I was trying not to get a very good look at all the remains, but Kelly DeMarco lain out on the examination table was a gruesome sight. Still, with my latex gloves and lab jacket, I seemed as professional and unaffected as Zach, who stood over the body analytically.

"Kelly DeMarco," he said into a small recorder to officially record the exhumation. "Age thirty-wo, dead of lung cancer two months ago."

"Mesothelioma," I said to Booth. "Same type as Amy."

Brennan, holding a stainless steel tray, gingerly sat down a bone onto the dish for transport. "Take a biopsy of this ulna graft from Miss DeMarco," she started to instruct, holding it close to her and moving over to Zach to give it to him. "Compare it with the core sample from Amy's leg."

Anxious for results, Booth flipped his phone open and shut repeatedly against his leg. "Look, I spoke to DeMarco's husband. She, uh, had the accident, she had all the operations." Sighing, he looked up at the ceiling. "You know, she never smoked a cigarette in her whole life… only to die of lung cancer eight months ago."

"Yeah." I swallowed thickly. Amy was the same – no cigarettes, no drugs, no anything expressly stupid or potentially life-threatening except a deceptively harmless vacation to go skiing. "None of this is fair, but there's nothing we can really do about this except to just… figure out why it happened and who did it."

That hurt to admit. It's not to say that I wasn't positively furious – because I was, hell, I was – but there was just so little I could do that there was no use in channeling that particular emotion. I had no vent for it, no one to take it out on at the moment. If it were a living killer than I could stop them, but as it was, the only damage inflicted had already been done. Nothing would make cancer back off, no matter how big the gun or sharp the knife or powerful the punch. The best focus for my energy was to find the people I could blame… and a little bit of an assault could be called self-defense, right?

Besides, after what they'd done to his daughter, I highly doubt Cullen would blame me. If anything, he'd probably be cheering.

"When your number's up, I guess, right?" Zach tried to offer, sliding a Petri dish underneath a high-resolution microscope while putting the tray Brennan had given him to the side for a moment. I think he meant to be consoling, but a moment later he continued with a confused frown. "I never understood that saying… 'when your number's up.' Numbers and equations are quantitative and predictable. Everyone knows when 'a number's up.'"

Booth stared at Zach carefully as if he expected there to be a punch line. "How do you listen to this all day?" He complained.

Giving Booth an almost unreadable expression, Brennan responded calmly, "I find intelligence soothing."

"It's amazing how quickly this spread," Zach continued, oblivious to the discussion over whether his ineptitude was intolerable or placating. "The grafts went into this woman's body and within weeks, the cancer cells metastasized to her lungs. By then, the disease was unstoppable."

"Same bones, same donor, same disease," Brennan concluded finally, sighing.

"Look, I've got three agents out there right now searching for BioTech." Although it wasn't an FBI case (yet), Booth was still a respected officer and probably had younger and older agents alike ready and willing to help him off of the record. Being part of an organization like that is more than just business, I suppose. "But all we have to work on is this email address assigned to a fictitious name. So let's just say that Ogden and this, uh, fake tissue lab are in cahoots. How many other bones out there can be from the same donor?"

You really don't want to know.

Zach eyed Booth carefully. I had the feeling that the intern was trying to decide how likely it was for him to be the recipient of a bad attitude if he gave the answer Booth didn't realize he didn't want to hear. Finally, I guess his ethical compulsion to tell the truth outweighed his sense of self-preservation. "There are two hundred and six bones in the human body, Agent Booth. Of those, any number of them are graft-able."

Booth's eyes went wide as he fully realized the potential extent of the damage done. "Okay," he said slowly, clenching his hands into fists and looking in alarm between myself and Zach. "You're saying that hundreds of people could still be out there with cancer time bombs in them and not even realize it?"

"I told you," I said emphatically, nodding truthfully. "You're right about this being like a serial killer…" His face fell and he started to turn, taking the effort to stop himself from swearing. He bit down on his lip. "Except this is a lot harder to stop, especially because the victims are already being subtly attacked."

