The next morning, Michael and Fiona headed out for class with the latest bunch of analysts. Today's lesson was on how to get information out of an unfriendly asset peaceably – without using threats, weapons, or torture. Fiona pouted when Michael emphasized that last part. One student was going to conduct a mock interview while the others observed, and to make it more authentic, Michael had arranged for a special guest to play the unfriendly asset.

His mom.

Madeline was feeling well enough to get out of the house for an hour or two once in a while. She didn't know what she was really doing in the class. She didn't even know it was the class. They were meeting in a conference room rather than the classroom, and the student had been given a cover ID as a CIA human resources type. Fiona told her she was being interviewed as part of the CIA's evaluation of Michael. Fiona also may have mentioned that the CIA was underwhelmed by Michael as a teacher thus far and was considering sending him to Reykjavik.

So Madeline was already in quite a mood when Michael and Fi picked her up. She may be difficult, but Madeline's a fierce mama bear when it comes to someone being mean to her baby.

"Honestly, Michael, I don't know why you put up with those assholes," she said as she got in the car. "What the hell else do they want you to do? Donate a kidney?"

"Hi, Mom."

"I'm serious. You've given them 25 years of your life. From what I gather, you nearly die on a regular basis when you're working for them, although I try very hard not to think about that. You got Saddam Hussein out of that spider hole, for Christ's sake."

"No, I didn't."

"Well, I'm sure you would've if they'd asked you to, honey."

"He certainly would have, Madeline," Fi said from the back seat. "Probably would've gotten bin Laden like 10 years earlier, too, if anyone had bothered to ask him. And I'd be sure to mention that today."

"You bet your ass I'm going to mention it. They are going to rue the day they threatened to send you to Greenland, sweetheart."

"Iceland."

"Jesus Christ, Michael, I'm trying to help you here. Do you have to correct everything I say?"

"No, you're right," said Michael. "It's just that Greenland doesn't really have any cities," he said under his breath.

"He really can be an ungrateful little snot, can't he?" Fiona chimed in.

"Has some towns. Nuuk is a town," continued Michael quietly.

"Michael," barked Madeline. "Enough."

"So, Madeline, what've you been doing the last couple of days?" Fiona asked. "You're awake more than you were at the beginning. You finding ways to pass the time?"

Michael exhaled with relief as he realized he could stay out of the rest of the conversation.

"Ugh. It's horrible. Everything on TV is just garbage now. Everything's a reality show or a talent show for people who don't strike me as all that talented. Or some court show like The People's Court used to be, but for really annoying people. I wish they could bring back Phil Donahue, god rest his soul. He's dead, right? Or wait, now, maybe I'm thinking of Mr. Rogers. Jesus, isn't that crazy, getting Phil Donahue and Mr. Rogers mixed up? I'm pretty sure at least one of them's dead. The other one should come back on TV if he's still alive, I say.

"So then I've also been trying to find some interesting stuff on the World Internet like you showed me, Fiona. Did you know they have these things where you can type in all your symptoms and the computer tells you what you have? Wow, is that ever handy. I left two messages for Dr. Cardman letting him know about that and giving him some ideas for what else I might have. You know this mole I've had forever? Over here near my earlobe? Well I'm pretty sure it changes color if you look at it in the right light. So I'll get that checked out. Things of that nature, you know."

"You know, Madeline, a lot of the medical information you find online is useless or just plain wrong," Fiona said.

"Oh, please. Why would they put it up for all the world to see if it was wrong?"

"Almost there!" Michael announced loudly.

"What are you talking about, Michael? We haven't even made it onto the freeway yet," said Madeline.

"Just wishful thinking, I suppose."

"Mrs. Westen? Hi, I'm Jonathan Dearborn. Thanks for coming in this morning. Really appreciate your time."

Jonathan Dearborn was really Joshua Davidson, a crime analyst specializing in heroin trafficking in and through Turkey. But to Madeline, he was a middle management cog collecting information about Michael.

"Hello," she said tersely, shaking his extended hand. "Wish I could say it's a pleasure to meet you."

"That's quite all right, Mrs. Westen. I'm used to being disliked."

"That's pathetic, Jonathan."

"Yep, that's what my mother says, too. Anyway, this shouldn't take very long. I just have a few questions for you."

"And you can bet I have a few answers for you," Madeline said, reaching for her cigarettes and lighter.

"I'd like to start with Michael's dietary habits."

Madeline stared at Jonathan/Joshua for a moment. "I beg your pardon?"

"His dietary habits. Strange, I know. But there's actually strong research emerging that shows an association between one's diet and one's facility with a QWERTY keyboard."

Madeline blew smoke out of the left side of her mouth. "What the hell is a QWERTY keyboard?"

"It's a standard keyboard you'd find on a computer. QWERTY refers to the order of the letters on the top row."

"Someone spent time figuring out if what you eat matters if you're trying to type?"

"A university team of someones, as a matter of fact," Jonathan said. "Very promising group out of New Brunswick."

"Who cares if Michael can type?"

"I'm afraid that's classified."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No, Mrs. Westen, I assure you I'm not."

