Martin was in the back of the funeral home, working on preparing bodies for burial. A security guard saw Booth's credentials and led us to his room, which was sealed off from the public, and held open the door. The smell inside the room was very medical, and there was equipment for who knew what in various states of use around the room. It was organized, but that didn't make it any more appealing.

"Thank you," Booth said to the guard, who was stepped to the side and holding open the door. The guard nodded once. "Oh, geez," Booth said immediately after, looking away from the body on the table.

Martin was wearing a blue medical coat for sterility and a white apron tied around his neck. The latex gloves on his hands, stretched taut, were stained with red blood, and he held a syringe in his right hand. There was a set of protective plastic glasses keeping his eyes safe. It looked as if he was in the process of embalming his latest client.

"Excuse me," he blustered, taken aback by our unannounced visitation. He lowered the syringe without thinking and drew his shoulders up indignantly. "This body is being prepped. What do you want?"

"What we want," Brennan said forcefully, crossing her arms and planting her feet on the linoleum. She wasn't going to let the mortician get out of this, mid-body preparation or not, and she made that abundantly clear. "Is to know where you harvested Mr. Hastings' body."

He set the syringe down next to the body, mostly covered by a white sheet for modesty, and reached up with his unbloodied hand to swipe the safety glasses off of his face. "I told you, I don't know who Hastings is!"

"Well, we think you're lying," Booth told him, pointing at him over Brennan's shoulder.

"We think you're selling bone and tissue grafts illegally," Brennan stressed.

Martin set the glasses down on a tray within reach. "And I think your accusations are outlandish," he declared haughtily, "And you should call my lawyer."

I lifted up the paper document from behind me and waved the sheets around where he could see. "And I think you're an irritating person who should read this thing I've got here for you." As I stopped moving it and presented it to him, he recognized it as a warrant and his eyes dimmed.

"What's this place?" Booth asked, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the caskets in varying earthy colors, set on tables around the room on display. We were wandering around the funeral home, looking around while Martin finished quickly coming to a stopping point in the preparation of his client's corpse.

Brennan looked around, doing a quick inventory of the room. "Casket showroom."

There was a sign posted in yellow and red on one of the tables at the back of the room. I pointed to it and bounced up and down, feigning excitement. "Ooh, look, there's a sale! See, it's like Home Depot!" I told Booth cheerfully.

Booth grimaced. "Well, if Home Depot is like this, I think I'm going to just keep doing my hardware shopping at Lowe's." I laughed, and the agent started to turn around to leave the room again. "Alright, nobody would be cutting anybody up in this place. Let's go."

"Whoa," Brennan said in surprise. It made Booth pause and turn back around. "Wait." I walked past a redwood coffin towards the anthropologist, who was standing almost in the center of the room. She pointed to the wall on the opposite side. "Over there."

Booth saw what she was talking about before I did. "What? It's a water line. What's the big deal?"

Brennan stepped back, and then forward again, looking down to her shoes with a frown. "But the floor slopes towards the center of the room." I looked down at the dull red carpet. It was subtle, but when I took another step in and paid attention to the incline, I could feel an unevenness in the floor. "This wasn't always used for a showroom. I wonder what's under the carpet…"

Under the carpet? That was one of the best things I thought I'd heard all day, and dipping my hand into the deep pocket of my jacket, I removed a pocketknife. I never had recovered the knife Kenton had stabbed me with, and I was quite content with never seeing the golden inscribed star design again, but I was used to having a weapon.

"Good point." I hit the switch and the blade flipped out. "Where am I cutting?"

"Cutting?!" Booth wondered, alarmed by what seemed like a random impulse.

Brennan moved slowly, stepping to follow the slight slope, and had to move around the side of a table to find the center of the room. She pointed down to it and I moved over while she explained to Booth, "If body work was done in here, they'd need a drain." There was about a foot around where the ground felt completely level, and I bent down, dropping lightly onto my knees and bringing the tip of the knife down around the carpet.

It was a thin carpet with short bristles. Planting a hand safely away from the knife, I pressed down, digging the point into the material and then dragging, ripping at the carpet. I moved several inches one way, then stopped, twisted the knife ninety degrees, and pulled it towards my knee in that direction.

