Parker gained entrance to headquarters via the usual means, since unlike some people, she didn't consider herself too good for the front door. Aside from security and custodial staff, headquarters tended to be fairly quiet after hours. A few of the keener movers-and-shakers might stay until seven-thirty, but anything later than that and coworkers assumed you were avoiding something at home.

Jarod wouldn't be anywhere where there was a chance he could be spotted and identified. That narrowed her options down, but not enough. Parker took an elevator down to SL-9, where the security department resided. There was little chance here, unfortunately, of her presence avoiding comment. She knew her way around the place from her early days at the Centre, when she'd run the security department. Little had changed since then. She stalked across the main security office like she owned the place and made straight for her destination: the monitor room.

That night, two security officers staffed the monitor room, Wynn and Brewis. Parker knew them by name only in that the pair of them were Wynn-and-Brewis; gun to her head, she couldn't say which was which. Between their four cumulative eyes, there were far too many camera feeds to monitor.

"Evening, boys," said Parker, shuffling in sideways behind their chairs. The room was cramped and smelled of body odour and Red Bull.

"Miss Parker! We didn't expect you down here tonight," said one of the security officers. Parker decided, somewhat arbitrarily, that this one was Brewis. He had a Brewis-like quality about him.

"Neither did I," she muttered, squinting at the grid of screens. Where would Jarod come in? She'd once seen him on sub-level twelve, back when Fenigore was staying in the infirmary there. When she'd given chase, he had made for the lower levels — perhaps he had been heading for his go-to exit, which could lead to an access tunnel out to the south field?

"Could we help you with something…?" said the other officer. By process of elimination, this was Wynn.

"No," said Parker, and then nothing else. She scanned the subset of monitors corresponding to levels below SL-20, where the colour scheme settled into a prevailing rust-orange theme, taking a chance that she could safely ignore everything above.

The risk quickly paid off: she had been staring with ever-watering eyes for less than five minutes before she spotted a flicker of movement on SL-26. The camera in question was trained on the door leading to the back stairwell, and as she watched, a man, conceivably Jarod's height and build, skirted the edge of its field of view. The man wore a ball cap, and he twitched it casually as he moved, allowing him to shirk direct eye contact with the security camera.

There were no security cameras mounted in the stairwell itself. All she knew now for certain was that he wasn't staying on SL-26, the lowest officially maintained floor in the complex. It was discouraging, but it wasn't the end of her search.

"You know, if you gave us an idea of what you were looking for, we could—"

"Shh."

Her hunting ground shifted to encompass all of the security cameras trained on stairwell exit doors, which were all arranged in a neat column along the left-hand side of the display. There, a movement again: SL-15. The same build, the same ball cap, both emerging from the stairwell.

"Thanks, boys," said Parker, clapping both men on the back. "You've been a great help."

Ostensibly, she was here simply to follow Jarod and report back. Although, come to think of it, Brigitte had said nothing about reporting back. Her words drifted back over the intervening hours: you could keep him from doing something he'll regret or, if the mood strikes you, let him do it and make him regret it after the fact. At the moment, she favoured the former, assuming he'd come here with regrettable plans in mind. The first step was to find him and catch him in the act — whatever act that might be. There would be time for decisions later.

… She hoped.

In the elevator, her finger hovered over the button marked 15 — but no, hang on, if Jarod was there and heard the elevator approach, he might scarper. She punched 14 instead and, once there, bitched her way down a flight of stairs to her true destination, cursing her own cleverness all the while. Sub-level fifteen was dark and quiet. Much of the level was blocked off behind vault doors. She'd never been allowed beyond most of these doors, even with her considerable connections. Only one vault allowed employee access, and even then, only with per-case permissions signed from either Daddy's office or by a member of the Triumvirate. This one exception was the bodily fluids repository.

Yes, the bodily fluids repository, which had recently been consolidated with counteragent storage. The bodily fluids repository, the door to which now hung open, a bit of rebar crammed between the frame and the door to keep it from closing. Swift and silent, Parker pulled the door open. The rebar slipped and fell; she caught it just short of clattering to the floor.

It wasn't Jarod's first time breaking into the Centre. In the past, he'd come here to talk to people in secret — Sydney, Fenigore, presumably others. There was nobody to talk to down here in the SL-15 vaults, so that left theft. Counteragent theft.

