It was dark and dreary. I don't know where I am. My hair is sticking to my face. I reached up to brush it away, but when I did it started to float up above me. Then it's like I've opened my eyes and I can see. I'm immersed completely in water. My eyes stung from the dirty, murky substance, but I blinked against it. I can't breathe! I feel like my lungs are being squeezed. Not a comfortable feeling, I can tell you. Above me I can make out the bright reflection of light against the water's surface. I was glad I wasn't trapped. Although the water was not clear, I could tell it wasn't too far to the surface.

I started in motion. I expected my ascent to be difficult, weighed down by my characteristic jeans and trademark long-sleeved sweater. That wasn't the case. I looked to my arms as I reached above my head to start pushing myself up to sweet, sweet oxygen. My long arms were bare, the pale skin littered with healed mutilations to my skin. Except my wrists ached and there were several ribbon-like cuts on the sides of my hands. The blood suddenly poured, tainting the dirty water red. I kicked out harder, opening my mouth to scream, but water rushed in, choking me.

Suddenly I wasn't in the water anymore. What's going on? I can't feel my body. I can't move at all! I can't see, hear, taste, touch, or smell anything. It's like my physical being has been stripped away, but I can hear voices above me, distant, and I realize I'm lying on my back. I feel heavy, but horribly exposed and I can practically feel a soft, cold, nighttime breeze whisper through my joints.

The voices come with sudden clarity as I can hear things being spoken. "The remains are wrapped in four-milled, flat poly-construction sheeting," an achingly familiar voice says. The sound echoes in my head. Am I suddenly hollow? No, that's impossible.

"PVC-coated chicken wire," a young woman's voice says. I try to gasp, but I suddenly realize I can't. I am paralyzed, completely incapable of movement. But that was my voice! It was me! My voice, but I didn't say anything!

And then I can barely think, form coherent words to myself, let alone focus. "It's weighted. That's why the body didn't surface during decomposition. The skeleton is complete, but the skull is in fragments."

It hits me with startling effect. I'm dead. I'm a skeleton. But all the cuts on my body, the fresh ones spilling blood, weren't my doing. How did I get in the lake? Was I dumped? Murdered? And why can I hear myself? Am I really losing it? Well, if I'm dead, it's not so surprising.

Everything changed again. I could feel – oh, God, I could feel such incredible, excruciating agony. I could see my own skin and body, a corporeal form again, and I never want to be a skeleton, ever. But all I can see now, while I can see, is orange and red and yellow and the blackened charring of my own flesh as I become a living barbeque meal. I'm burning alive, on fire in a world so ironically cold.

The fire intensified around my neck. I reached up to my throat. I'm not sure why; maybe I thought I could ease the pain, but I was shocked when I felt hands grasping around my throat viciously. My eyes snapped open and I was staring straight into the venomous glare of a former "father" while his hands are tightening around my neck. I can't breathe anymore, although I daresay it's better than being unable to stop inhaling fire and fumes down into my lungs.

And then there's a giant, gaping hole in his abdomen, and blood is spraying onto my stomach in effect as to his hit. He's taken a bullet, of a large caliber, and he's dead, falling away before my eyes. And the fire stops, washed away by the same water I was just in, but it never goes higher than my thighs. I'm sure I'll be treading water, but as long as I don't have to go back to being a decomposed body, I can tolerate it.

Now I'm standing over the never-was-father's body. He was dead, never going to move again. The water was draining away and taking his blood with it. I knelt down, pressing my index and middle fingers against his throat, making absolutely certain that he was gone for good. No pulse. But there was a little joystick in his hand with a red trigger, and I knew that it would be a bad idea to reach for it.

I looked back to his face. He was no longer the man I'd recognized. He was Middle-Eastern with a scarred, disfigured face. His eyes were wide open and angry, cold, calculating. The dark brown hue gave me chills. "Why did you do this to me?!" He shouted suddenly, sitting up and pressing his hands over the gaping bullet wound. The joystick rolled onto the linoleum. "I'm dead! Dead! This is your fault, you bitch! Why did you kill me?"

He snarled, reaching back for the joystick and lurching forwards. His arm snapped up to grab my wrist and hold me in place, tightly pressing against the tiny lacerations already there. I howled as he pressed the red trigger against my skin and a red-hot burn, like a poker stick or cigarette, started to sizzle against my flesh, and smoke rose up from my arm in a too-familiar sensation. I screeched, frantically tearing my arm away, but the little joystick had already done the damage. All across my inner arm, derogatory terms gleamed up at me, burnt in raw red across my pale skin. Although they'd heal, they'd be there for a while and hurt for every second. The terms used hurt and brought tears to my eyes. Whore. Bitch. Useless. Slut. Parentless. Unloved. Mistake. Freak.

