coffee?" I asked as we started to hit (beautiful) countryside.

Sly actually laughed, "Not unless you plan on chugging it. It'll just take a little over an hour to get there."

I finished my coffee in under ten minutes, then fell back to sleep. I blame the French road signs that I couldn't make out, the picturesque scenery, and the fact that Sly was playing classical music.

I woke for the second time in as many hours to Sly shaking my shoulder. Fortunately, this time I was more alert. "We're here?"

"Yup." Sly looked a bit nervous. I didn't really blame him. No matter how much he trusted me, he was still sticking his neck out. A small part of his thieving instincts had to be expecting Interpol to come charging down the street.

The very… suburban street. I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting, but it wasn't a whitewashed house with green shutters, a red door, and a well-tended garden in front of the porch.

"It's such a pretty house," I said without thinking, stepping out of the car.

A neighbor, an elderly hare, was trimming the hedges next door. She saw Sly (who had switched the biker jacket to an open button-down and removed his piercings) and waved. He waved back and they exchanged a few words before the raccoon got our things from the trunk and headed up to the door. I became convinced this was their true home when I spotted four cameras and a motion detector on the porch alone.

Sly unlocked the door and we entered, he calling, "Bentley! We're here!"

I heard a muffled, "Downstairs!" in response.

I hadn't realized the familiar nasal voice would bring tears to my eyes so easily. I dropped my bag and quickly located the staircase, hurrying down it.

The quick look I'd gotten of the upstairs was a normal house. The basement, however, looked exactly like the Safehouses I'd seen before. Tech gear everywhere, Bentley's domain.

The only thing out of place was the wheelchair lift at the base of the stairs.

I bounded down them and burst into the room, spotting Bentley by an array of computer monitors. Because I'd seen the lift, I was able to hide my reaction, but my heart still shattered when I saw the turtle's stick-thin legs resting limply against the much-too large metal frame of the wheelchair he sat in.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to break things and scream about the injustice of the world, but I couldn't. I couldn't even dwell on it for longer than a moment. Instead, I slapped a smile on my face and nearly ran over to Bentley, dropping to my knees and throwing my arms around him, "Good to see you."

He laughed awkwardly in surprise, "You too." When I pulled back he was blushing, but did look happy. "How've you been?"

"Bored, I'm sure you could teach my professors a thing or two. You?"

"Pretty good, all things considered."

"Ah, yes, speaking of-" I hefted a large wrench from the toolbox at the base of the desk, "If you'll excuse me for a moment, I'm going to give Sly blunt force trauma for not telling me about the wheelchair."

Said raccoon screamed 'DO NOT WANT' as I chased him up the stairs.

Bentley waited patiently, tinkering with an old project, until Kaia trudged back down the stairs, wrench still in hand. He eyed it in amusement, "Judging from the absence of bloodstains, I'm guessing I don't have any head injuries to treat."

She smiled at him, but it was weak and the fur around her eyes was wet. "He's a lot faster than I thought and I never was able to get the climbing bit of the Thievius Raccoonus down. He's on the roof, talking to the old lady next door. From the few bits of French I actually caught, I think she's going to smuggle cookies up there for him somehow."

The turtle laughed slightly and pushed himself away from the table, turning to face the girl, "I'm assuming you're curious as to the job I have for you?"

She tossed the wrench to the side and sat on the floor, like a child expecting story time. He smiled and felt the twinge of affection he'd tried to repress until he knew she was really their friend, her curiosity was refreshing.

"All I ask," he started, "Is that you don't say anything until I'm finished explaining it."

Her eyebrows furrowed, but then her face went blank. "Okay."

"I want you to take my place," When she didn't so much as twitch an eyebrow, he got nervous, but swallowed and pressed on, "Not the plan-making, just the fieldwork. Because of my chair I can't do fieldwork anymore, especially not on this job." He picked at the gloves he had to wear now. "But you've read the Thievius Raccoonus and have a basic knowledge of the sort of things I do, I can teach you the rest." He stopped himself from babbling and stared at his fingers, waiting for the hybrid to say something.

"No."

His head snapped up, "No-?"

"I won't do it." She stood, looking like she was about to start crying. "I won't take your spot."

Bentley felt heat build behind his eyes. He didn't have a temper, usually didn't even get angry, but it had taken swallowing all of his pride to ask her to do this and she was throwing it back in his face. "And why not?" He snapped.

"You can still do fieldwork!" She snapped back, looking like she was going to start getting angry too. "No, let me finish. You've overcome everything for this gang. There were plenty of reasons for you not to go out in the field in the first place, but you did it! You did what you had to even though you were scared, even though you were asthmatic. Yes, this is a bigger deal, but have you even thought about a way to circumvent it? Or did you just accept that because you could no longer walk you had to quit fieldwork?"

He bit his tongue, but let her continue. That was exactly what he had done.

"When have you ever accepted something without checking it out for yourself? I bet you didn't even make that wheelchair lift. If it had been your work, it would only be half the size. Bentley, you're better than that. A lot better. Three of you could fit in that wheelchair, how much hardware is that? This doesn't have to be the end of everything. Use that brain of yours and you can find a way to do everything you could do before, maybe more, maybe better. But…" She looked down and wiped at her eyes a few times, "Whatever you decide, I'm not going to help you short-change yourself. The only one who thinks that wheelchair restricts you is you."

He let her go back up the stairs. He felt as though he'd just been slapped.

It wasn't like he hadn't thought any of those things before, but it was all things you told yourself to feel better. It's not your fault, you couldn't have done anything differently, you can still live a full, happy life, you just can't do certain things.