I dislodged the tip from the ruined section of the carpet, pressed it against another part, and this time pushed at an angle to use the floor to close up the blade. With one hand putting it away in my pocket, I used the other to pull up on the corner I'd cut. There was a metal drain, colored with rust-like blood and general ickiness, surrounded by a concrete floor scratched by the edge of my knife.

"You're kidding me," Booth complained, looking over my other shoulder and seeing what I'd revealed. "It's a drain?"

Hurried footsteps preceded Martin's appearance, and to avoid a bitch fit, I stood up quickly before shoving my foot over the carpet to block the cuts from sight. The mortician ran in, then slowed down and appeared as composed as possible. "This is our sales office," he said firmly. "There is nothing in here you need to see. The only thing in this room is caskets."

"I'm not so sure about that…" Brennan disagreed slowly, looking up at the wall above a displayed coffin. I followed her eyes and saw a white metal air vent, only a little over a foot below the ceiling.

"No, what…" Martin trailed off as he, too, noticed the point that Brennan was making. Shouldering her crime scene bag, Brennan set off towards the coffin and threw her small black bag up onto the casket. "You are making a mistake!" He called after her, growing distressed.

"Am I?" Brennan countered confidently, throwing a knee up onto the table and climbing up on top of the coffin. The tag said that it was mahogany. She got her feet under her and stood up, a good many feet taller than the rest of us humans now. With her back to us, she looked towards the vent.

"She's ruining my merchandize!" Martin yelled at Booth, throwing an arm at Booth to demand he do something to rectify the situation.

Booth laughed at the fuss over a casket. "Come on. How much is that one?"

"Seven thousand!" Martin was turning red in the face.

The number with three zeroes made my head reel. "Who would pay seven grand for a casket?" I demanded Martin incredulously, having a hard time believing that anyone would be willing to pay such an extensive price for a wooden box. "It's not like they're going to be alive to enjoy the luxury!"

"Bones, watch the scuff marks," Booth called to the anthropologist.

Brennan turned around, lifting her feet rather than dragging her shoes. She held out her arms to the mortician, indicating the showroom. "Mr. Martin, this room is designed to be washed clean. You've got drains in the floor. I think this is where you did the bone harvesting."

She crouched down on the coffin to unzip a section of her bag, reaching inside and searching for something in particular. I picked up the slack before we had to listen to Martin trying to defend himself. "But when you thought we'd find you out, you switched your merchandise and your equipment around to cover up evidence."

"That's absurd," Martin denied heatedly. "I did no such thing!"

Brennan lifted a mask for her mouth and nose from the bag, made of paper with an elastic strap. It wasn't unlike the one I'd had to wear when I'd sat in on Amy's biopsy. Holding a pair of tweezers and evidence dish in one hand, she pulled the band over her hair, fixing it behind her ears. Her voice became muffled by the paper.

"You're an excellent housecleaner, but in the carpeting and tidying up, you forgot about one thing." Reaching up to the air vent, Brennan twisted the latch and let it fall down and open. Thinking what was going on, I raised a hand to cover my mouth just to be safe. Booth saw, frowned, and mimicked, just in case. The scientist reached into the vent, taking particulates from inside. "Bone dust. You forgot about airborne particles."

"Today, Zach. I need something today."

"Hey!" Brennan protested, stepping behind Zach's chair to defend him from Booth's demands. Zach didn't pay much attention to his boss's defense, but his shoulders fell in relief while he ran the computer programs. "Don't harass my assistant."

"That's right," Hodgins put in to Booth, before smirking at me across the exam table behind the other three. It was plain, nothing on it now, but only so many people could crowd around the computer before Zach actually did have a hard time concentrating. "That's our job," he finished, motioning between the two of us.

"Damn straight," I agreed with a grin.

Zach made the magnified image on the computer zoom in with the mouse. "I sifted dust particles through a series of filters, then separated the larger pieces and magnified them to compare the osteons." While he talked, Booth knocked his head back and forth to convey exasperation.

"The particles in the vent definitely came from cutting human skeletal remains," Brennan confirmed.