I stumbled backwards, trying to escape from the monster who had branded my skin, not for the first time. I fell through the air and suddenly I was surrounded by green and brown, my arms, legs, and face being cut in sharp, stinging motions as I hurtled downwards. Green leaves slapped my face while thorns clawed at me, wanting me to stay for further abuse. Then I wasn't falling anymore; I snapped back, dangling by my head from a noose wrapped around my neck. My throat snapped backwards and my hyoid broke and pierced my carotid and jugular at once. I tried to scream out of instinct, but all I could do was choke before I fell limp, taking relief only in that if I hadn't died from the break, then I would have either suffocated or drowned in my own blood – whichever happened first.

A Hispanic teen, maybe a year younger than me at most, dangled opposite me. His muscles were pulled taut, almost making him seem like he was smiling. He was cute, as far as my attention to that goes, but black ravens were pecking at him, trying to get something from his ear to snack on. They were already eating at patches of his skin. Okay, you know, maybe not so cute. And the raven perched on his head squawked and they all started the flock to me, covering my body in their scratchy feathers and piercing me with their sharp beaks and talons.

"Aaaaah!" My scream was blood-curdling as I sat bolt upright on my couch – which was also my bed. I don't live in the nicest of places. The thin blanket fell down off of me as I jolted up, clutching at my throat and gasping. I wasn't hurt, but I was terribly shaken. I forgot about my usual desire to have something covering my body in favor of pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around myself, shivering violently. It wasn't cold, but that had been one of the most horrific nightmares I'd ever had. I wished that I had some sweats, with long legs and sleeves, but those are like, twenty dollars for a set, so I've never really bothered. It's not like anyone I know is going to come running in, and anyway, if someone breaks in, I've always got my pocketknife. It had been an unlucky coincidence that I'd forgotten the trusty Swiss army knife the one day that I'd not be able to get it for two weeks, but it had a sharp blade and a couple other apparatus that made it useful.

I just sat there, shivering, for a few minutes. A look at the window told me that it was still dark out. Great. Another night without sleeping well. For the week since I've been discharged from Special Agent Seeley Booth's care, I've slept fitfully and had several nightmares. But at least I had enough time to have a small serving of cereal before work.

After my breathing had returned to normal, and I could close my eyes without seeing scenes from my vivid night terror, I slowly uncurled myself from my position and pushed myself up off of the old furniture. The cool air rushed over me as I stood up. I suppose my sensitivity to temperature is my own fault; I always cover up my injuries, so I always wear long-sleeved sweaters or long-sleeved shirts, at the very least. I've tried wearing shrugs, because they're made less thick, but the colors usually aren't as dark and they can be seen through. Besides, loose sweaters don't pull up if you have to reach for something, and the scars crisscrossing me are numerous and almost everywhere. Although not all of the ones on my back are noticeable anymore, if you look for them, you can tell where they are. Still, there are some pretty bad ones from more recently that are pretty damn obvious. So it's quite a change to go from wearing heavy clothing to shorts and a T shirt.

Still shaking off the jitters, I went through the motions of getting ready to go to work. I still hadn't gotten any contact from the legal system regarding my testimony against the actual murderer of Martin Davis, but I knew that the courts could take a while, anyway – especially since I'd help to add Ken Thompson, Tucker Pattison, and Camden Destri onto the trial queue.

I threw on my black hoodie and actually remembered my pocketknife, adding it to my jeans pocket. I tugged the sleeves of the sweater down my arms and rolled the ends slightly so there'd be more pressure and they'd be less likely to come up if I had to reach above me. I stretched out a rubber band in case I felt like tying up my hair and pushed it over my hand and onto my wrist.

I walked to the bar, like normal, stopping temporarily by the newspaper stand outside the entrance. I recognized the picture of Hanover Preparatory and couldn't resist – I really tried. That part of your life is over, Kirkland. Get a grip. Still, I couldn't manage to convince myself to leave the stand and walk inside. But don't you want to know what happened as a result of your assistance in a federal case?... Yeah, I do, a little.

It'll hurt.

Yep, most likely.

It's pointless to spend time longing for impossibilities.

One time! Just one!