Three floors up, Michael, Fiona, and the rest of the class were watching Madeline and Jonathan on a monitor. Everybody but Michael was howling with laughter. Michael doesn't howl, as you know, but he was as close as he gets to howling. Kind of baying with laughter.

"All right, fine. What do you want to know about Michael's diet?"

"We've noticed he consumes an unusually large volume of yogurt."

Madeline waited for him to continue. "And?"

"Can you shed any light on that, Mrs. Westen?" Jonathan asked.

"Can I shed any light on that? What the hell kind of question is that? No, I can't shed any light on that. He eats yogurt. That's it. That's the extent of my knowledge."

"Mrs. Westen, I'm sorry to have to ask such a personal question, but did you breastfeed Michael?"

Silence.

"Mrs. Westen?"

"Jonathan, you'll have to forgive me. I've been very sick with a debilitating virus for the past number of weeks, and I'm still not back to normal. I must be hallucinating. I could swear you just asked me if I breastfed Michael."

"That's exactly what I asked you, Mrs. Westen. You're not hallucinating."

Madeline blew some more smoke, then chain-lit another cigarette. "Jonathan, just so I'm making a fully-informed decision, tell me: is it a really serious crime to murder someone of your level? Like would I get the needle?"

"Mrs. Westen, we think Michael is subconsciously trying to suckle every time he eats yogurt. Yogurt is made from milk, you know."

All Madeline could do was stare. Jonathan returned her gaze for a few seconds, then burst out laughing.

"Oh, darn it, I can't believe I cracked," Jonathan panted between cackles. "You are very good, Mrs. Westen. Very, very good. Of course I don't want to know if you breastfed Michael. All that diet business is a bunch of hooey. Michael just insisted that I try to get you to tell me. I told him there's no way you would buy it, but he was relentless."

"Michael put you up to this?"

"Yep, I'm afraid so. He said you wouldn't mind, but I think he was probably wrong on that one."

"Jonathan, the next time you see Michael, you have my permission to kick him right in the balls. Jesus. Did I breastfeed Michael. What a little shit. You want a cigarette, honey?"

"Oh, no, thanks, I'm good. Does he do that kind of thing a lot? Practical jokes and whatnot?"

"Oh, honey, you wouldn't believe some of the crap he's pulled. Heh. I remember when he was in high school, maybe his junior year, somewhere around there. Anyway, he had to take driver's ed. Of course he already knew how to drive. He taught himself to drive when he was 10, I think. And he had all kinds of fake licenses. But I insisted he get a real license, and to do that he had to take driver's ed. They had it right there at the school. Well, he didn't like his teacher at all. I can't even remember why now. But he didn't like him. So you know how driver's ed cars have a brake on the passenger side for the teacher in case they have to stop suddenly? Well, Michael broke in one night and disabled the teacher's brake. The regular brake still worked, so it was still safe, but the teacher's brake wouldn't work. Michael arranged it so that he was the first one up to drive. He started off fine, but then he took off like a bat out of hell. And there was that teacher just slamming on the brakes with nothing happening." Madeline was choking from laughter by the end of her story.

"Oh my god, that's hilarious!" Jonathan said. "That poor teacher must have wet his pants."

"At the least," Madeline chuckled.

"Oh, wow, I can't stop laughing! That's just crazy. What a character Michael is," said Jonathan. "Hey, listen, Mrs. Westen, I need to excuse myself for just a few minutes. I've got to run upstairs and get one other file. Then we can start the interview. Is that okay? There's a fresh pot of coffee just down the hall if you'd like to stretch your legs."

"Sure, honey. Take your time." Madeline was still smiling. And choking a little.

"All right, I'll be back in a flash."

Michael was waiting outside the door of the viewing room when Joshua arrived. He extended his hand to Joshua, gave it a firm shake, and then began clapping. "Masterful," said Michael. "Absolutely masterful. My mother is going to kick my ass later, but it is so worth it. Tell us how you approached the assignment, Joshua."

"Aw, thanks, Michael. Well, the assignment was to get her to tell me something bad you had done. I figured there's no way any mother is going to rat out her own kid if she thinks he's really in trouble. So I had to figure out a way to get her to want to rat you out. I assumed she would want to if I got her mad enough at you. But then I worried that if I got her too mad, her maternal instinct would kick in and she would stop herself from really throwing you under the bus because she'd know it was just her anger talking. So I wanted to get her medium mad. Making her think she was the victim of one of your pranks seemed to hit just the right note. And that way she would probably tell me about another prank as opposed to something really bad you'd done. Because . . . well, no offense, Michael, but I kinda get the sense you've done some bad stuff. I'm sure it was all for good reasons, but still. Probably best I not hear about it."

"Joshua, you are wise beyond your years, my friend," said Michael. "And Joshua, not only did you achieve your objective, you did the nearly impossible on top of that. You got my mother to like you. Really, really like you. She doesn't offer her cigarettes to just anybody."

"Well, I like her, too. Asking me how bad it would be if she murdered me? I see where you get it."