Brennan pointed towards the phone by the nearest computer. Because we were in the middle of an exhumation, and she was still wearing her gloves, she didn't go for it right away. "We need to call every hospital in the D.C. area," she proclaimed, growing agitated. "If they acquired BioTech grafts at the same time as Amy, those recipients need to be tracked down and tested immediately."

Alexandra had gotten one person's records for us out of curiosity. Technically, she wasn't supposed to give them to us, but the urgency of the situation had gotten to her. With probable cause, Booth could now get FBI agents to comb through the hospital's files and find other potential cancer risks. He flipped his phone open to make the call and give the order. "Fine. If you're right, then the bureau can officially designate this a serial killing!"

The computer beeped. Zach held the tray with the ulna on both ends for balance and security, but he leaned to the side to see what the alert was for. "Agent Booth, the records you've been waiting for," he called helpfully before continuing on to take the biopsy.

The agent walked around the table, giving Brennan and I a wide space to move around without running into him, then pushed in the chair in front of the monitor to stand while he read. It was the file from Ogden's personal record, which he'd called for when Alexandra mentioned those 'closeted skeletons.' In the meantime, I picked up the recorder Zach had left and held it in one hand in case I saw something that wasn't in the official cause of death report. I carefully left DeMarco's arm, held open by pins where the ulna had been removed, well alone.

"Oh, look at this. Alexandra Combs… she wasn't lying." I paused to listen to Booth talk, still doing an inventory of the ashen skin, cold and stiff in death. "Background check turns up that Ogden was fired from a private hospital in Denver."

"Reason?" Brennan prompted.

"Accepting a bribe for bumping someone up on the donor lists." Well, his tune had certainly changed, I thought derisively, reflecting to when he had blatantly shot down the idea of taking bribes. Maybe his retribution was why. Booth shook his head. "This guy is dirty."

I could have gone with them to interrogate Ogden, but I had a promise to fulfill, a stomach that needed fed, and a girl who needed a visitor, so instead of interrogating a transplant coordinator, I stopped at the most popular fast food joint in America before going to visit Amy again, white and red bags with golden arches in tow.

They let me take Amy out to the hospital's courtyard. It's like a little park, except it's got doctors and nurses supervising in case there's ever a problem, and it's pretty big, with benches and flowers and a fountain and even a playground for children who aren't well enough to be discharged but were getting cabin fever anyway.

Amy balled up the paper wrapper of a cheeseburger, still clad in her gown. Although it probably wasn't too comfortable to wear that with no extra layers, it was too warm outside to justify wearing another jacket over it for her. As for me, I'll put up with a lot to keep my arms covered.

"I forgot how great it is to eat unhealthy, greasy junk food from McDonald's," Amy proclaimed, humming happily as she bit into crisp, golden French fries pulled from her meal.

I laughed at how utterly sated she seemed just by the meal. "Hey, I told you I'd bring peace offerings," I reminded her, halfway through my own order of fries. Between the two of us, we must have plowed through well over ten dollars of food – burgers, nuggets, fries, and drinks – in maybe fifteen minutes, while talking in the meantime about Amy's courses. It turned out that last year she had taken art history both semesters as an elective, as well as first-year business in the first two quarters and speech and debate in the final half of the year. She was considering taking Spanish in the coming year, since the prevalence of the language was rising. "I'm sure your parents would get you fast food sometimes if you wanted."

I don't know as I'd tell her, because it's not my place to tell her how her dad acts when he's not actively filling the role of her father, but when he's around Amy I could mistake him for a totally different person. She's got him under her thumb, whether or not she realizes it.

"I haven't asked," she told me, looking down and frowning. I realized too late that I'd accidentally steered it into an awkward topic. "There's just so much going on, you know? … So much to feel. I don't know if I'll ever be able to do something like… like what Angela does. Her artwork is amazing. She's so good at what she does, and I…"

I understood the want to have things and skills now, in the moment, rather than years later, but I felt like Amy was pushing herself for a maturity she didn't have, couldn't gain without giving herself time to age, and as she learned she couldn't force herself into that, she was becoming more disappointed. "You'll get there," I told her, picking up the cold cardboard cup of fruit punch from next to my leg on the bench we shared. "You're fifteen, Amy. Give yourself the time to develop your skills, your personality, and your art style."