Short of ridding himself of the gland altogether, stealing his own stock of counteragent was the next best route to freedom for Jarod. She could see that. It was difficult to blame him, after all they'd been through, after seeing the horrors of quicksilver madness up close.

Why does anyone choose to work here? she thought to herself, walking along the aisles upon aisles of employee samples. Blood samples, urine samples, semen samples, the works, the Centre asked for it all. The fluids were all kept refrigerated, the biting air hovering above freezing. Parker pulled her frigid fingers into her sleeves as she made toward the only sign of life. Said sign of life was the sound of metal rubbing against metal, soft and smooth and almost silent, coming from down at the far end of the room. The sound was unmistakable, especially given SL-15's decor theme: Jarod was breaking through yet another vault door.

Parker turned a blind corner just in time for the last lock tumbler to shickt into place, and for Jarod to grab the enormous vault door handle and pull. Beyond was a small room, about the size of the average walk-in closet, lined with metal grate shelving. Counteragent storage.

"That's it?" she said aloud. Jarod jerked, startled, and whipped around. "Have to say, I expected more. Where are the laser beams? The pressure-sensitive plates? I suppose there still could be pressure-sensitive plates, but I doubt it."

Jarod stayed silent. His narrowed eyes searched her person, waiting for the other shoe to drop. His hand strayed momentarily to his side, where the grip of a pistol was only just visible sticking out of his waistband. After a beat, his hand dropped and he turned back to the… well, call it what it is, the storage closet. From where she stood, Parker couldn't see beyond him into the modest room. Jarod's shoulders tensed, then slumped — whatever was in there, he'd hoped for more. He raised a frustrated fist, made to slam it into the door frame, then let it fall once more. Curious, Parker came up behind him.

There were two vials of counteragent within. Not two racks, not two boxes. Two vials. Enough for twelve days of sanity. Other than that, the shelves were empty.

"They knew I was coming," said Jarod quietly. He turned to her, an unearned look of betrayal pinching his features. What right had he to look at her like that? "They moved the rest. That's why you're here? I saw you talking to Brigitte this morning. What is this, another lesson teaching me to mind the limitations of my new life?"

He was brittle and frustrated, frantic for an excuse to unspool. He wouldn't get that excuse from her — she hadn't come here to fight. She reached past him, into the closet, and picked up the pair of vials. They were set into a little wooden rack, like the ones used to hold test tubes back in high school chemistry class. The vials were the same as the ones she pulled from the counteragent travelling case each time Jarod needed a shot. She'd last seen a pair of them earlier that day, when she gave Jarod a jab before leaving for the car dealership. There was only one difference: the vials in the vault each wore a slip of paper, a little makeshift sleeve.

"They might have known you were coming," said Parker. "I'm not sure. Brigitte did, I know that much. But I don't think that's why there are only two vials here. Look."

With one fingernail, she smoothed the slip of paper flat so Jarod could read it. It read very similar to the label on a prescription pill bottle: intended recipient ("JAROD", no surname specified), safe dose per injection, frequency of dose. All you'd expect, including a date of manufacture and an expiration date. The former showed a date one week previous, and the date of expiration was in ten days. Its shelf life was fewer than three weeks total. She turned over the second vial: manufactured today, set to expire in seventeen days.

A notice had been tacked to the wall, black printer ink on 8.5 by 11. DO NOT REMOVE FROM REFRIGERATION FOR MORE THAN ONE WEEK'S TIME. DO NOT FREEZE CONTENTS. EXPIRED SUBSTANCE SHOULD UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES BE ADMINISTERED.

"It stores poorly," said Jarod woodenly. He swore. His curse word vocabulary was not particularly colourful, but it was thorough. "No stockpiles. They only have two. Two."

"I'm guessing two vials is not enough for whatever you had planned."

He gave her a sideways look, evidently not yet sure how to respond to her presence. Understandable — she wasn't sure how to respond to her presence, either. She had caught him in the act, yet the jig wasn't up.

"… No, it's not," he said slowly. "It's worse than useless. Wouldn't even do me any good to take what's there, they'd only notice before I could… before I could get anything done."

He was still keeping things to himself. She wouldn't push, for now.

"It wasn't poor timing, either, coming in today," she observed. "By the looks of it, they only ever keep two vials in here at any one time." She put the rack back where she'd found it.