My irrational side won out and I ended up buying the twenty-five cent newspaper. I'd probably hate myself for it later, but hey, I'd have a bit of free time. Tuesdays are always slow business for this bar. I kept the newspaper folded under my arm, refusing to let my coworkers see it. It took a moment to convert back to "coworkers" meaning Helena and Jordan and our laid-back boss, Andreas, who preferred to be called Andy. It had been so much fun… Jesus Christ. I was obsessing over something pointless to worry about. I was just wasting my energy.

I did my rounds. I was waiting tables today, while Andreas was making some land payments in the back room and Helena restocked. Jordan was outside, painting with messy, bad-quality, watery paint over childish graffiti. Like I'd said, Tuesdays were slow going. I ended up with a couple of moderately-financed teens, skipping school. They ordered some of the greasy, (quite possibly poisoned) food that we offered. Helena did everything except serve it, which I did. I also got an adult who looked pretty worse for wear, her long blonde hair frizzy and her makeup smudged. It wasn't my job to pry, so I just pretended not to notice.

I'd have to say that, out of the four of us staffing the place, I was probably the most collected. Of course, when Jordan came back to get a new pair of clean gloves, he was whining and complaining. Helena was bustling around, switching out old alcohol for the newer shipments and cleaning out burners in the outdated kitchen equipment. I didn't see Andreas. I was lazily sitting on the bar top, reading the newspaper.

HANOVER PREPARATORY: EXCLUSIVE MURDER COURSES OFFERED?

Hanover Preparatory Academy, a prestigious school for the wealthy and politically-secure figures' children, has just lost their headmaster and head of security over murder charges against two of the students, Miss Camden Destri and Mr. Tucker Pattison. The victim was Nester Olivos, son of the Venezuelan ambassador. The headmaster and security leader were convicted due to lying about an official investigation to a foreign ambassador, which led to drastic measures being taken, which resulted in the assault of a ward of the federal government.

I groaned, already realizing that the press was getting their dirty paws on information about me… again! I touched my cheek subconsciously. Although the cut had healed already without a scar (which I was grateful for), it had still been just over a week ago, and I remembered the incident vividly – mostly because of the actions Booth had taken afterwards. To now, I was glad he'd restrained me. I didn't want to have hurt him or Brennan just because I'd been taken by surprise, but when I'm on defensive, I lose it a little.

This, readers, is where our story gets a bit more interesting! This peculiar "ward of the federal government" happens to be none other than Miss Holly Kirkland, the same one who shot Senator Bethlehem's personal aid in self-defense, saving both her life and the life of renowned author Dr. Temperance Brennan. And let's not forget the incident at the Hamilton Cultural Center, where Miss Kirkland was in the process of stopping an Arabian terrorist from setting off a bomb. How was she privy to this information? We attempted to interview her on the way out, but she badgered us away with the help of her apparent protector, Special Agent Seeley Booth.

Even more intriguing is that, although sources have confirmed damage was done to her assaulter that was excess to what she suffered, the Venezuelan officials chose not to press charges. Instead, Ambassador Olivos has expressed her gratitude and willingness to defend Miss Kirkland if she is required to make a court appearance regarding the incident.

I set the newspaper down beside me and rubbed my eyes. Great. The paparazzi weren't done with me yet. I'd been hoping I was old news by now, but apparently they didn't have anything better to do with their time than stalk a seventeen year old.

"Holly?" Andreas was at my side for the first time. "Can I talk to you?"

I concealed a sigh, pushing myself off of the tabletop and landing smoothly onto my feet. "Hey, Andy. Look, I know I was gone a while, but the FBI said they would take care of it for me. Do you need proof?" I slid the newspaper over closer to him. "There. I was with the FBI, beating up Venezuelan officials. To my defense, the rat attacked me first."

Andreas didn't bother even looking down at the paper. "That's what I wanted to talk about, Holly," he said.

Andreas was pretty laid-back. Really. He was friendly most times, and his demeanor wasn't one of superiority or threat now, but he still wasn't as happy as he normally was. Andreas was one of those sickeningly optimistic people that always look on the bright side. In a way, it's laudable, but to me, it feels like they're refusing to acknowledge factual probabilities of their situations, and it makes me want to throw up with their cheery rainbow pep talks. I mean, if everyone around me starts acting like rainbows and butterflies, I think I'd kill myself with a two-by-four.

