The sun is at its zenith; its rays are shining brightly in through the windows of the house. I love the sun, and any other day I would welcome its warmth. But, right now the cheery disposition is grating on my nerves. Where are the damn clouds when you need them?

We've called everyone that we could think of. Nothing. We have no inkling of where he could be. We've tried looking in his mail, but that brought nothing as well. All we can do is wait. And the waiting is agonising.

"Beverly?" He walks over to me.

The wall has taken an interest to my eyes and I'm so wrapped in my thoughts that I don't feel the slight vibration in my hand as the device taken from me.

"Hello?" His response to the communicator is dramatic as his shoulders slump and a visible shudder wracks him. "Wes… Where are you?"

Wesley! He's called. Where is he? Is he coming home? Patience, Beverly...

He removes the device from his ear and activates the speaker. "Mom, Dad, I'm in trouble. I can't talk long. Umm, I, really messed up and I need you to come get me."

"Wesley!" Tears come to my eyes. I'm relieved, but what possible trouble could he be in. I move closer to my husband and huddle as close as I can to the small device.

"Hi Mom." His voice is too serene. "Listen, please come. I'm sorry and I'll explain everything when you get here."

"Where are you, Wesley?" Jean Luc asks with a forced calmness.

"The Daystrom Institute. That's where they're holding me. Please."

My stomach falls out, "Who's holding you, Wes?"

"I can talk right now. Just come." And the line is cut off.

We let the moment sink. But now, more questions come. Why would he be at the Daystrom Institute? Purportedly, he was offered a position there, but he never accepted it when he decided to go to UW instead.

I look over at my husband, "Jean Luc?" He looks worried. Does he know something?

The colour has drained from his face. "Oh, God, Beverly… we have to go."

We leave the house, taking nothing with us. The car ride to the town is silent. I want to ask him what he knows. What could possibly be going on with Wes? Why did he sound like that? What could the Daystrom Institute want?

I'm in a daze so much so that I don't realize that the car's home to a stop. Like always, I'm glad the Jean Luc has the presence of mind to be sharp and focused in the face of even extreme stress. Usually, I am too. I've been in situations like this before.

The passenger door is opened and I'm quickly pulled to my feet before I hear the it slam shut behind me. His pace is quick as we run into the transporter station.

Damn: there's a line.

In my distraction, I'm so foolishly focused on the minutest, most inconsequential, things – the colour of a girl's shirt, the long braids adorning that woman's head, how bright the lights are… - as my mind runs in circles. Peripherally I hear Jean Luc's strained tone, "We need to transport to San Francisco immediately. Please," he supplicates to the operator, "it's an emergency."

Phil, the operator is a good friend of ours; he sees Wes and Jean Luc twice a day and they've developed a congenial relationship. I treat Phil and his family at the practice; they're good people and my love for him is only enhanced when he makes an exception as he allows us to cut the line and transport immediately.

I note the disgruntled looks of some of the patrons who have diligently waited their turn as we dematerialize into a familiar shade of blue.