Pain was the first thing he knew. A nearly unbearable tightening and burning in his abdomen and chest. Breathing hurt, the pain stabbed at him when he inhaled, and he could venture a guess that sitting upright would hurt more. He was cold, too, and he could feel a draft on his forearms.

Then he could hear. Low voices from somewhere to his left. Muffled footfalls and the dull hum of electric lights.

Then smell. Chemical sterility, methanol and formaldehyde, poorly masked by lemon.

With some difficulty, he forced one gummy, heavy eye open, and then the other.

White ceiling tiles. To his right, a large window letting in bright daylight. To his left, a wooden armchair, and beyond it, a pocket door.

The pieces came together, and he knew: a hospital.

Mustang grunted. Of course. He had been shot.

He reached down and pulled up the linen shirt some nurse must have dressed him in, and he saw a large pack of fresh, white gauze taped to his abdomen and right across his stomach from his burn scar. Above that, a wide swath of cotton elastic wrapped around his ribs.

He exhaled and, irritated that he had woken up cold and in pain in a hospital rather than in good health anywhere else, pushed himself upright. It should have been easy, as the hospital bed was already at an incline and he did not have to move far, but every movement crushed the bullet wound, and he winced and gasped, which made his chest hurt even more. But finally, he managed to sit properly.

He looked to the armchair next to the bed. A thin blanket was folded on the seat, and on top of it lay a rather thick book. iThe Rule of Masses/i, a democratic political treatise that had been banned in Amestris until the current Parliament had decided to make all press free.

With some difficulty he leaned over, flipped open the cover, and saw his name written in the bottom corner of the flyleaf. He had loaned it to Hawkeye at her request before their departure from East City. The placement of the velvet bookmark indicated she had nearly finished.

Efficient in everything, as always.

He looked around the room, but she was not there. However, there had been voices in the hall, and hers might have been one of them.

One at a time, he shifted his legs over the edge of the bed and supported himself while he stood upright. The pain was lessened as long as he stood straight and didn't move. But he did have to move. So, gasping and wincing, he shuffled across the floor until, quite out of breath, he reached the door at last and slid it open.

Hawkeye was not standing in the hallway. Instead, Mustang saw a man about his own age, with brown hair and a pressed uniform with insignia indicating he was a captain.

The captain saluted, but rather than release him, Mustang said, "Who the hell are you."

The captain stayed at attention while he said, "I'm Captain Weber, Sir. I work under General—"

"I don't care," said Mustang as he shook his head. "Where's Hawkeye?"

The captain did not get to answer, for an older nurse in her starched and white uniform rounded a corner and cried, "General! You shouldn't be moving about!"

He didn't much care what the nurse thought he should or shouldn't be doing, and he said, "I need to find my adjutant."

"Respectfully, Sir," she said, and he noticed the gold star on her collar indicating her military nursing accreditation, "What you need is to get back to bed."

"Don't tell me—"

"You'll pull your stitches, and what then?" the nurse said, as if it didn't matter to her that, by virtue of her employment, he was effectively her superior officer.

But he wanted to find Hawkeye more than he wanted a battle of wills, he said, "I am not going back in there—" he pointed at the waiting room behind him— "until someone tells me where Major Hawkeye—"

"No," said the nurse, "it's back in bed for you."

The captain, still saluting Mustang, said, "Ma'am, if I could—"

But the nurse reached for Mustang's arm, and he jerked away and regretted it immediately. His middle felt as if it had been ripped open, and he sagged against the doorframe and took shaking breaths.

"There!" said the nurse. "See?"

"Peg?" said a deep voice. "What's going on?"

Mustang knew that voice, and he turned his head to see Doctor Knox, the hard-faced, foul-tempered coroner, scowling behind his spectacles and walking down the hall toward them. "Knox!" he said, and he pushed himself off the doorframe. "Thank God." He waved at the nurse and the captain and said, "No one here is telling me where Hawkeye is. Treating me like an invalid—"

"You are an invalid," Knox said, and Mustang wished for his gloves.

"With all due respect, Sir," the captain said, "I was—"

"Oh, shut up," Mustang snapped.

The captain did.

"I'll handle it, Peg," said Knox, and the nurse left them.