Jarod rested his head against the cool metal of the vault door.

"What happens now?" he asked.

It wasn't the sort of thing he would have asked a year ago, before he was dragged back to the Centre. Project QS-9300 had made several important inroads toward breaking Jarod, but the most insidious of these was how it was slowly persuading him to give up the concept of agency.

The question — What happens now? — decided things for Parker.

"Now?" she said. "You're the professional grifter. Don't you usually have a contingency plan for these things? Say a security guard comes along at the wrong time, or the vials get smashed, or you get a sudden charley horse and can't lug them all down to SL-26 and out through the vineyard. Then what?"

Jarod was looking at her like she'd suddenly pulled off her face to reveal a Halloween mask underneath.

"You're not turning me in," he said, his tone hushed, like he feared the words might crystallize and shatter if he didn't treat them with scrupulous care.

"Gold star," said Parker with a tired smile. "Focus, Jarod — what's next?"

He stared at her a beat longer, then, coming to his senses, he jerked a thumb vaguely westward. "Back to the house the way I—" He abruptly fell silent.

"What—"

"Shh, listen."

She did so, and an unwelcome sound met her ears: the ding of an elevator, followed by the rhythmic jangling of keys. A security officer was doing his rounds on SL-15.

It was already too late to run. The door to the bodily fluids repository was well within view of the elevator, so unless the security officer made a succession of fortuitous choices — he didn't see the rebar keeping the door open, he turned left towards the stairwell instead of right towards the bodily fluids repository — the two trespassers were seconds from exposure. Hell, even if it wasn't too late to run, Parker was in no fit state for it.

They caught each other's eye and, through some silent communication, reached an agreement: they wouldn't be turning themselves in. Perhaps some slight chance existed that, if Parker spun things the right way, she could explain away the two of them being in counteragent storage after hours. The truth might even do the trick for getting her — and her alone — out of trouble. That is, she could tell them she'd tailed Jarod to headquarters and interrupted him mid-burglary attempt. In her mind, this was never an option. Never mind why not.

The only option remaining was stealth.

Jarod raised a finger to his lips, then pointed to a spot just short of the door frame. Parker nodded and positioned herself at the indicated spot; after shutting up counteragent storage, Jarod took up a mirroring position on the other side of the outer door. Parker saw the following events play out in sepia stills: the officer would come in, head directly for the most vulnerable and sought-after samples within, allowing the would-be burglars to slip out. Or! The officer would come in, look around, and get Miss Parker's cane upside the head for his trouble.

Outside the vault door, the footsteps came to a halt.

"Is there somebody there?" said a gruff, tired voice. It wasn't a familiar voice, but then, the security department had ballooned tenfold since Parker's tenure at its head. She could count the number of recognizable employees on one hand.

Jarod and Miss Parker kept mum.

"If you have authorization to be down here after hours, it's no problem," the guard said to his unseen audience. "Come out and show me your permission slips, we'll be just fine. We'll go on our way. If not, well. Then, it's a problem. Either way, you come on out."

Damn. The guy wasn't going to step into their Home Alone-style trap. Parker looked around, but little presented itself as helpful for enabling escape. Only a lot of blood, piss and jizz. She hailed Jarod's attention and performed a brief mime. Jarod returned the suggestion with a thumb's up, then wrapped an elbow around his mouth and made a plaintive sound.

A quick intake of breath from outside. "Hey, are you okay?" The footsteps came closer, abandoning caution. Parker caught Jarod's eye and, choosing her moment carefully, threw her weight into the door, a brutal body check. On the other side, the door hit something soft and the officer went sprawling with a loud grunt.

They lost no time. Jarod slipped through the gap made by the open door, stepped over the dazed and groaning form of the guard, and slapped the button to summon the elevator. True to Parker's estimation, the elevator hadn't been used since the security officer's arrival and the doors immediately opened. Parker followed closely behind, all her attention on her left leg, don't give out don't give out don't give out. She had just stepped into the elevator when a tremendous retort sounded, a sound like a firework going off, and a fiery streak of pain shot through her leg just north of her knee. This must be her damaged leg letting out a final shriek before giving up the ghost — but no, the security officer had wrestled his gun out of its holster and his wild shot had hit Parker in the leg.

The same goddamned leg.