"William Hastings' remains?" Booth asked. I had a feeling that he would be proved correct, but Zach and Brennan had to officially declare a match before he could operate on the assumption.

Zach unclipped the microscope slide from the device and held it up where Booth could see. For his part, he does try to keep Booth involved and engage him – more so than he used to – but Booth still doesn't understand most of it, so the attempts are sort of lost in translation. "I am comparing particles to the biopsy we excised from Kelly DeMarco."

Booth motioned to the computer. "Compare," he ordered, trying to urge Zach to do as he said faster. Zach nodded and let the two slides pull up on the screen, side by side, separated by a vertical red line. One was labeled 'scope A' and the other 'scope B.' "So, is it him?"

Brennan was starting to smile. "It's him." Still smiling. Yes, a victory is good, but… context makes it not-so-good. Thankfully, there was something else she was smiling about. "But, here's the kickster-"

"Kicker, Bones," Booth interrupted to correct her. I thought that her attempt was cute, but Booth looked physically pained that she'd gotten it wrong. "Here's the kicker."

Her smile fell, a little disappointed that she'd gotten it wrong. "Oh."

"You were close, Dr. Brennan," I told her reassuringly. She tried; she got it wrong, yes, but that she tried was what was important, and I didn't want her to stop trying.

I guess we were taking too long to get to the point, because Zach started to speak and get the conversation back to the point, stealing Brennan's thunder, so to speak. "There's bone dust from at least seven other bodies in that vent filter as well."

Booth's eyes flew open, Brennan's mistake forgotten in an instant. "Seven?!"

I looked between Brennan and Zach, then to the compared slide from Kelly DeMarco and the air vent at the funeral home. "Whoever harvested the grafts did it to more than just Hastings…" That was the only explanation for it. How had no one noticed the discrepancies? "…And no one realized it, because Hastings was the only one who had a problem passed through the bones. They got away with it at least half a dozen times."

"Cutting through periosteum for grafting purposes takes medical training." Brennan stated aloud, thoughtfully considering the necessities to pull something like this off.

Zach held up his slide again from Kelly DeMarco, showing how well it had been done. "Except for the tainted samples, these bone grafts are expertly harvested."

"Okay, so, we're looking for someone who has medical training." Booth concluded.

In my head, I compared the suspects we had against the qualifications they'd need. Hastings' temperamental wife was in financial debt, but she didn't have any medical background. Ogden and the surgeon were possibly qualified, but the surgeon didn't have anything to do with the transplant board and Ogden was the one who led us to the fraudulent company in the first place. The only other people were Ogden's assistant, Alexandra, who didn't have a medical degree, and Martin, who also wasn't qualified to harvest bone.

"Martin's a mortician, not a doctor. He wouldn't have the knowledge or the professional skillset to harvest bone grafts." There didn't seem to be anyone else – either we were missing someone, or we hadn't dug deep enough into histories. "He may be involved, but he's got a partner."

"Let's say he's running a chop shop." Brennan theorized. Aside from the surprise that she was constructing a potential scenario, when it used to annoy her when we did that, there was also the horrible fact that 'chop shop' was usually for cars – in this case, it was for human bodies. "Let's say he was selling illegal parts to tissue labs. Who was actually doing the cutting?"

"And who was selling to the hospital as BioTech?" Booth finished. Something about that made me think that I should figure something out, but it wasn't coming to me fast enough.

Cullen found out when we made the arrest of Nick Martin after finding the bone dust, and when we got around to interrogating him, he insisted on stepping into the observational room to watch with Brennan and I. The three of us donned earpieces while Booth took an incriminating file of phone records in to (verbally) attack the funeral home's manager.

"How much money have you made over the years doing this, Nick? Huh?" Booth was pacing around the table where Martin was pushed in on his chair, staring forward and trying hard not to react emotionally. It was an interrogation technique – the pacing was the put the man on edge, make him more likely to spill on accident. "Tens? Or hundreds of thousands of dollars?"

Martin stared out at the table solemnly, his face like a poker mask. "I don't know what you're talking about." I saw Cullen's jaw tense in my periphery, but didn't look to him. He was angry. That was fine. Understandable.