But what Kaia had said… it had been different somehow. She truly meant what she said; she wasn't just saying it to make him feel better. She'd been angry. She honestly thought he could do everything he'd been able to do before… he just had to do it differently.

He pushed himself over to his drafting table. It hadn't seen much use lately. He hadn't designed anything since the hospital. Once the guys had busted him out and he'd told them his prognosis, they'd been devastated. Murray blamed himself and even Sly felt like a failure, for not being able to protect his friend. The only projects he'd worked on since were half-finished ones he already had lying around.

He pulled away the blueprints on the table until he reached blank paper. He picked up a pencil and a ruler and just… stared at it.

Could he do it? Should he even try?

He shook his head. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but he didn't want to give up either. If there was one thing he had learned running with the gang, it was that he had to go with the flow. Even the most fool-proof plans had fallen apart right under them before. If he hadn't been with the gang, he'd have given up long ago. They, Sly mostly, had showed him that you had to just calmly move to plan B and if there wasn't a plan B (which was rare, Bentley usually had contingency plans through the second half of the alphabet), make one up on the fly.

They didn't usually let him give up… but they blamed themselves. Did they think this chair was just a punishment they all had to bear?

Well, he didn't want it to be. He wasn't going to let his chair define him as a cripple, but as the genius he was.

He felt the smooth paper under his fingers, heard the scratch of his gloves against the table, felt the air conditioner kick in and brush the back of his neck. Only a second ago, he hadn't felt like he was in control of anything but now he felt… anchored.

In three swift, sharp motions, lines appeared on the paper.

"Aren't you afraid of heights?"

I flinched, but wasn't surprised to find Sly on the branch above mine when I opened my eyes. He was a thief; he was supposed to be able to climb silently, "Yeah, but this tree was too pretty not to climb. Nice view of the sunset too."

He draped himself over the branch bonelessly. "I'm guessing all did not go well with Bentley."

"You guess correctly. He wanted me to take over his fieldwork."

I heard him take in a quick breath, then let it out slowly. "I thought he might. If I'd known for sure… I'm sorry, but I wouldn't have come to get you."

"I don't blame you. I told him no, by the way. Well, I told him a lot more than that, but that's the gist."

"… Thank you."

I was surprised to find, when I looked up, that his eyes were wet, though if I asked, he'd probably attribute it to the fact that he was looking right into the sunset.

"He hasn't been the same, ever since he lost the use of his legs. It's like he just doesn't care anymore. He never blamed us or himself and I really do think he'll get through it, but it's… it's really hard to watch him go through it."

I didn't know what else to do, so I reached up and took his hand, from where it dangled near my face. He looked down at me. "I'm sorry. If I'd known before… I don't know. I want to say I'd have helped, but I don't know if I could. I certainly would have tried."

He smiled, it was sad, but it was genuine, and he squeezed my hand. "Thanks. And I'm sorry you came all the way here only to not have a purpose waiting for you. I want you to stay anyway, though. If all else fails we'll keep you around as a mascot."

I kicked the branch he lay on for that one, but nearly fell out of the tree myself when I heard a muffled, but loud noise that sounded like some sort of explosion. "What was that?"

Sly was suddenly crouched in a perfectly stable position, eyes narrowed, ears pricked forward. "It came from the house… Bentley!"

He leapt, rolled on impact, and was up and running in one fluid movement. My first instinct was to gape, but the pumping adrenaline reminded me of the matter at hand.

I scrambled down the tree as quickly as I could and sprinted the hundred yards to the house. When I broke the tree cover I saw puffs of smoke fading into wisps as they escaped from an open window that led into the basement. I took a deep breath, grabbed the window sill, and swung myself in.

I landed in a space that was mercifully free of any of Bentley's projects, though the impact with the plain cement jarred my ankles.

When I finally managed to get a look at the rest of the basement, I wasn't sure what I was seeing. Sly stood at the entrance to the stairs, looking absolutely dumbfounded at something embedded in the ceiling. Bentley was looking at the contraption (which appeared to be a car battery attached to two large springs) contemplatively and jotting something down on the drafting table to his left.

I coughed lightly and moved away from the smoke's path, "Bentley, what's that?" I asked, pointing to the… thing… in the ceiling.

He jumped, as if just noticing that Sly and I were there, then looked down sheepishly, "I, uh, I thought about what you said and… I thought the first thing I would have to deal with would be how to jump. I'm taller in my chair than I had been standing, but even so, I'd need a way to get altitude if I was doing field work. I thought that maybe I could reinforce the axle and the wheels of the chair and install an industrial spring launcher triggered to a button on the frame… But I had to test the power of the springs first." He adjusted his glasses as part of the ceiling broke off and narrowly missed him, "It looks like I'll have to recalibrate them."

For a second, there was only stunned silence. Then Sly started laughing. He crossed the room and clapped a hand on one of Bentley's scrawny shoulders, "Good to have you back, buddy."

The turtle blinked once, then beamed.

The good mood was infectious, and it felt, to me at least, like a homecoming.

It was like something shifted right then, for all of us.

That one little thing that just wasn't right in each of our lives slid into place.

Bentley wasn't broken, Sly wasn't alone, and I wasn't lost.

We were all alive, and not only could we get through whatever life might throw at us, we would thrive.

And we would do it together.

Okay, that got a little serious there. Do not worry, however, for the next chapter shall be full of laughter and shenanigans! Yay, shenanigans!

Please excuse any horrid typos, I'm too tired to do another read-through.