I didn't answer directly, instead blinking at him. Andreas was used to my antisocial behavior, so he took it as the intended cue. "Holly, why were you with them in the first place?" Andreas was never one to beat around the bush, which was one of the two reasons why I'd never actually punched him in the face. I hate when people try to "break the ice" but end up just making things frustrating. "They're the government. I'm glad you felt like you were helping them, but they're not… you can't run with them. Government stooges won't help you, not in your position. Were you the one that started it? Because if so, we need to talk about the consequences of moonlighting."

I instantly tensed at the insult to my… friends, I guess. Were we really friends? "I wasn't moonlighting!" I said instantly, more worried at losing my job than defending them, although I did that promptly after. "You want to know why I was with them? They wanted me to stay with them, because I was picked up for suspicions of murder on that dead gang leader, Davis. They realized I would be high on the kill list of his cronies and so they kept me with them for my protection. I helped them because there are people that shouldn't be allowed free. And, with all due respect, Andy, it's one thing to express concern over my professional appearances, but your opinion of them in incorrect and made because of prejudice. You've never met them and you were out of line interfering in my personal affairs. Despite that I usually try to be nice to you, your face is beginning to look like a punching bag rather quickly. I advise you shut up and go away."

Andreas seemed to realize he'd prodded at the wrong place. He left me without retribution.

After the day had passed, I checked the analog clock over the wall. It was approaching eleven. I turned back to reorganize menus and such before I took my leave.

I heard the form approaching behind me. By the footsteps and speed, it was probably a tall guy with a bit of muscle. He had a confident gait. But when he stopped at the bar, I resumed what I was doing and didn't turn back. If he wanted something, he could use his words.

He cleared his throat. "Miss."

Rewarding him for using English, I turned slowly, about to wryly congratulate him on mastering speech before being thrown for a complete loop. Special Agent Seeley Booth was standing and leaning against the counter, propping himself up with his elbow and cocking an eyebrow at my first hostile, then startled expressions. "Booth!" I exclaimed, startled. "Are you arresting me again?" Although it was probably self-destructive, I couldn't help but be slightly hopeful.

Booth narrowed his eyes at me for a moment. "Nothing so glamorous," he said after a moment of scrutiny. He seemed like he was wondering what was wrong with me. "But… there is a report come in, and Bones will be there, and she's bringing the squint squad, so…"

I cocked my head at him. "I'm not selling you alcohol just because you don't like Dr. Brennan's colleagues," I said firmly.

Booth rolled his eyes. "I don't come all the way over here for alcohol," he said, sounding like his real reason for being here was so obvious, he was physically pained. "I came here to get the junior squint."

I blinked and looked behind me, then back at him and pointed at myself silently. He couldn't be serious. Booth nodded slowly at me, a grin spreading on his face.

I frowned and shook my head. This was too good to be true. And it was all wrong! I was a seventeen year old bitch from the slums. I should be here, working at a lame, unhealthy bar, not being publicly thanked by foreign political ambassadors and being extended personal invitations to work with the best science team in the world. "I'm pretty sure that's illegal now," I said, hoping the longing wasn't as obvious to Booth as it was to me. "My loophole in was through you. I have no federal ties to you now that the Davis investigation has been closed."

Booth wagged his finger at me. "I didn't say 'junior agent.' I said 'junior squint.'"

I looked down at the tabletop before looking back up. "You mean the Jeffersonian team wanted you to get me?" Booth nodded with a bright smile, practically screaming 'bingo.' I felt my resolve slipping; if this is a dream, please don't ever let me wake up! "Will the paperwork be sent here so I stay excused?" I asked. Booth gave me a thumbs-up, like he'd already thought through all of my possible objections. This did it. I was being extended an invitation personally through the Jeffersonian Institution and it wouldn't be detrimental to my work, other than meaning I had to be a little tight on money. I could live with that! I let the faint traces of a smile appear on my face, unable to contain it. I looked over my shoulder. "Helena! I'm taking off with the FBI. Tell Andy it's authorized!" Although Helena didn't like me, I knew she would do as I asked.

I vaulted over the countertop and landed adeptly next to Booth, sending a rogue smile to the agent. "Good! You're on board!" Booth smiled and turned, trusting me to follow him out of the bar.

Looks like my fairytale's not quite over, after all.