"William Hastings had an aggressive form of cancer that was very rare. You made some pocket change off his grafts, and you didn't even tell his wife. Now a bunch of people are sick. Two died. You're looking at multiple counts of murder here!" Booth let himself grow agitated as he continued, his voice raising and his tone becoming meaner, more accusatory.

"I didn't kill anybody."

"No, no, you didn't kill anybody." Booth agreed sarcastically, slapping his free hand down onto the table in front of Martin. Almost imperceptibly, the mortician jumped. "I mean, they were already dead. You were just recycling!"

"I didn't do anything wrong."

"Do you have any doctor training?"

"No."

"Spend any time in the service as a medic or a nurse?"

"No."

I shook my head at the mortician through the glass in spite of the fact that he couldn't see my disapproval. I kept the earpiece in, but turned to look over my shoulder at Brennan. I stood closer to her than to Cullen. "So, Booth brought up earlier that whoever did the cutting also sold as BioTech." Brennan looked over at me, away from the suspect when I had her attention. "I was thinking that the only people in the investigation who would have access to the records needed to make false transactions would be Ogden and Alexandra."

"We've already ruled out Ogden," Brennan reminded me, although she seemed thoughtful as if she was willing to reconsider. "Alexandra isn't a doctor."

I glanced back through the mirror while Booth resumed the interrogation. Cullen didn't ask any questions about what I'd said to Brennan, glowering hatefully at Martin. "No? Then who did the cutting? Who did the cutting of the grafts, huh? Somebody knew what they were doing." Suddenly, Booth slammed his other hand down, along with a file on phone records. "Your phone records show that during the months around Hastings' death, you received dozens of calls from disposable cells. Four different ones. What do you make of that?"

I turned back to Brennan while the conversation lulled. Martin slid the top paper off of another to look at the documented records, calls, and numbers along with the columns saying the dates. "Someone can learn without getting degrees," I told her, sucking on the inside of my cheek. "I mean, it's what I've done. I have knowledge, but no official credit. Whoever did it isn't necessarily a doctor… and if they didn't finish medical training, it would explain how they missed the bone dust in the vents."

Meanwhile, Martin shook his head finally. "I don't recall this."

Booth paced to the other side of the table and bent over, setting his fists on the surface and leaning over into Martin's personal space. "You know what? The dust that we got off the vent in your showroom matched Hastings and seven other bodies. Who do you work with?"

Martin indolently raised his gaze from the papers impassively. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Cullen started moving in contrast to the resolute stillness that he'd had for the entire interrogation. What was worse, he had his hands in fists and was speedily rushing to the door to go into the interrogation room. "Sir?" I called in alarm, starting to hurry after him before he did something unreasonable.

The door was slammed inwards against the wall before I could get to the director. I reached up and pulled the earpiece out of my ear, hearing everything firsthand now. "Who was it, huh?" The man demanded, interrupting and shoving past Booth. Digging fists into the mortician's clothes, the man displayed a surprising strength in picking Martin up out of his chair. "Who the hell did this to my daughter?!"

Martin flailed his arms helplessly, his back slamming against the wall when Cullen pinned him, yelling. Booth, once he took a second of shock, ran forward with me to try to separate the two before we had to call an ambulance. I was afraid Cullen wouldn't be able to stop on his own.

"Let him go!" I shouted, raising my voice to make sure that I was heard. Booth and I each took an opposite side of the duo. My father pressed his hand against Cullen's chest and gave him a push backwards, grabbing onto Martin's sleeve and pulling him out from in front of Cullen. I raised my hands up to the deputy director and pushed back on both of his shoulders, working my way in front of him and taking Martin's place. While Booth got Martin well out of the way, I curled my fingers into the older man's shoulders, getting his attention.

"Listen," I said loudly, but not shouting – just firm. "I know you're furious. You have every right to want to kick his ass to next week – believe me, I feel the same way – but if you hurt him, his lawyer can twist the situation and he can walk before we can charge."

Booth twisted around, keeping his hands steeled and Martin in place while trying to look towards the one-way mirror. "Bones, how long is it gonna take you to…" The door was still open, and we heard footsteps running out of the observation room. Booth groaned. "Bones, come on!"