"Well, I may not have a lot of that." She reminded me solemnly.

It made me stop drinking. Although my throat was dry, I put my punch down and swallowed.

"Her paintings and her sculptures… they're alive, you know?" While Amy talked, it was a little hard to understand exactly what she meant, but I could remember how all of Angela's artwork seemed to have an individualistic flair – like the holographic Easter basket, or the pirate that resembled Hodgins more than a little bit. "It's like she's showing me how she felt when she painted them, what she's experienced…" She sighed deeply, setting her fries back in the bag. I guess she lost her appetite. "I can't paint what I don't know."

I set the last of my own food aside and sucked the salt off of my fingers for the lack of napkins. Carefully, I tried to decide how to phrase it without being overly sensitive or tactless. "You're living through a situation that most people will never be able to understand."

Amy looked up at me. I still had a good little bit of height on her, although whether it was genetics or age, I don't think I'd get to find out. "You mean dying?" She asked, putting into words what I'd avoided saying. She pursed her lips and shook her head, looking back to children swinging and being pushed by their parents. "It's not enough."

I turned around, resituating my legs so that I was sitting sideways on the bench and facing the younger teenager. "Look," I said, completely serious. What she's doing now? I understand it as best as I can, but she's hurting herself longing after something she's already accepted she may not have. "I was kidnapped and stabbed. I nearly died. I thought I was as good as dead, and then I suddenly wasn't.

"I had my whole world flipped upside down and I was shaken up. I had a panic attack, I stared questioning myself and my abilities, my means of protecting myself and my safety – all that jazz. Then, on top of that, I had to learn that Booth is my father, and the stress of things that have happened since. I…" I took a deep breath. Recounting everything was just a blunt reminder of everything that I'd had to live with, but, more and more, it was seeming less like a list of awful trials and more like a list of what I'd overcome. "It's a lot, Amy. Don't let anyone, even yourself, convince you otherwise. If you want to experience more, then that's fine. I understand wanting to live what you haven't had the opportunity to, just… don't sell yourself short."

"You're still alive, though." Amy shrugged. "You were able to survive. I probably won't." Where a lot of people may have been bitter, Amy was just simple and factual. She'd gotten as used to it as possible that people she saw today would probably outlive her, barring any serious accidents. "I won't pretend to know everything you've done, or what you've felt. I know you graduated early, and you investigate murders, and you've been in more danger than I can really think about. That's great for you," she hurried to establish, offering a shaky, hesitant smile for only and second. "And maybe it's what makes you happy, but I want more than that. I want to live and learn, with my art, and driving, and school, and… and with guys."

That I maybe should have seen coming, but there's nothing wrong with it. Eleven and twelve year olds going boy crazy is one thing; a growing up fifteen-year-old is another. She's at the age where she's encouraged to start having one-on-one relationships with people she's attracted to.

So although I'd never really been one for discussing infatuations or crushes, I tried to go with it. "Oh, wow. Okay. That wasn't very subtle," I informed her, just in case she'd been aiming for it. She raised her shoulders, looking down in embarrassment. "Let's roll with it. What's this guy's name?"

Amy blushed, looking down. "Aaron," she answered. I paused for a moment, reminded of the brother who abandoned me, but tried to brush it off before the fifteen-year-old noticed. "His family just moved here from Maine."

"Is he cute?" I asked, pulling up one leg to cross over the other.

Amy nodded quickly, giggling. "He's so cute."

"Have you ever asked him out?"

She stopped laughing and faltered slightly, looking down. "No," she said, shaking her head. "He asked me, but… I don't know, I said no."