Parker let loose a bellow of pain and clamped down on the wound, sliding down the elevator wall to land in a frustrated heap. Jarod looked around in alarm. One glance was enough to take in the bloody state of her leg. He punched the button for SL-26 and fell to his knees beside her.

"Mother fuck," said Parker through gritted teeth. Another shot pinged off the closing doors. "The goddamn leg again? Really?"

"Let me — Miss Parker? Let me see. Please." He shooed away her hands, which she peeled away with extreme reluctance. The exposed nerves screamed their sundry objections and dark red blood stained her hands and clothes. Jarod let out a heavy whoosh of air. "It didn't hit anything vital, that's good."

"It doesn't feel good."

Jarod uttered a low laugh. "No, I would bet not. Do you — oh, perfect." He unwound the scarf from her neck and tied it around the wound. He tightened the knot with a quick jerk of both ends, prompting a yelp of pain.

The doors opened again, revealing sub-level twenty-six, the lowest level reachable by elevator.

"Getting off here?" Parker gasped.

"Yep, and so are you," said Jarod. Parker made a noise of indignation. "Unless you want to go up through the main hall and explain why a security guard shot you?"

He said it like it was a cut-and-dry decision, but it wasn't. Yes, she would likely be seen and questioned if she tried returning the way she came. When the security officer made his report, it would only get worse, and she'd be in deep shit with the Triumvirate for aiding and abetting Jarod's attempted burglary. On the other hand, going up to the ground floor would also secure her some help for the bullet wound in her leg. She'd seen the path back to Jarod's car — a climb up to ground level, followed by a trek across field and vineyard. It was too far to travel with a leaking limb. Wynn and Brewis up on SL-9 had likely already spotted them on the monitors, anyway.

Jarod stuck his foot in the path of the elevator door to keep it open. His expression was pained, though not half as pained as hers.

"Please — look, if you have my exit route from the Centre blocked off, that's it. I won't have a way in and out. I'm trusting you with this, Miss Parker, please trust me to get you away from here."

She held his gaze for a long moment before nodding jerkily, only to almost immediately regret it as he scooped her up in a fireman's carry and hoisted her up and out of the elevator. The blood rushed to her head and the hand clamping her leg in place against his shoulder dug into injured flesh.

"Jarod! Put me down, for the — stop!" she barked, shoving at his shoulder.

He obeyed with some reluctance.

"I know it's not ideal," he said. "But we need to get out, fast. That guard on fifteen will have called for backup. If we can get out unseen—"

"I can walk, at least until we get to the exit." Parker wheezed from the pain. "There's no way we haven't been seen, though. The cameras on SL-15 and here, look, there's one right there. Plus the guard."

"The cameras are taken care of. The guard — the hall was dark, and he took a while to get off that shot, there's a pretty good chance he didn't see our faces."

Parker thought this was extremely optimistic, but she'd take it over resignation to whatever punishment the Triumvirate would have in store for traitors and runaway lab rats.

By the time she pulled herself up out of the tunnel and slid onto all fours in the surrounding dry grass, she could no longer hold back moans of pain, along with the pinprick of tears at the corners of her eyes. She couldn't remember the last time she had cried from physical pain alone.

"I can't," she sobbed. She burned with the humiliation of it, but it was unavoidable. She couldn't go any further. When she tried to put weight on her leg, it wobbled and gave out with a magnificent spike of pain. The scarf around her leg was soaked through and dripping.

"I know, I know," said Jarod, his voice hushed and worried. "It's too far. You — you wait here, okay? I'll be right back."

"What?" stammered Parker, but he had already darted away, heading for the spiky shapes of the vineyard. "Jarod!"

He was gone. She tugged her coat around herself, cursing her lack of layers, cursing Jarod for pushing her past the limits of her pain, cursing the security guard's aim and timing, cursing Brigitte for sending her out here in the first place. Her muscles were stiff and tensed against the cold, and they ached as shivers rattled through her. The skin of her face was taut where it was exposed to the worst of the wind flying across the open field, taut like an old rubber band ready to snap. Her teeth chattered so hard, she almost didn't hear it when the sound of an engine approached.

The green station wagon wasn't the best suited for all-terrain driving, but it wasn't the worst, either. Coming through the vineyard, it pelted along one row, withered vines scraping desperately at the sides. It bounded clumsily over the uneven field and came to a standstill in front of Parker's huddled form. Jarod got out and rushed to her side. His hands hovered over her arms like he was reaching for a feral dog, wanting fervently to touch but not sure whether he'd get bit for his trouble.