Mustang frowned at Knox. He had no interest in being "handled." "I'm not moving until I know—"

"I'll take you to her," said Knox, shoving his hands in his white coat.

That was the most sensible thing Mustang had heard since waking.

After a few minutes of convincing him that he was not well enough to be walking and that his doctor hadn't cleared him for movement, Knox managed to force Mustang into a wheelchair. While nurses and doctors rushed from bed to bed behind ward doors, and some made dashes for the hospital pharmacy and various supply closets for bandages, he ushered Mustang down a series of sterile halls.

At least Mustang was in a private room, even if he was disappointed in his guard and put out by his inability to carry himself. "This whole thing is absurd."

"Well," Knox said, "if you hadn't gone and got yourself shot."

Mustang leaned back in the chair and snorted.

"Good thing the bullet his nothing vital," Knox continued, "or I'd be the one taking care of—"

"Yes, thank you."

Knox was quiet for a moment before saying, "And then there was the whole getting hit by an automobile. You got off that with a couple broken ribs, you lucky bastard."

Mustang knit his brows together. He could not remember that, but he believed Knox. It explained the pain in his chest. He shifted in the chair so there was less pressure on his injuries and said, "So, where is Hawkeye?"

"Morgue."

He forgot how to breathe. It was impossible, impossible that they should be going to the morgue, impossible that Hawkeye should be there. She was alive. He remembered her being alive—

"Relax," Knox said. "She's just helping identify the dead. They asked me to come in because they're so backed up at the moment. I can't even retire in peace."

Mustang's lungs began working again. Of course, she had left the book in the room. He knew she had been there. It was tragic that the hospital morgue would be so full, that they had lost good soldiers, that there were any men, foreign or otherwise, in the morgue at that time. But he had one thought above all others. "She's alright?"

"Who do you think brought you here?" Knox said.

Mustang closed his eyes and smiled. She was fine. He could almost picture it, Hawkeye dragging him into the emergency room, half-mad with worry over him, brown eyes wide and filled with tears…It was a pity he had been unconscious.

Then Knox barked a laugh, and Mustang had to remind himself to not turn in the chair.

"What?" Mustang asked.

Knox laughed again and said, "You just left him like that!"

Mustang couldn't imagine what Knox meant, then he realised he had never released the captain. It was a funny memory, the captain trying to hold his salute while he attempted to pacify Mustang and the nurse, and he laughed too. Unfortunately, laughing hurt more than it was worth, and he sucked in a breath and pressed his hand against his ribs.

"Right," said Knox as Mustang adjusted in the chair. "You probably can't afford to have a sense of humour for a while."

Mustang scowled, and they continued their journey through the hospital halls.

Riza followed the signs, her heart pounding. She hadn't wanted to do it, hadn't wanted to leave Weber in charge of the General or go to the morgue or confirm identities, but Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong was still on his way, and the hospital needed to begin contacting families and compiling a full list of the Cretan casualties.

She slowed when she rounded a corner and saw Maria Ross outside the morgue doors. Ross turned and looked at her, and Riza thought Ross' face might be a mirror of her own: dark circles under the eyes and sallow cheeks and a deep frown.

"Have they told you?" Ross asked, her voice hoarse.

"Yes," Riza said.

Ross shook her head. "I don't believe it." Her voice cracked on the last word. "It's a mistake. It has to be."

Riza tried to come up with some sort of assurance or adage, something comforting, but the morgue door opened, and a very pale skinned coroner in a coat stained with red said, "We're ready for you."

She tried not to think about whose blood was on his coat as she followed. Ross came too, and she was stiff when the coroner indicated they should stand next to a gurney. A white cloth covered a body on top of the metal, and a second coroner with very dark skin pulled the sheet down, past the face.

Ross let out a sob and pressed her hand to her mouth. "Oh, my God." And without another word, she turned and left the way they had come.

Riza watched her go, and she turned around when one of the coroners said, "Ma'am?"

The pale man looked at her, waiting to verify her identification against the soldier's record he held open before him.

Riza swallowed, nodded, and tried not to look. She didn't want to see the body in front of her, the place where the coroners had shaved away blond hair, the spot where skin puckered around a bullet hole in the side of his head. She nodded again and said, with more confidence than she felt, "Lieutenant Denny Brosh. His mother lives in the city."