"Why?" To me, that seemed like a kind of silly decision. She liked the guy, was interested in going out with him, but chose not to even when he was evidently interested, too. Amy looked away, not willing to meet my eyes. I sighed, nodding silently, and looked away from her to see the children playing on the swing set. "Listen," I said slowly, trying to let her know what I thought while not imposing myself. "You don't have to respond, but I know you'll hear. I've been sharing with you, but you haven't specifically asked what I think you should do. I'm just gonna tell you anyway.

"You have no idea what your life can become if you reach out. I learned that firsthand. A lot of people aren't going to work for you. A lot of relationships will fail sooner or later, no matter who you are or what kind of relationship it is. But sometimes, if you don't overanalyze, you might actually connect with someone who you'll be able to trust, and who can make it all worth the risk."

"But what if he's not?" Amy looked back towards me so I looked away from the swings. Her eyes were wide, glimmering anxiously. "What if he hurts me?"

For a fifteen-year-old who'd lived a fairly sheltered life until her diagnosis, that seemed unexpectedly deep. While a lot of people think teenagers are just one drama after another, though, Amy had a fair point to make. Trusting anyone means giving them the ability to hurt you in some way.

"Then you've felt more," I told her, trying to be reassuring. It's not that I was incredibly vested in her going out with Aaron, but if she never took any risks, then she would never live the way that she wanted to. The sooner she understood that she couldn't just shy away from everything, the better. "You'll have experienced another part of life. And… you'll have another thing to draw and paint about."

Amy pulled lamely at the end of her hospital gown. "Have you ever done that?" She asked quietly, raising her hands to her lap and setting one over the other awkwardly, like she wasn't quite sure what she was supposed to do with them. "Put yourself out there for another person because you wanted a relationship?"

Honestly, no, but then again, I've never felt the need to be in a relationship. "Amy," I said carefully. I didn't want her thinking I couldn't relate to her feelings, because even if I didn't understand firsthand, I could still empathize. "I am willing to discuss your relationships with you, but romance has never really been my thing." It's not that I'm asexual or apathetic to other people, it's just that I've had too much to deal with to risk adding another complication. "I can be attracted to people, I just don't want to date. I never have."

She paused for a moment like she was mentally making a note on that. I suspected she'd ask me why sometime. Then, amending her question accordingly, "Well, what about in any relationship? Like with Dr. Brennan, and Angela. You seemed pretty close to them."

And okay, yes, I was pretty close to them – closer than I have been with other people by far, but that wasn't because I'd taken a risk with my feelings. It was because we'd been forced together by circumstances. "I'm living with Dr. Brennan, and Angela is her best friend," I told the girl with a grin and a shrug. "I've spent a lot of time with them recently. It's hard not to know them pretty well."

This only raised questions rather than satisfying those that she had already had. "If Booth is your dad, then why aren't you living with him?"

My own reasons. His own reasons too, probably. Parker. Rebecca.

But she didn't need to deal with all of my issues, and it probably wasn't prudent that she hear about Booth's relationship with his ex, either. "Well… that's more complicated," I said slowly, about to start hedging when Amy gave me this one look that was totally unsuited for a fifteen-year-old. It made it obvious she didn't want me to offer some half answer and change the topic. "I'm not entirely sure what I want from him," I admitted with a sigh. It was surprisingly relaxing to say out loud. "I don't know what he wants from me… beyond a distinct lack of drugs, homicide charges, and teen pregnancy."

"Maybe sometime you should ask him." Amy seemed so hopeful at the prospect that I found my throat went dry before I could tell her I had no plans of doing so. She genuinely wanted me to get over the hang-ups. "I mean, I know it must be weird, since… you know."

She coughed, and I tensed. I couldn't tell if it was because of the slight awkwardness for a second or because of her sickness, and not knowing put me on edge. I tried not to let her see how freaked out I was – I know from experience that being babied because of something small like a cough is not a pleasant feeling.

She continued like nothing had happened, so it probably was nothing. "But I love my dad. I don't think I'd be doing as well with everything that's going on if he wasn't around. You seem like you like him enough, and I know he must like you, because he kept dragging you onto the field, so…" To her, it seemed fairly self-evident; simple, all things considered. "It seems like the main problem between you is a lack of communication."