"I'm back. Are you okay, can you move?"

"Yeah," she gasped. Her lips felt rubbery and numb. "Cold. Let's go."

They tore out of the field. The tires hit pavement just as a searchlight stuttered to life on the Centre headquarters' front lawn. Parker bent her head around to watch for pursuers out the back window, but none appeared. She did, however, spy her car where she'd left it in the visitors' parking lot out front. How could she explain its presence if someone spotted it before tomorrow morning?

They'd been driving for almost five minutes before Parker realized they were heading in the opposite direction from home, towards Wilmington.

"Where the hell are you taking me?"

Jarod looked over at her. His face was pale and pinched.

"The hospital. Your wound is a graze, but it's still pretty deep. And not at all clean. It could get infected if you don't have a doctor look at it."

"Turn around."

"No."

"Jarod! What was the point of escaping unseen if we go to the hospital? They're required to report gunshot wounds. I can't explain how I got this, and it will get back to the Centre higher-ups. Delaware police departments are riddled with Centre employees. You got me into this, you can get me out your own damn self. Turn around."

Jarod threw her an agonized look and, without further comment, swung the vehicle into a neat U-turn that might have emptied Parker's stomach if she'd eaten anything substantial in the past six hours.

The station wagon was a boxy, fuel-efficient bat out of hell for the next twenty miles.

"You know what else will get back to the Centre higher-ups," Parker grumbled. "If we're pulled over by the cops. Then it won't even matter that I've been shot, it'll just be icing on the crime cake."

They arrived at their destination safely, counter to her most pessimistic predictions. Said destination was, apparently, Jarod's place. He pulled the station wagon up alongside its twin in the driveway.

"I don't live here," she said, unnecessarily.

"Do you have sterile gauze and a sewing kit at home?" he asked, a little snappish, taut with anxiety. She took several seconds too long to answer; she was pretty sure the first aid kit under her bathroom sink had some sterile gauze, but she wasn't sure about the sewing kit. She wasn't exactly a seamstress. Jarod noticed her hesitation. "I'll take that as a 'no'. That's why we're here." His expression softened. "Come in. Your lips are blue."

Inside, he ushered her into the bathroom and pushed a bathrobe into her unresisting arms with orders to change into it. He, meanwhile, headed for the kitchen to sterilize a couple of key tools in the sink. She surfaced minutes later clad in the white, fluffy robe, its hem already reddening from occasional brushes against her leg. Her cane allowed her to hobble out into the living room. For once, she couldn't deny it was helping.

"Come out to the kitchen," Jarod called. "The lighting is better here."

Limping into the kitchen, Parker's eye caught on the spot where she'd parked her car to watch Jarod make dinner. With the kitchen light on and the blackness beyond, the glass was almost mirror-like. Almost. Jarod followed the direction of her gaze.

"Yeah, I knew you were out there," he said, affecting perfect nonchalance. "Or, I was pretty sure it was you. There's a lot of glare off the windows at night."

"Where should I sit?" she said, ignoring the comment. Three benches surrounded the kitchen table; Jarod pointed to the one closest to the window and drew up a chair as Parker sat down. She draped her leg across the bench, wincing as she straightened her knee. Jarod set to work cleaning the wound. Once he'd wiped the lion's share of the blood away, Parker dared a peek and winced again. There was a mean-looking gouge carved out of the side of her left thigh, just above the knee.

"This would have been a lot easier if you had complied with the guard and called in what I was up to in counteragent storage." Jarod wasn't looking at her, but at the wound, frowning in concentration. He was armed with a pair of tweezers and a reddening facecloth. Parker flinched each time he dove in and picked a fine thread from the mulched meat that was her lower thigh. Shreds of her trousers had become tangled in the flesh. "Did you ever think of doing that?"

"Mm — unh," Parker grunted. Her breathing was jerky and tense. "Briefly, yes."

"What stopped you?"

She looked up at him, daring him to meet her eyes. He didn't.

"I remembered how boring it was that week you were locked up in room six on the Renewal Wing," she said, affecting a blasé manner. "Couldn't work, but couldn't go on vacation either. Incredibly dull."