An hour later found me in a field behind a pretty big mall. Like most malls, it was the epitome of civilization, until you looked back behind it. There were fields with overgrown grass and shrubbery; an ideal place to hide a body for a while. However, it wasn't much of a secretive place now. It was swarming with authority vans. There was a CSI van, squad cars, a few black SUVs, and of course, the SUV Booth and I came in. The only thing that really seemed out of place was a silver car that must be thousands of dollars, but it was parked up by the CSI car like it was no big deal.

"The anonymous call came in a couple hours ago," a policeman was saying. "No sign of him yet."

"How do you know it wasn't a prank?" Booth shifted, putting his hands in his jacket pockets. Although it was, like, midnight, it was pretty easy to see, considering all the lights that the police had out.

The officer fumbled for a moment with a recorder, then found the right button and a grainy, but audible tape began to play of the call. "You have to come right away!" A girl's voice. She was in her teenage years. She was scared, that was obvious, but something about the way her tones didn't quite match made me think maybe she had something more than adrenaline in her system. "There's, like, a dead kid here, all rotted away! It's in the field behind Clayton Hills Mall. You better come!"

"Sounds pretty realistic to me," I observed, shrugging. I didn't know if Brennan and Booth actually cared what I thought, but I was pretty sure they wanted me to do something. "Tonal variation can be accounted for by the typical reasons for being in a field at night; drugs, alcohol, roofies to get high. Whatever it is, the fear is real. The thing is, you have to take into account that there's something in the system that's not supposed to be. There may not really be a corpse," I said earnestly. Although I didn't want to have to go back to my reality so soon, I couldn't change the facts. "Something looked weird and a deluded mind chose that a corpse was what it would interpret."

"That could be very true, but we have to assume that it's a real kid," the police officer said, nodding to me before doing a double take. "I'm sorry – who let you in here? This is a crime scene!"

Booth stepped forward slightly. "Whoa, whoa, buddy," he said as the officer started to advance. "She's with us. And just a warning; if you touch her, she will break you."

"Not necessarily," I grumbled.

"Why anonymous?" Brennan asked suddenly.

"Kids come here to party and misbehave," the officer said by means of explanation, still casting weary looks at me now that he'd noticed me.

Brennan looked to the officer and began to explain in anthropological terms and only she and I were probably comfortable with. "Adolescents and preadolescents tend to seek out their own space to establish their own society, to counter parental influence."

The police officer crossed his arms. I recognized the gesture; it could be either hostile or defensive, but the way he started to curb his speech suggested it was leaning more towards the former, so I stepped closer to Brennan almost protectively. I'd fight for her if it came to it, although I doubted it would. "You mind if I make an observation?" The officer asked.

"No, of course not," Brennan replied, furrowing her eyebrows as if confused why he would even ask.

"In your book, the cops come off as very one-dimensional. Why is that?"

"You mean two-dimensional," Brennan corrected quickly. She wasn't avoiding the question, she was just trying to better his understanding. Although she came off as aloof, she wasn't trying to be rude.

"One-dimensionality exists only in theory as a mathematical value," came a prompt explanation from behind me. I turned around and my expression must have brightened. Zach was carrying a bag of crime scene equipment, but he'd come to stand beside Brennan loyally.

"Okay," the officer said, rolling his eyes up to the sky almost unnoticeably. "Really looking forward to your next book," he added by the wayside, almost sounding scathing as he turned to go to the coroners' van.

Brennan looked to Zach. "Did you bring the thermal imager?"

"I don't think we need it," Zach said doggedly and a bit too quickly. Brennan gave him a long look that was normally reserved for when people are trying to get them to give in. Zach's shoulders slumped. "It makes me look like the Great Gazoo," he complained.

Brennan frowned for a moment at the term, but brushed it off. "I don't know what that means, but we definitely need it, Zach." Zach sighed, his expression downcast, and turned to trudge back to the CSI van.

I kept myself sort of close to Zach so that I wasn't blocking his view. I was knee-high in overgrown grasses and uncomfortably pulling at the edges of my latex gloves. I understood why wearing them was a requirement if I wanted to be part of the CSI team, but all the same, I'd had a week to get used to not having to wear them. Booth and Brennan trailed behind us. Zach wore this huge helmet-like thing. It was actually a thermal imager, not a helmet. It would detect any unusual heat signatures. If there was a dead boy here, Zach would find him quickly.

"How's it going there, Darth?" Booth asked suddenly, raising his voice to be heard. "See anything on Saturn?" There was a pause, during which I rolled my eyes, and Booth's voice dropped, so I guess he was talking to Brennan. "Oh, please tell me you've seen at least one Star Wars movie."