I'd have been lying to myself if I denied that the thought of knowing what he expected from me made me feel a little bit more optimistic. At least then I wouldn't be operating in shadow. "Huh," I hummed aloud contemplatively, letting her see I was seriously considering the merits. "Maybe I should." Sideways, I caught her eye and then turned to face her, drawing one leg up onto the bench in front of me. "Tell you what – if you promise me that you'll stop shying away from what you want, then I promise I'll work harder on trying to decide what I want."

Amy took the vow at face value, something I would have had trouble doing. She smiled. "Deal."

Booth snapped his phone shut while he bounded up the steps to the exam platform, where Hodgins, Zach, Angela, Brennan and I were all working intently. "Bureau's canvassed every hospital in the area," he reported, not aware that we had already gotten the information from the hospitals in question. "Four have been using BioTech bone grafts."

Brennan was on the phone. She didn't look over her shoulder to see Booth as he stepped up. "And three recipients from those hospitals have lung cancer."

"In non-local hospitals across Maryland, we've found another seven that we know of so far." I tapped the back of my phone wisely to draw Booth's attention to it. "I'm waiting on public records to find the burial site of one of them for an exhumation order."

Hodgins has a phone pressed between his shoulder and the side of his head as he walked across the platform, carrying two different clipboards, one in each hand. "Here's another one – and this one died of lung cancer three months ago," he called, apparently on hold just like I was.

Angela pressed one hand over her stomach uncomfortably. I had the feeling she felt a little sick. "That makes thirteen," she emphasized, as if we just weren't understanding quite how severe this entire ordeal was. "Including Amy and the DeMarco woman."

"Probably all from the same donor," Zach presumed grimly.

Brennan looked up from her phone, the curling wire bouncing against her shoulder. It wasn't her mobile, just a lab phone that was sitting on the desk by one of the computers with the last legal pictures of the victims we had identified. "We're still waiting on Bethesda Naval Hospital." She informed him.

Booth shifted, uneasy and trying not to let it show. With his phone, he pointed to the computer screen nearest to Brennan, at the frontal pictures of over half a dozen people. "Can you I.D. these people?"

Zach hit a few keys. "Got names and addresses on all of them." Underneath each photograph, the appropriate name showed up in a plain black box, as well as their last address of official residence.

I listened in. This conversation was far more interesting than the music I was being forced to listen to while I was waiting on hold. Brennan looked at the computer quickly, but then looked away just as fast so she didn't have to personalize the case any more than Amy already had.

"I've already contacted Washington General to set up a biopsy testing facility."

Booth nodded when he heard Brennan, but he sighed deeply, shaking his head sadly and unable to look away from Zach's computer screen. "Man… how did one dead guy do so much damage?"

Brennan leaned towards him. "That's a good idea," she credited, sounding surprised.

"What idea?" Booth had no idea what he'd said that had significance. I wasn't entirely sure, either.

I flipped my cellular around so that the microphone was pressed against my shoulder and I could talk without accidentally introducing the secretary of the public services office into the case when I was taken off of hold. "When a decedent carries a donor card, it's always the M.E.'s responsibility to make sure the harvested grafts are good for transplant. BioTech earned extra money by scamming these people and selling unfit parts."

"Do you carry a donor card?" Booth asked me, seemingly out of the blue. He was completely serious and waited for an answer.

I frowned at him. "Why?"

He just sort of shrugged. There wasn't really a reason behind the question. "I just want to know, now that you brought it up."

"It seems like the main problem between you is a lack of communication."

I hesitated before I answered but remembered what Amy had said, and I remembered the promise I'd made to her – decide what I want, and open the lines of communication. "Yes, I'm marked as a donor on my driver's license," I said, surprising myself by being matter-of-fact. "My blood type's on there, too. In case of accident, I know for a fact that my health isn't compromised by any chronic or contagious factors-"

"Miss Kirkland?" Someone on my phone called my name and I heard it faintly. I perked up and held up a finger to Booth, flipping my phone back over.