The pale coroner closed the record and thanked her, and the dark coroner pulled the sheet up again and made a mark on a list beside the table.

"How many more?" Riza asked. The smell of formaldehyde and sterilising fluids made her head spin. "I have to get back to my post."

"Would you be alright to stay until Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong arrives?" asked the dark coroner.

Riza didn't answer. She didn't know who else she would see, but none would be quite as shocking as Brosh. And yet she needed to return to the General, or else she feared the next body she saw would be his.

"We do have to confirm several Cretan identities," said the pale coroner.

She shook her head. "I don't think I'm qualified for that." She had seen several of the Cretan soldiers, but she had only been in close quarters with one.

The pale coroner reached for a clipboard, and said, "General Hauser isn't letting any of the Cretan men into the military hospital."

Riza nodded. It was a good decision.

"And we can't send the bodies to the general hospitals because this case is under military jurisdiction," said the dark coroner, and he smiled in apology. "You can see it's a mess."

Riza brushed her fingers over the seam of her trousers. "I don't know how much help I'll be."

"Anything you can give us, Ma'am," said the dark coroner. "If you saw them and where. Things like that." He led her to another metal table where another body, also covered by a white sheet, lay. He pulled the sheet down, just to the man's shoulders, but she could see the gash in the man's throat, the way his lips were pale and his skin ashen from bleeding out….

Riza sucked in a breath. "Oh." She did know him. Or, she had known him.

"He was found with Lieutenant Brosh on the roof," said the pale coroner as he looked over his clipboard.

"Yes," said Riza. "Captain Berger." She shook her head. "I don't know his given name." He had implied he thought all Amestrians were killers. He had implied that he hoped he was wrong. He had died believing he was right.

"Was he supposed to be on the roof?" asked the pale coroner.

"Yes, he was stationed there. We all were, and—" Riza stopped as it occurred to her that she had been late getting back from her break, that if she hadn't noticed the ajar service door she might have been back on time, and Berger would be alive, and she would be the one on the roof with a gash in her throat and her blood covering the concrete and mixing in with the rain…Her hand flew to her neck, where, just under her collar, she carried a scar of her own. "Excuse me, please."

She didn't wait for them to acknowledge she had said anything, and she pushed through the doors of the morgue and into the hall, where she collapsed against a wall.

Her chest was tight, unbearably so, and she was hot, and all over again she was on the ground, blood spurting between her fingers and pooling below her cheek. She could feel it building in the back of her throat, metallic and warm, and running down into her lungs, burning her chest from the inside, and she couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe—

"Major Hawkeye," said a deep, booming voice, and Riza raised her head.

She wasn't bleeding. She was fine and in a hospital hallway, and Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong was striding toward her.

She pushed off the wall and saluted him, conscious of how her hands shook and the thin sheen of perspiration covering her forehead and neck. "Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong. I—Oh!" She gasped when, instead of releasing her, he pulled her into a crushing embrace.

"It's a terrible day," he said.

Riza could not reach around his back, large as he was, so she patted his arm and said, "Yes, Sir." He let her go and pulled back, but he kept his hands on her shoulders. Tears brimmed in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Sir."

Armstrong nodded. "Brosh was a good and brave soldier. It shouldn't have ended like this."

Riza took a shaky breath. Her chest still felt tight, and she was overcome with a terrible exhaustion. "If there's anything I can do..." She let the offer hang, for she knew there was nothing to be done.

But Armstrong patted her shoulder. "Be vigilant," he said. "And let General Mustang know I'll be in touch with him soon. We still don't know who's done this."

"Yes, Sir," she said.

He looked into her eyes, his tear-filled gaze so intense she had to remind herself to not look away. "You should rest," he said.

"Yes, Sir."

He left her and went into the morgue, where he would be of more use and firm countenance than she.

Riza leaned against the wall. She did want to rest, and she wanted to cry and relieve that tightness in her chest, but the General still needed her. And she remembered the command Armstrong had given her: be vigilant.

"Hawkeye!" another voice called, and she looked up.

