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Sleeplessness brought on by 3am feedings and then having to get up for work at 7 does nothing for either of our frayed nerves. It's been 3 days since we spoke with Admiral Paris and he hasn't contacted us since. That's not what's worrying me though.

"Beverly, have you heard from Wes?" That's what's worrying me.

"No. I haven't. Not since he left home."

"I've been trying to contact him almost every hour on the hour and nothing. I've tried to contact his friends, but nothing. I don't seem to have any more pull with Starfleet. Like Owen said, I seem to have become a bit of a pariah and getting through to anyone, even cadets, has become as onerous as crossing the Strait of Gibraltar!"

"I don't think it's that, Jean Luc. I think Starfleet is changing." I'm exhausted. I'd been on autopilot today with my patients and that scares me. I know from experience that even if a patient presents with symptoms that looks "ordinary", there can always be something lurking underneath. During my first year as an attending I had a young woman present to me with a chronic clear-mucous nasal discharge. Every physician she'd been to had told her that it was simply a cold so they'd treated her with various antibiotics and antihistamines. Each time, she told me, she'd just been given a hypospray and sent on her way. Initially, I was going to do the same. But then, I noticed that her white blood cell counts were abnormal. So I did further scans and found out she had an early-stage, aggressive, cancerous tumour pressing on her maxillary sinus. It would have spread within the year and she would have died. So moral of the story is to always be vigilant. And today, I certainly was not.

A small cry sounds on the baby monitor reminding me that as much as I want to dwell on and discuss the current situation with my husband, I need to take care of matters closer to home.

I start to get up, heading towards the stairs, "I'll be right back."

"Beverly," he smiles as he lightly pushes my shoulder back down. "I'll get the baby. You've just gotten home."

I grin weakly, "Thank you," as I grab at his trailing hand, giving it a grateful squeeze.

My head falls into my hands and images of my son flood towards me. I don't know why, but I feel something is wrong. He must know we've been trying to contact him. He knew that we spoke to Admiral Paris. Almost assuredly he would want to know the fallout of that conversation. He told us he'd be in touch and he normally keeps his promises.

I hear footfall and my face lights up at the two treasures making there way towards me. "Hi, kitten!"

"Here's mom," he whispers to her as he lays kisses on her downy head.

"Let me take a good look at you, little girl. Every minute I see her it's like she's grown another inch! Oh Jean Luc, I don't want this little one to grow up; I love having a baby in the house!"

He laughs as he settles next to us and kisses my cheek, "you know what the solution for that is?"

I roll my eyes, smile, and look over at him, "make another one?" He's incorrigible! "Beverly, I'm worried about Wesley. I know I must sound like a broken record, but he would have called us by now or at least sent us a text if he were alright!"

"I know. I'm can't shake the feeling that something's wrong. Jean Luc, do you think this has to do with Starfleet? Do you think he's in any sort of danger? Would they really stoop that low?"

His shoulders sag as he hunches forward and rests his elbows heavily on his knees, "I don't know" he mutters through his hands. "I'd like to believe that they would never be that ruthless. But then, I never expected this either!"

I frown as I feel Saoirse grab at my hair, "hey there, kitten! OWCH! Owch, Jean Luc!"

He's laughing, "hey kitten! Don't pull at mommy's hair. It's finally long and I want her to keep it that way." I feel a slackening in her firm grip as he gently tugs at her little fingers, gingerly prying them away from the affected strands.

"So, what should we do about Wes?"

"I've been thinking; maybe we can try to contact Will. Maybe he can find out where Wes is."

I nod my head, "that's a good idea, Jean Luc, but we don't have accessed to privileged communication anymore. Remember when we could just locate a comm. badge and that was that? Now, though, we have to go through that whole directory again! And what if Will's on a deep space mission? Then, we-"

"Haven't got a chance of contacting him. Yes, I know. And I think I might have burned or at least charred a bridge with Owen."

"I know, but it wasn't your fault. I don't think we could have avoided charring that bridge," He's at his wit's end. I don't know what to do. I don't have a solution.

As if an omnipotent power heard our silent pleas, a small vibration and a light draw our attention to the small communicator on the ottoman. We jump, eager to find out if it's Wes.

"I don't recognize who it's from," he looks confused. "Do you know a young woman named Sophie?"

"Uh, I think she's one of Wes' friends. What does the message say?"

"She says that William is fine and to meet him at the transporter station in Ellensburg in an hour."

"Ellensburg? William?" What?

"Ellensburg is about 38 kilometers from here. We can make it in 20 minutes since there's no traffic. Beverly, this all sounds very suspicious. But if you say that Sophie is one of Wes's friends, then this must be some sort of code. I wonder why Ellensburg?"

"Does he think he's being monitored?" It's not out of the question, at this point.

"Perhaps. Well, there's really only one way to find out."