"Yes, I'm still here!"

"Lupo, Ronald, died thirty-seven, is buried in Lynchburg City Cemetery." While I stopped cold, repeating the cemetery name in my head and growing more triumphant, the man on the phone with me continued to offer, "Would you like the official records faxed?"

"Yeah, that would be awesome, thanks!" I said brightly, reaching up to cover the receiver with my hand and lowering it from my ear to call to Booth, who had since turned to see what Brennan was doing. "Booth! One victim was buried in Lynchburg!"

Booth turned around like he had wheels attached to the heels of his shoes. "Virginia?" He demanded.

I nodded, biting at the inside of my cheek so that I didn't smile in inappropriate circumstances, and Hodgins looked up from his clipboard, going between Booth and I in confusion. "Why are you getting excited?" He asked, stepping closer and looking back and forth like there was really something in this particular puzzle that he was missing.

Booth flipped open his phone again, turning his back to stalk off of the platform and make the phone call where he wasn't disturbing the calls Brennan and I were already on. "Because it means this fraud just crossed state lines and became a legitimate case for the FBI! Looks like I won't have to use my sick days anymore, huh?"

"How many?" Cullen asked in his office, the door closed and blinds drawn for privacy. Booth and I stood next to each other on one side of the desk. Neither of us had pulled out the chairs to make ourselves comfortable. This wasn't a situation where comfort was a prime concern, anyway, but I just felt better standing around Cullen. I wasn't sure whether that was because it meant he didn't seem taller or because it was easier to get out of the office, but I wasn't into psychoanalyzing myself.

"Sick, or dead?" Booth asked solemnly. The fact that he even had to ask that question made my stomach turn. One thing I don't like about getting more empathetic is that the cases are getting to me… it's either that I'm letting myself connect to other people, or that I'm just more sensitive to it since my own attempted murder.

"Dead," Cullen clarified, grimacing as if he was of the same opinion that this was not a question that should need to be clarified.

"Two," Booth answered, before hesitating and adding, "That we know of."

"And another four are ruled terminal," I butted in, looking up at Cullen and making eye contact. "So they're as good as dead." The just like Amy was implied too heavily for it to need to be said out loud. I'm sure that not a minute goes by when Cullen can actually forget about his daughter's infliction.

Booth pulled his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms in front of his chest instead. "But that makes it a multiple homicide case, and since it's not isolated to the district and the recipients are in multiple states…" he trailed off. Cullen, as the deputy director, would know fully well that we had the authority and the right to make it an official federal investigation.

"This falls under FBI jurisdiction." Cullen cut in as Booth's voice faded.

Booth nodded once and then dropped his eyes respectfully. "Yes, sir."

The older man rubbed his forehead, planting an elbow on a clear space on his desk. I waited almost impatiently for him to respond, but it was hard to not give the guy a break, since his baby girl is dying of cancer. This is an emotional case for me, and I only met Amy the other day.

"I should kick your ass." Cullen groaned.

Booth had good intentions, but that didn't change that we'd gone behind Cullen's back to investigate after he'd told us, in no uncertain terms, to pass it on to the Center for Disease Control. "Yeah."

But just because Cullen had a point didn't mean I wanted to listen to him berate us for helping, or let him get my father in trouble for doing what he'd felt was right – especially when no one else had gotten hurt because of it.

"You could do that," I said clearly, nodding in agreement to that and emphasizing the could. "Or…" Cullen looked up to me without moving his head, giving me his attention but quite willing for me to realize that he actually did respect what I said. Amy had definitely improved our interactions, even without meaning to let it slip that I wasn't on the man's hate list anymore. "You could acknowledge that by investigating this, we could save countless lives."

Cullen didn't respond immediately, but in only a few seconds he lifted his head and slid his arm off of the top of his desk. "What'd you do?" He asked Booth, shaking his head almost mirthfully. "Take sick time to work on this?"