A tired smile creased Jarod's eyes at the corners. "We wouldn't want to risk that happening again, then."

"Not if I can help it."

Jarod got out a flashlight and examined the wound for any further contaminants. There was definitely something distinctly odd about having someone stare at one's knee.

"S'clean," he muttered. He brandished the sewing kit. "Ready for the hard part?"

Parker made a face. "Any anesthetics in that first aid kit of yours?"

Jarod appeared to give this some thought. "No-o, but…" He reached into the cupboard over the fridge and pulled out a bottle of vodka. "Will this do?"

She beckoned urgently.

"Give it here."

Even liquored to the gills, she was sorely tempted to sock Jarod in the nose once he started stabbing her with a sewing needle.

"You said earlier that Brigitte knew I was coming, knew I was making a move on headquarters. Did she mention how she knew? I can't figure it out," said Jarod, carefully pulling through the fourth stitch.

It was a transparent ploy to distract her, but she played along.

"She — fuck, Jarod, you're not even trying, are you?"

"Yes, I am. Answer the question."

She took several deep breaths, the pain ebbing with each exhale.

Finally: "She didn't tell me. Only suggested that I keep an eye on you for the night."

"Suggested?" Jarod echoed.

"Yeah, that was the weird part. She went out of her way to say it wasn't an order." Puzzling the thing out was a wonderful distraction, she had to admit. Why wouldn't Brigitte make it an order? "The only thing I can think of is, maybe the Triumvirate doesn't know. Maybe however she found out that you were going to try to grab the counteragent tonight, she broke some rules along the way."

"Maybe." Jarod dove back in for the sixth stitch. Parker fought the urge to pull away. "So you followed a suggestion to stalk me, and not an order."

She could swear he was taking the insult of that revelation out on her leg.

"Hey, you were trying to steal counteragent." She paused. "What were you going to do with it, if there had been more?"

She had an inkling why two had not been worth stealing while a bigger stockpile would have been worth the trip, but she wanted to see whether he would admit it. He looked up from his work, and from the look in his eye, Parker was bound for disappointment.

"I appreciate you not ratting me out, but I'm not ready to give up all my plans." He tied off the suture and snipped away the ends. "There."

For the last step, he treated a gauze bandage and set about winding it around her leg. His movements were sure and confident yet gentle, pausing with every pass over her thigh to check the tension — not too loose, not too tight — and to smooth the gauze over the skin of her leg. No creases, no ripples or folds.

"Thank you," said Parker quietly when he'd finally finished.

Jarod gave her a small, close-lipped smile and a nod.

"They're going to suspect us," he said. "Or, me. 'Us' depends more on whether the security guard noticed there were two people present."

Parker shrugged. "Probably. We'll cross that bridge when they hit us with it." She took another swig from the vodka bottle, because she could. "Okay, I have to know — why two station wagons? You spent so long this afternoon debating between cars, wasting my damn time, I don't believe for a second you planned on picking out anything but that green brick."

It was a fifty-fifty shot whether Jarod would consider that information too privileged to tell, or not. Happily, the coin came up heads.

"When you offered, I figured it would be an easy way to cover for the first car I bought. One legitimate, one not-so-much."

"That was my second guess." Parker grinned ruefully. "I don't know if it's a good sign that I'm getting better at discerning how your mind works. Probably not. They'll have me in a loony bin any day now."

"Proximity breeds familiarity," said Jarod, like he was quoting something. He picked up her cane and handed it to her handle-first. "You need to stay off the leg as much as possible, but we should make sure you're ready for tomorrow, at least. Ready to test it out?"

"Is 'no' an option?" she said, but she took the cane and took the mend job on a trial run, covering the daunting distance from the kitchen to the living room. By the time she got to the sofa, she was shaking all over and a bead of sweat had already collected at her hairline.

"Cox will notice if your leg suddenly appears to get worse overnight," said Jarod. "Though that might not be the worst thing. He has meds I don't."

She settled back into the sofa, breathing hard.

"I'll avoid him for a couple days. He's the last person I'd tell about our little field trip, he's got a possessive streak when it comes to that hitchhiker you've got in your brain."

Jarod sat in the cushy armchair opposite with a grimace. He took in his surroundings — the living room, the tools on the kitchen table, Parker's leg — and sighed.