"Sir!" she cried, for he was awake and out of bed, two things he was not supposed to be. "Doctor Knox!" she said when she saw who was with the General and pushing him in a chair. "Why is he here?"

"Because he's belligerent," said Knox.

"I didn't know where you were," said the General.

She could imagine his panic; she had felt the same hours earlier as she had crouched over him in the street and pressed her hands against the bullet wound in his side. And, though it was a lie, she said, "I'm fine, Sir."

Knox cleared his throat. "Can you take it from here?" He waited for her to nod, and then he bid the General farewell and walked past her and into the morgue.

"Who was that man you left at my door?" said the General.

Riza raised her eyebrows. "Captain Weber, Sir." The General had met him dozens of times over the years.

The General snorted. "He's an imbecile."

"He's General Maden's adjutant," she said, and the tightness lifted from her chest just enough that she could smile. Then she walked over to him and grasped both handles of the chair.

"I should be walking," he said, and remained seated.

Riza turned the chair around and began pushing them back down the hallway and toward his room. "I'm sure if Knox put you in a chair, he had a good reason."

"If you think humiliation is a good reason."

She clicked her tongue and continued pushing. At least the General was awake and in normal spirits.

Mustang was still annoyed when they arrived back in his hospital room, annoyed at the pain in his middle and the effort moving required, annoyed that he relied on a chair for mobility, annoyed that Hawkeye would doubtless yell at him the moment they were alone, annoyed at the whole hospital itself. But Hawkeye had the uncanny ability to make him acquiesce to almost anything, so he would bear the pain and the lecture and the chair and the hospital.

He did refuse her helping him into the bed, however, so he lifted himself slowly onto the mattress while she busied herself with straightening the blanket on the chair.

"You left your book," he said. "Or mine, rather."

"Yes, Sir," she said behind him. "You can have it back, if you like."

He shook his head and pulled his legs onto the bed. "I don't think you've finished with it yet." Then he leaned back against the pillows and looked at her. "Well, go on."

Hawkeye lifted her brows and tilted her head to the side.

He waved his hand in the air. "You've a lecture prepared, I'm sure."

She tucked the book close to her chest, pressed her lips together, and nodded. "If I may speak freely, Sir."

"Oh, don't bother asking for permission," he said, for even denial wouldn't stop her. "Get on with it."

Her jaw tightened, and she dropped her clenched fists to her side. "Sir," she said. "Do you have any—"

A knock at the door cut her off, and Mustang grinned, the first time he had really smiled since waking. "That's lucky."

Hawkeye sighed, and the door slid open.

"Chief," said Breda as he walked into the room, and Mustang sighed in relief. "Heard you were up. How're you feeling?

Mustang smiled and lifted his hospital shirt so Breda could see. "Not so bad. At least I'm evened out now."

Hawkeye glared at him, no doubt horrified that he could make light of two potentially fatal wounds, one from a bullet and one from cauterising a wound years earlier. But he figured that the danger had passed, and so what else was he to do but make jokes?

Still, he lowered his shirt and said, "You just arrived yesterday."

"Yes, Sir," said Breda, and he held up a thick file. "And already working. I'm just here to ask questions."

Mustang nodded. It was bad luck that the events of the previous night had occurred just as Breda and Feury arrived in the city.

Breda thumbed through his file. "I've a whole list of people in attendance to get through. The survivors, the security, the opera singer you asked me to look into, oddly enough—"

"Yes," said Mustang, as their conversation came back to him. "She was performing." He grinned. Wine and trauma and sleep had diluted the details of their discussion, but some things were clear. "I'm fairly certain she offered to sleep with me."

The book fell out of Hawkeye's hands and slapped against the floor. She whispered an apology as she bent to pick it up.

"You have excellent timing," Mustang said, banishing a twinge of guilt with a shake of his head. "Hawkeye was just about to yell at me for my stupidity, I'm sure."

Breda looked between Mustang and Hawkeye. "I can come back."

"No, stay," said Mustang, who knew that Hawkeye would hold back at least a little so long as another person was in the room. Breda's presence was a welcome reprieve.

Hawkeye stared at him. "How can you be so flippant about this?"

Mustang raised his hands. "I'm alive, aren't I?"