Booth nodded once. "Yeah." He quirked his lips. "Migraine."

My friend's father nodded, like he'd suspected as much or wasn't surprised in the least. For not the first time, I wondered how long the two men in the room with me had known each other before I came onto the scene. "Thanks, Booth." It was one of the most sincere things I'd ever heard come out of the director's mouth. "Catch the son of a bitch that did this to my daughter."

I nodded, smirking. The psycho that was killing Amy wouldn't even know what had hit him.

Booth nodded, at once relieved that he wasn't in the line of fire and frustrated by the reminder of the heinous crime. "That's absolutely my intention, sir."

Brennan and I leaned against the wall on the left side of the door to the testing room, where patients were undergoing thorough scanning to search for signs of either malignant or benign cancer around the site of their grafts.

So far there had been two children. As if that wasn't bad enough, in my head I kept associating them with Parker and had to freak about what would happen if he was a victim, and then I had to stop my heart from pounding quite so quickly and remind myself that my four-year-old brother is safe with his mom.

"Results?" Booth asked quietly, joining us on the right floor. He looked between Brennan and I and then across the hall to Dr. Ogden and Alexandra Combs, both of whom were standing opposite the door to the testing room and watching in growing amounts of discomfort. Alexandra looked vaguely ill.

Brennan leaned to the side, shifting the majority of her weight to one leg and keeping herself against the wall tiredly. The whole case was wearing on us. "So far, there are three other early signs of cancer cells."

"We can't cure it, but radiation treatment and strong chemo should slow the progress significantly." I only half-listened to myself as I explained what was going on to Booth. I was beginning to recognize that the way I spoke alternated between a literate young adult and a clinical, accurate professional. I tended to be more like the latter when I was overwhelmed or trying to prove something. This time it was definitely the first of the two.

Booth looked coldly over his shoulder at the transplant coordinator, who insisted he was innocent. The FBI agent didn't buy it. "Admiring your handiwork, Doctor?" He asked sharply, seeming a little bit satisfied when Ogden shut his eyes and stormed around to leave, unable to deal with the magnitude and the multitude of the tainted grafts.

Alexandra looked after him, conflicted, and then back. "I'm sorry," she said hurriedly, her heels clicking repeatedly on the floor while she ran after her boss.

I sighed and sank back towards the paint and the plaster, fixing my eyes lazily on the door again, waiting for someone else to come out and see who else's life had been violently altered. The three of us spent at least five minutes watching the anticlimactic proceedings in near silence.

Then, "Amy," Booth breathed in surprise.

I straightened at the sound of her name and looked in the direction Booth's eyes already were, and saw the teenage girl at the end of the hall, looking anguished as she saw the long line of potential cancer risks.

Booth started to move forwards to try to comfort his boss's daughter, but I put out a hand to motion for him to cease moving and went out in front of him. "No, let me," I instructed quietly.

He stopped and stepped back. When Brennan moved to come closer to talk to Amy, he laid a hand on her arm. "Easy," he told her, giving Amy and myself time to talk alone, just the two of us.

"So." I stopped only a couple of feet in front of her, looking down to her height with several lock of my hair falling forward over my shoulders around my face. "Are you… going to be okay?" At a loss of what to do with my hands, I started to pick at my fingernails without thinking about it.

Amy swallowed. She made a point of not answering, like she wasn't sure what she should say. "Did all these people get bones from the same donor I did?" She asked instead.

I sucked my lower lip in, scraping my teeth along the tender skin, and nodded slowly. "It's seeming that way. The ones who have cancer will have biopsies done, and the labs will compare them to yours."

She canted her head. "Do they all have cancer?"

I looked over my shoulder as the door opened. A young man – late teens, early twenties – in a hospital gown tied in the back rubbed at his shoulder blade, looking about ready to clock out or bite through his lip out of anticipation alone. He was followed by someone who I think was his father, an older man. A little girl holding a brown plush dolphin with a headband in her blonde hair had been waiting just in the hall, and she bounded up to the patient's side and held up her dolphin for him.