"When I was seven," Brennan said, disapproval ringing clear. "And leave Zach alone."

"Can we please hurry up?" Zach interrupted, disgruntled. "It's stuffy in here." I ducked my head as I had to choke down a laugh. Poor Zach. "I should be able to see any heat residue released from decomposing bodies."

Zach paused a few minutes later and deeper into the field, where I suppose he picked up some unusual readings from the thermal imager. I read into his sudden hesitation and narrowed my eyes, squinting into the blackness to try and make out more details. I bent over, trying to see better. "No corpses here," I reported after carefully scrutinizing for a moment. "But it does look like there was a fire not long ago." I pointed out to some cylindrical shapes tossed down by some charred sticks. "Someone was either smoking or had drugs."

"Party central," Booth muttered.

"Because suburbs are so homogeneous, adolescents tend to rebel in predictable and uniform ways," Brennan dictated casually as Zach took my word for it and continued on. "Fire, illicit substances, wayward behavior."

"Do you think that 'wayward behavior' would include abducting a six-year-old child?" Booth deadpanned.

I slowed considerably before realizing it and had to jog for a couple of seconds to come back by Zach's side. "You didn't say we were looking for a child," I said to Booth, my voice betraying my emotions on the subject. Why a child, of all people? Children were sweet and innocent. They should be protected, not murdered and dumped in some overgrown field to be discovered by delinquents.

"I was not aware that it would affect the circumstances," Brennan replied to me, before continuing in her talk with Booth. "It's pretty extreme. Adolescents are more likely to drink alcohol and listen to culturally inappropriate music at high volume."

"Like songs about suicide, abuse, and overall violent or depressing themes?" I asked, letting my head roll back to look up at the sky for a moment.

"Yes, exactly," Brennan replied, sounding pleased that I'd understood precisely what she meant.

"Good to know," I said, not about to tell that that was a lot of the music that I listened to.

Zach stopped suddenly and at an angle in the middle of a turn. I bumped into him and jumped backwards, snapping my arms tightly to my sides and breathing heavily for a moment. God, I hated how I was so adverse to touch, even with people who expressed friendliness, but… I just couldn't help it. No friends equals no trust.

"I'm picking something up," Zach said as an explanation to his sudden halt. Zach reached up to his head and lifted the imager off, bringing it down to hold against his stomach. "Oh my God."

"What?" Booth asked, on guard. "Why'd you stop?"

"You can turn on your flashlight," Zach told me. I'd refrained from doing so because the excess light could have tricked the imager. I retrieved it from my back pocket and flipped the switch, letting the startlingly bright light illuminate the grass and Zach's shoes. "Aim it over there," the graduate said, pointing in front of us. Looking closely, I could already tell that something was there. The grass was bent and doubled over. I shone the light over and the deference was even sharper than I'd thought. I motioned with the hand not holding the flashlight at Zach to stay here and took small steps closer until I could look into the depression.

A child's body was lying on the ground, some grass stalks poking through the slender ribcage. Fusion on the innominate bones told me that the anonymous caller had been correct in her call that it was a male. Lack of complete fusion in the cranial sutures and yet the set of dentals implied that it was a child under the age of eight but older than five. He wasn't completely decomposed. Around his sternum and over the clearly-defined ribs was blackened, rotted flesh sinking inwards. The internal organs must have already drained and/or rotted away. Very little tissue remained on the skull and almost none were on the arms and legs. My breath caught in my throat as my eyes stung before I blinked the sudden tears away. "It's a kid," I said, looking up and keeping my flashlight miraculously steady on the remains. "Older than a toddler, not a preteen yet. Male. Could very well be the six-year old Booth mentioned."

Zach looked down at the ground, unhappy with this discovery. Booth looked away, not wanting to see, and Brennan's shoulders slumped slightly. Something tells me this one will pull on the heartstrings.

A/N: Yes, I skipped "The Man in the Bear." It was on purpose and the week that Holly wasn't with the Jeffersonian is when that took place.

Note to a review from Sarah: Yes, it is on Quotev, and I just want to assure you that it's not stolen or plagiarized or anything like that. I'm the one posting it on FFN, and I'm the one that posted it on Quotev. I'm only adding it to another fanfiction website because sometimes Quotev doesn't work right when I tell it to update.

And on that note, ElysiumPhoenix, there is quite a bit more. I currently have up to "The Woman in the Tunnel" written out and on Quotev, but I haven't gotten to the point of adding it all to FFN yet.