I'd just said… Alexandra or Ogden, and who didn't finish med school… Alexandra.

I let go of Cullen and held a hand in front of him, like I was telling him to stop or wait, sidestepping out of the way and running out after the doctor.

We found Ogden in a lower level of the hospital, which made it easy to keep him out of the way while we went up to talk to his assistant alone. Booth gathered a couple of security guards, flashed his badge, and said a couple of words to them, and then he had them totally on board with the plan to trap Alexandra in the office and get her safely arrested once things had come out in the open.

It maybe felt a little cliché to sneakily hide the agents and the indirect killer's boss behind a closed door, but it would serve the purpose and I sure as hell wasn't going to feel any guilt.

Brennan opened the door enough to rap her knuckles loudly on the wood and peek her head inside. I leaned in after her while she stepped in, and she knocked the door towards me as I followed. Subtly, I gave it a kick with my heel to swing it shut so that Booth, the guards, and Ogden all stayed hidden from sight.

Jumping, Alexandra dropped a phone she'd been handling right into the box, her neck snapping up. She relaxed when she realized who it was. "Oh. Dr. Brennan, you started me!" She laughed at the accident, reaching into a box of electronics to shift the phone into place next to another rather than letting it remain on top of the ones it fell onto.

"Mind if we come in?" Brennan asked, motioning to me to include me in the confrontation. Alexandra would have no idea what was going to hit her.

She gestured to the room like she was signaling to make ourselves welcome. "Not at all."

I looked at the box of cell phones. "Charging phones?" I asked, guessing based on a charging cord wound up on the desk haphazardly.

"I was just trying to keep things organized," the assistant answered. "What we do here is so important. We can't risk making any mistakes."

Saying that my blood boiled would seem a little bit dramatic if it didn't feel so accurate. Where was this care when she was harvesting grafts from a man with cancer, giving tainted bones to a teenager? To a woman in a car accident? To children, elders, and completely innocent strangers who had never hurt anyone in their lives-?!

I didn't trust myself to open my mouth for a very long minute.

"Miss Combs, tell me, what do you use these phones for?" Brennan questioned, and I think part of it was because of actual curiosity.

"Recipients, primarily." Alexandra shrugged one shoulder. "We never know when a donor organ is going to come in, so it's imperative that they can be reached at all times."

The anthropologist looked up to the other woman and smiled conspiratorially, like they were kids playing truth or dare and she wanted Alexandra to answer an unfavorable question. "Ever use one yourself?"

Alexandra didn't immediately answer. For a second, she seemed puzzled, and then she smiled indulgently. "What can I do for you, Doctor?"

"Have you always wanted to work in a hospital?" While Brennan changed angles, still not directly getting the issue out of the way, Alexandra inadvertently took a step back. I don't think she realized she was doing it. "I mean, it's incredibly rewarding, I know, but have you ever wanted to study medicine?"

Alexandra nodded slowly, unsure where this was going, but seeing no way of gaining anything by lying. "I did at one time, yes."

"But you're not a doctor now," I pointed out, pushing the subject after finding my voice controllable again.

"I didn't complete my training," Alexandra explained somewhat curtly. It was a personal subject, but I had gotten the confirmation I needed for my theory. Brennan and I shared a look. "Life had other plans, and I had to adapt."

I changed topics. By jumping around, we were hoping to unsettle her further. Her discomfort was our pleasure. "How do you feel, Alexandra?" I managed to fake concern, though the falsified emotion directed at the woman made me want to retch. "I mean, have you been coughing? Feeling a tightness in your lungs, like asthma?"

"I feel fine, actually." She responded, holding her head a little higher.

"How often does Dr. Ogden write prescriptions?" Brennan inquired seriously.

"Rarely," Alexandra laughed. She shook her head while she brought the cover down on the box of disposable cell phones. "As coordinator, he doesn't practice."

Brennan frowned, deliberately, having anticipated the answer. "Yet, the pharmacy downstairs told the FBI that he wrote you a script for an expectorant for a cough." It was a prod, angled to push at the right button to make her pause, give something away.