I twisted to look back at Amy, trying to banish the small family from my mind for the time being. I could grieve on their behalf later, when it wasn't important to keep myself composed. "Not all, no," I responded carefully. "The ones who have already metastasized or spread can't have the grafts taken out, but they'll begin treatment sooner rather than later."

Amy took a long breath in through her nose and then shook her head, looking away from me with her eyes watering. I wasn't supposed to see. "Who would do a thing like that?" She demanded, almost livid at the idea of someone doing something so horrible to other human beings. "If they knew they were sick, why make other people sick too?"

"I… really can't tell you," I said haltingly, but completely honestly. I wished I knew that. I forgot how many times I'd wanted answers to impossible questions that were similar in sentiment. "Some people just don't think like we do. We know that doing this was terrible, but… there are other people out there who only see the money. Not the harm." And that was fine by me, because there was nothing I could do about it, so long as they didn't actually do damage, but this person had crossed that line.

She rubbed furiously at her eyes with the inside of her wrist. "So… if you take the bad grafts out… will they be okay?" My heart swelled and tightened, like held in a fist. She was dying, and she knew it, but she was still concerned about all of these other people in line.

I tried to shrug my shoulders, but it was too halfhearted to be seen as any real sort of attempt. "Maybe some," I answered, unable to lie to her for her reassurance. I had promised her I'd tell her straight truth, and no matter how early it was caught, cancer was cancer. It was bad. It can't be cured. These peoples' lives may never be the same. "It's hard to tell if any cancer cells will spread or if the operations will be on time, but they'll be less likely, yes."

"But… not me." Statement, not a question, but she seemed adamant and almost challenging in how she was waiting for me to respond that I realized she was hoping she was wrong and wanted me to refute her.

I wanted to. God, I wanted to so badly, but I just couldn't. I shook my head and found my throat so dry that I had to swallow. "No." My voice cracked slightly and I took a second to get a grip on myself. "Yours… it was in your leg, and it stayed there for a while, but it was picked up by your system and spread through your body. It metastasized to your lungs. Taking the graft out would do more harm than good."

She looked past me at the people – men, women, and children alike – standing in the line outside of the door to have scans taken of their bodies. Some of them would have their lives changed permanently because of the results.

Her eyes shifted back to me as her posture became stubborn and resolute. "I want this out of me."

"I know." I couldn't do anything about it, but I shoved my hands into the front pockets of my sweater, since my sweatpants were lacking in the pocket department. "Or, at least… I think I understand." Because, being entirely honest, there's no way I can completely get where she's coming from. "But your immune system is already compromised by the viral chemo. Having a complex operation now could expose you to things that would kill you."

The fifteen-year-old crossed her arms and looked up at me with an extremely unhappy frown. "Kill me faster, you mean," she corrected with a stingy bite to the words and a snap in her tone.

It's not like I could deny it, though. "…Yeah," I said, owning up to the facts without looking away from her eyes. I wasn't hiding from this, just choosing not to think about it constantly. "Yeah, that is what I mean."

I think some part of her had been hoping that I'd falter there, and give in to what she wanted since she was dying anyway. Her arms dropped, uncrossing, and she dug her fingers into her gown over her thighs. "Get them to take it out," she begged weakly.

I didn't want her to beg me. I didn't want her to beg at all.

"Because of this investigation, all of these people-" Trying to make it worth it, calm her down, help her realize that not everything happening here is bad. We're doing good here, making the best of a vile situation.

She cut in, interrupting me. "I don't care." She refused to look at the people. I wasn't sure if it was now because she felt guilty for saying it, didn't want to see them and be forced to start caring, or just really was past it by this point.

I shut my mouth with a soft click before approaching it more directly. "No doctor is going to be willing to open you up to this danger. Amy, you're saving these peoples' lives."

She balled her hands into fists, her neat fingernails making red welt-like crescents into the palms of her hands. "But who's saving mine?" She demanded of me.

Completely taken aback, I couldn't answer her then or run after her when she turned and ran away.