"I hate this," he said, quiet enough that Parker wasn't sure she'd heard correctly.

"The gland?" she guessed.

"Yes." He paused, then shook his head minutely. "No. It's the whole deal. You know, it wasn't too long after I made up my mind to escape, back in '96, that I went ahead and… and did it, and escaped. I've never been quite this stuck before. I'm not so arrogant that I thought I could never get dragged back in, but I was arrogant enough that I never conceived of… this. Indefinite obligation to the Centre and whatever causes it decides to pursue."

"Join the club."

Jarod threw her a sharp look, which softened after a moment.

"Yeah," he said, on an inhale. "What would you do if you were free? Where would you go?"

It was a big question.

"If I was really free, I could stay right here." She looked around. "Blue Cove, that is, not your sofa. I wouldn't have to flee to be left alone. If you have to run, you aren't free." She saw the words have their intended effect. Please don't run again, Jarod. "Do you think you were free before they caught you?"

They, she said. A debatable use of the word. Technically, she hadn't been there at the time, but she worked for those who had been.

"No, I guess not. It was better than this, though," he said. "So, to answer my own question — I'd stop running, too. Not here, though. Too many bad memories."

Parker hummed and laid her head down against the back of the sofa. Jarod's freedom was a dangerous subject. As long as he kept grasping for his, she couldn't have hers.

Jarod followed her lead and wriggled his head against the back of his armchair until he was comfortable. "When were you last free, do you think?" he asked.

She ran through the catalogue of her memory. Not any time after '96, that was for damn sure. Ever since then, she'd been on the hook for Jarod's capture, and in the last month-and-change, for his supervision. So, it would have to be before then. And she'd had freedom of a kind as a child, certainly — when she and Jarod were kids together, that had been the fundamental difference between them: she could walk out, he couldn't. The last time she'd ever been free, therefore, had to be sometime between her childhood and Jarod's escape.

"Cairo," she said, eventually. Jarod jerked; his eyelids had begun to droop.

"Cairo?" he echoed.

"It was my first and last attempt at a real, independent career before the Centre suckered me in."

She hadn't thought about Cairo in years. It was the most she'd ever lived, before or since. The job wasn't anything remarkable, some liaison position she'd planned to work up from, but it had let go of her every evening at five on the dot. In Cairo, she'd had friends.

"Female friends," she corrected herself. "The Centre, meanwhile, is Oktoberfest… rife with sausages."

(As if she needed to make excuses to Jarod for the dearth of friendship in her life. He hadn't had a friend in the world until little Marcie Parker started showing up at the sim lab, exchanging kisses for bunny rabbits.)

She painted the scene of the hot nights in Cairo, how she would stay up to the wee hours of the morning, dancing in open-air clubs, picking up Arabic by bits and pieces until she could chat up a local with ease. She laughed a lot more, back then. People in her life blamed the death of Catherine Parker for the shift in her sense of humour, but the timeline didn't quite match up.

After reminiscing for a long while without interruption, she looked over at Jarod. His breathing was slow and deep, his eyes closed. Cairo had put Jarod to sleep.

How much would she have given, only a few short months ago, to stumble upon Jarod in such a vulnerable position? Things had changed so much, so fast. Asleep, he looked much more relaxed than she'd ever seen him. The edge of the seat back pushed the skin of his cheek against his nose as he settled into the chair, so that he looked like he'd had his cheeks pinched by a doting aunt. One arm was curled protectively around himself.

Just then, Parker's cell phone rang. She snapped it open hurriedly.

"What?" she whispered.

"Good evening, Miss Parker," said Brigitte. Unlike Parker, she didn't bother to keep her voice down. "How has your stakeout been treating you?"

"Fine. Boring."

"Any updates?"

"Nope. Slow night. He went to bed early."

"Good," said Brigitte. She didn't sound surprised. "You know for certain that he's there?"

"Positive. I've had eyes on him every fifteen minutes."

Brigitte's chuckle came down the phone line sounding choppy and broken up. "Little miss voyeur. Alright, that's better than the alternative, I suppose. It was a good tip, but even good tips turn up nothing now and again."

She hung up. Parker looked over at Jarod. He hadn't moved, but his eyes were open, watching her. She gave him a mute nod and stood. The graze wound throbbed obnoxiously.

"Goodnight, Jarod."

"Night."