And she did. It was a second-long hesitation before her smile faded slightly and she gestured negatively. "Well, there must be some mistake." But she'd taken too long to react to it, like she had been deciding the best way to cover for herself, and the set of my lips became grim in an effort to keep myself from lashing the way I wanted. "He'd never-"

I interrupted coolly. It was hard to forget, even for a second, that this woman was partly responsible for my friend slowly dying. It was equally hard to remember that I can't hurt her, go at her like I so desperately want to. I want to make her suffer because she's making Amy suffer. "I think you stole his prescription pad so that you'd get a medicine you needed without him getting suspicious," I accused, quietly furious.

"You wrote that prescription yourself, didn't you?" Brennan asked, already knowing the answer. Alexandra tried to smile, hoping she could brush it off still. The anthropologist moved closer. "I know what you've been doing with Martin, to Hastings and the others." Alexandra faltered visibly. "See, if you'd finished medical school, you'd know that bone dust is very dangerous if inhaled. When you were taking those grafts, I doubt you were wearing a mask. You're sick, Miss Combs…" Her smug smile, pleased that she'd caught the person responsible and was dragging it out for maximum discomfort, transitioned to become slightly vindictive. "And I… I don't just mean in a mentally-disturbed way."

"Although," I added, advancing and moving to the side, blocking off Alexandra's potential escape route to the doors. I wanted her to listen, to feel trapped and cornered and panicky. "There is that, too."

"This is ridiculous," Alexandra objected, now growing irritated and still making attempts to weasel her way out of it. "You can't prove anything."

"We're in a hospital," Brennan reminded her, gesturing to the door across the room from us. "Why don't we go get a chest x-ray and find out?"

The FBI agent standing outside of the door had heard everything that he needed to. Booth pushed the door open from the outside and let Ogden move in after him, the administrator seeming sufficiently stunned by what he'd overheard while Booth moved in after. "I'd like to read you your rights," he said by means of greeting to Alexandra.

"Alexandra, what's going on?" Ogden asked urgently. Whether or not he wanted to admit it, he knew very well what was happening.

His assistant shifted, shuffling her feet, and I crossed my arms. "You should really just come peacefully to the radiology ward." I suggested coldly. It was hard to express anything to her other than fury and hatred – which was saying something, because hatred is strong and I didn't feel that way for a lot of people, aside from the obvious list of foster parents, Kenton, and Howard Epps. "I don't know how accurate an x-ray would be if there were metal cuffs in the shot."

Angela, Hodgins, Brennan, and I found ourselves up in the loft of the Jeffersonian Institution, Hodgins and Angela nursing drinks and sharing a couch while Brennan had a bottle of water resting on the arm of her chair. I was drink-free and had gotten the couch on the other side of the coffee table, across from the artist and entomologist, and pulled my legs up under me with my sneakers abandoned on the floor in front of the sofa.

Alexandra and Martin were both going to be convicted beyond a shadow of a doubt; we had gotten together enough evidence to prove it, Alexandra's forced x-rays confirmed that she'd inhaled bone dust, and a deeper investigation into her personal records revealed a secret account she'd made almost two years ago under a false name with the same home address. It was where most of the money that had been gotten from the false grafts had been sent.

The case was solved, but no one really had the closure that they needed. Amy was still looking at death sooner rather than later, Cullen and his wife were going to lose their daughter, and dozens of other people were either grieving for their lost loved ones or terrified for the living victims' lives and health.

As for me? I was going to lose a friend, and there wasn't a single God damn thing I could do about it.

"So the transplant assistant fancied herself a doctor?" Hodgins asked as Brennan wound down the story of what had happened in both the FBI building and the hospital. She'd stopped for breath several times, giving me ample opportunities to join in, but I'd kept quiet. I didn't want to really talk about it. I'd done what I'd had to, made sure the guilty would pay, but Amy was still going to die.

"Not a doctor, exactly," Brennan corrected carefully, "But qualified enough to extricate bone grafts from a cadaver."

"And what about BioTech Tissue Labs?"

Brennan lifted up her shoulders in a deep sigh as the entomologist kept asking questions, making sure all of the loose ends were tied and ensuring he got the full story. "Once it was a legitimate company. Alexandra kept it alive on the web and funneled the money into her own well-disguised bank account."

