I woke up not with the gentle stroking of someone's hand or by the light beeping of a machine, but by a coarse coughing that still filled my lunges. It felt like the thick, black smoke was still coursing through the air.

I didn't know where I was. These pale, blue walls didn't look like the hospital walls of the Gallagher Academy. I glanced around for someone familiar, but there wasn't even a single person near me. Something felt very wrong. I was getting out of here.

I felt my arm for an IV and yanked once I found it. I tried to sit up and get out of the rolling bed, but I was too weak to manage that all at once. Alright, small steps. I carefully raised myself to the edge of the bed. I counted to three and pushed myself off with all my force.

The landing was wobbly, but I was upright. I made my way to the door, the whole world still wobbling. I pushed down on the doorknob, but it didn't budge. Why would someone want to lock me into a hospital room?

There were no windows to the outside hall, so I didn't have any warning before the door swung open and hit me square in the face. "Cameron Morgan?"

I looked up to see a perplexed man in a suit looking down on me. I smiled, "Present."

"Did you pull your IV out?" He quizzed.

I nodded, "Just going for a stroll."

"I'm afraid that's out of the question," he said. "Why don't you lie back down? We need to talk."

"Alright," I agreed reluctantly. I sat up in the bed. "Who did you say you were?"

"I didn't," he responded.

"Well, I'm certainly not talking to you if I have no idea who you are," I explained.

He sighed, "Officer Ryan. I'm with the CIA."

"Is that where we are?"

"Yes, we're in a CIA facility."

"I'm going to need to see some kind of identification."

He passed over ID's and documents until I was satisfied that he probably wasn't impersonating an agent.

"Why did you leave Abigail Cameron's vehicle after you were told you were being escorted to a safe house?" He pressed.

I shrugged, "Car sickness."

"This is easier if you tell me everything."

"And if I don't?"

"There's no point. You're smart enough to know what kind of situation you're in. There isn't an easy way out for you if you don't talk," he chided. "No one from your school is going to be able to get you out of this one."

"I wanted to go after the Circle," I began. "The CIA wasn't going to do anything. I had to do something."

He smiled, veiled insult aside, and continued with his questioning, which I answered somewhat truthfully. By the end, I had told him an almost factual account of the entire incident.

"One last question, what was on the flash drive you gave to Catherine Goode?" He asked it so casually, but I knew that it was a much more pressing question than he was letting on, but surely they got the real flashdrive out of my pocket and realized it was a decoy.

"Surely you know," I said.

"It was blank," he frowned. "Why would Catherine Goode go through such lengths for a blank flash drive?"

I shrugged, "Like I said, Zach and I got the drive out of the safe. We got separated in the explosion. She threatened me and took it. I never had a chance to see what was on it. I just assumed that something in a safe like that is valuable I guess."

He nodded, not fully believing. He closed his notepad and moved to leave. "I'll send the nurse in to put that IV back in. Please stay where you are and cooperate with the nurse. You have some fairly serious injuries."

"This is quite the combination of injuries you've got yourself," a stern nurse tutted as she read through my medical file. "Let's see, sprained ankle, probably the least of your problems, badly skinned legs. You nearly ripped all the skin off of them, did you know?"

I looked down at the bandages all over my legs. I guess that explained some of the blood. The nurse continued, "Concussion, obviously. Not your first either. You need to be more careful about that.

"You inhaled a very serious amount of smoke," she scolded. "And then of course, there's the bullet hole in the right side of your chest. You were very lucky. Clean through. No lungs or major arteries hit. Of course, you won't feel so lucky as you recover from something nasty like that, but nonetheless, that's about as good as it gets for something like that."

I nodded, "Is that all?"

She sighed, "You say that like you were expecting more, my dear. Yes, yes, that's all you've got."

I drifted off back into a drug-induced sleep.

After a few more days of solitude and hospital care, I was released into Officer Ryan's custody. "Am I going back to the Gallagher Academy?" I asked.

He shook his head, "Someone wants to speak with you first."

After a short car ride, I was being led into a building I knew quite well: the CIA headquarters in Langly. I turned to Officer Ryan, "What are we doing here?"

"I told you," he said, "someone wants to speak with you."

The office I was sat in was that of the Director of Clandestine Services. So I guess you could say this was someone important. I'll admit it: most Gallagher Academy attendees don't get to visit this kind of office during their time in school.

"Cameron Morgan," a slightly jovial voice greeted me as he walked in, "in the flesh."

I moved to shake his hand, but my arm was bound by a sling. He smiled, "Best let that heal. I'm Frank Price, Director of Clandestine Service."

"Nice to meet you," I greeted.

"Cameron, can I call you that?" I shrugged, and he continued, "Cameron, we all owe you a great deal."

"Sir, I don't understand," I said. "I didn't really do anything but get shot."

He chuckled in a manner that seemed too forced, "But you recovered the flash drive, did you not?"

"It was empty."

He shifted his weight, "Yes, well, Cameron, that's why you're here."

"One of a few reasons," he quickly corrected himself.

"Go on," I prodded.

"We believe there were two flash drives. We managed to recover video footage from the office, and we clearly see you grabbing another flash drive from a desk. It was a brilliant move to deceive Ms. Goode, but certainly now you are safe to hand it over to us."

"Sir," I began, "I was unconscious in a CIA holding center for several days. I don't have any of the clothing I was wearing on the day. I don't really know where you think I could be hiding it."

"Yes, of course," he frowned. Mr. Price jotted something down onto a file and pressed the intercom, "Stacy, I have something for you to grab."

The secretary who had led me into his office grabbed the file and swiftly fled the room. Mr. Price turned back to me and said, "Now, I did say that wasn't the only reason you were here."

He looked me deep in the eyes as if he were looking for something. "Cameron, the CIA has not received your application for employment after your graduation this month from the Gallagher Academy."

"Yes, sir," I said, "I did not submit one."

"You've chosen a different agency then?" He seemed disappointed. "I can't help but feel remiss. We all assumed with your parents and family connections to the CIA that we'd be your first choice. But who is the lucky agency then?"

I shrugged, "I didn't apply anywhere."

"Excellent!" He clapped. "This has certainly been a rather unusual semester for you, but we can get things squared away for you here then. The application is really only a formality for someone like you."

I shook my head, "Honestly, sir, my parents and family connections to the CIA are why I didn't apply."

"Everyone here is torn to pieces by what happened to your mother, Cameron," he consoled. "Just as we were for your father. It was a true tragedy, but she died doing what she loved. She was fighting for her country."

"Yes, well, I'd prefer something else, I think."

He seemed to boil over, but as he squeezed a squishy ball on his desk, his anger dropped noticeably. He pulled out a file from the middle of a tall stack. I could see from across the desk that the side of the file read, "Cameron Ann Morgan." What I would give to see the inside of that file.

Mr. Price marked something down and then turned to me once more, "Cameron, why don't we make a deal? You go back to Gallagher Academy, finish up the year, and then give me a call. You certainly don't need to make a decision right now, and if you want to decide or even just talk before then, give me a call."

He held out a hand with his business card. I grabbed it with my working arm and awkwardly shook his hard. I replied, "Alright, sir. Thank you for your time."

I stood up to leave when Mr. Price called, "Oh, and Cameron? We all truly are sorry for your loss."

"Thanks."

And with that, I left the CIA Headquarters for what I hoped would be the last time.