Angela looked away from Hodgins and back and forth between Brennan and I. "So where does that leave Amy?"

She still has cancer… and the chemo still failed.

"She's the same as where she started, just… with answers. That's all." Brennan winced, looking down in grief for the fifteen-year-old girl whose life was being slowly ripped away by a pair's thoughtless greed.

Angela nodded shortly. "Well." She slapped her hands onto her thighs unhappily and stood up, leaving the couch. "That is just perfect."

"Angela…" Brennan started to call, realizing that she hadn't helped her friend to handle it better. It wasn't her fault, and I hoped she knew that; Angela was just the type of person who got frustrated when good people were hurt and couldn't be helped.

Hodgins held out a hand, leaning forward and clinking his glass onto the coffee table. "That's okay," he told her quietly, rising to his feet to go after the artist. "I've got it."

Amy leaned forward over her legs on the hospital bed while Angela bent over her, adjusting the strap on a pair of thick black goggles. They cut out the light from the room and would leave Amy in temporary pitch darkness until she activated the program.

Amy reached up and rubbed her finger against the strap, pushing it off of her ear before letting her hand drop, looking in the direction of Angela's footsteps as the woman moved back to the cart holding her electronic equipment. While I was sitting next to Amy's bed, Booth, Brennan, and Amy's parents were standing around and watching Angela help the girl, unsure what to expect.

"Okay, now tell me what you see," Angela said slowly as she powered up the vision through the goggles.

Slowly, Amy started seeing the image being sent through the device. At first, it was slow, but then her jaw dropped open as she realized exactly what she was being shown. "Oh, wow… no way!" Cullen glanced at Angela, but didn't say anything. Amy giggled. "Angela, this is unbelievable!"

"What is it?" Mrs. Cullen asked, not particularly caring who asked. Her entire demeanor improved as her daughter laughed happily.

"It's like a View-Master," I offered to Amy's mother, before pausing and trying to remember exactly what Angela had done to recreate an improved and much more elaborate version of the old toy. "What she's seeing is a digitized panorama of, uh, stereoscopic slides." I wasn't sure exactly what 'stereoscopic' meant, but Angela had used the word so I knew it was relevant.

Angela stepped back once satisfied that the goggles were on correctly. "Welcome to the Louvre," she told the girl with a gentle but bright smile, practically glowing in delight.

Amy's mouth opened, stunned, and she turned her head as if to see what was to the side, fooled by the three-dimensional aspect of the program. "I'm really there!"

For once not sarcastic about the wonders of technology, Booth shook his head, honestly stunned. "That's amazing," he breathed.

Cullen looked to the anthropologist who was surveying her friend with pride. "Is this your doing, Dr. Brennan?"

Brennan shook her head quickly, putting the credit where it was due. This was Angela's idea and talent put into a project she'd completed with one specific person in mind. "No, sir. It's all Miss Montenegro."

Mrs. Cullen actually looked tearful. I was a bit nervous that she would start to cry. "Thank you, Angela."

"You're welcome." Angela gave the older woman a sincere smile before she looked back to the youngest of the small congregation. "So. What do you think?"

Amy's face was flashing through emotions like awe, reverence, wonder, and gratitude so quickly it was hard to put a label on one before it shifted to another. I found myself smiling at her, just beyond pleased that she was at least going to have one of her dreams fulfilled – even if tickets to Paris were a little expensive, she was still seeing the best art museum in the world.

"I think it's like heaven," the girl finally answered with marvel, dragging it out and relishing the experience. "I don't know what to say!"

"It's great, isn't it?" I agreed, able to recognize that even without art being my passion. Angela had let me see the finished product before we brought it to show to Amy, both so I'd know what was going on and to get a second opinion on the graphics. What she'd done was used all of the pictures she'd taken from her trips to the Louvre to create a software program that played through it all on slow scroll. Amy would be seeing exactly what she would if she walked through the Louvre in person.

"Don't say anything," Angela advised, sitting down on the foot of the bed and depressing the mattress. "You don't have to."

This time, when Amy's arm moved and her hand sought me out, I was the one who interlocked our fingers.