"You idiot," Hawkeye said, her voice rising with each word. "It was raining, and you know—"

"I'm not totally useless in the rain these days," he said. He could clap his hands and make most anything happen. He hadn't had the chance the night before, partly due to the fact that he had been shot before he could manage it, but that didn't negate his point.

But Hawkeye would not be deterred. "This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been drinking so much—"

"Oh," he said, and he rolled his eyes. "This again?"

"Yes!" she cried.

Breda jerked his thumb toward the door. "I'll come back."

Mustang jabbed his finger toward Breda. "Don't."

Breda stayed.

"Was I not clear enough?" Hawkeye said. "I was trying to get you away! How can I possibly protect you when you keep running right into—"

"They were right there, Hawkeye!" he said, and he gestured in front of him as if the people in black were in the room with them. "Was I supposed to just let them go?"

"We could have followed them in the automobile!" she said, and he snorted and looked away. "We could have done anything other than what you did!"

"What I did," he said as he looked back at her, "was take action."

"What you did was stupid!"

"Fine!" he shouted, and he threw his hands in the air. "I'm an idiot. I shouldn't have pursued on foot. I shouldn't have tried to use alchemy to stop them. I should have stayed in my seat and let them get away."

She exhaled hard, but she said nothing.

A lump formed in the back of his throat, and he looked away from her and swallowed. "What have you found out?"

Breda cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Well, that Amestrian Freedom Army has claimed the attack. They've spread flyers all over town." From his file, he pulled a sheet of paper covered in text and handed it over to Mustang.

The text was printed in large lettering, a proud acknowledgement of responsibility for the assassination alongside statements about "not letting Creta determine Amestrian policy" and "saving the nation from a globalised system of government."

He clenched his jaw. It hadn't even been twelve hours, unless he'd been unconscious for longer than he realised, which meant they had prepared these well in advance. But that also meant they had access to a printing press. "And no word on who might be involved with them?"

"Not yet, Sir," said Breda. "But Hawkeye managed to kill one of the people who...you were pursuing." He nodded at her. "Clean shot. Right through the heart."

Hawkeye pushed her shoulders back.

"So," Breda continued, looking back at Mustang, "once we identify him, we can locate friends and family, which is more to go on than we had before." He tapped one hand against his file. "I'll need to question you both, of course, about what you saw."

Hawkeye looked at Mustang while she said, "I don't think now is a good time, Breda."

"Right," Breda said. "Tomorrow, then. Plenty of other people to question." He nodded at Mustang and turned to go, but he looked at Hawkeye one last time. "Don't kill him."

She was silent as Breda left, and she let the silence stretch long after he had gone.

That lump in the back of his throat grew larger, and he said, "I'm sorry. You're right. I—" He shook his head. He had been reckless, more than he would have been if he had been sober. "You're right."

"I must be able to do my job," she said.

He nodded. "I know." He took a breath and tried to think of some light comment, but he could see a tension in her shoulders, a slight sway in her stance, and there were dark circles under her eyes. He didn't know how he missed them. "Hawkeye, have you slept?"

She blinked several times and said, "I was able to rest in the chair—"

"It's a 'yes' or 'no' question, Hawkeye," he said. "Go back to the hotel."

"No, Sir!" she said.

He looked at her hands, shaking with exhaustion. "You're no good to me like this." He waved around the room. "I'm in a military hospital, Hawkeye. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Sir," she said, "we've just seen it."

Mustang huffed. If she was concerned about leaving him alone, he would find someone who could stand guard and put her fears to rest. "I'll call Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong."

"He's preoccupied, Sir."

"What about that man you left in charge earlier?"

"Captain Weber?" she said. "He's General Maden's, Sir, and he was only doing me a favour for a few moments."

"Breda, then."

"Breda is working, Sir, and—" She hesitated. "He's a civilian now."

The door slammed open, and a man said, "I heard he was awake."

"Charlie!" Mustang smiled. "There," he said to Hawkeye, "you can't have objections to that."

"Objections to what?" Charlie said. He carried a leather accordion case, and he busied himself with unbuckling it.

"Hawkeye hasn't slept," Mustang said, "and she won't leave because there's no one else to make sure I'm not murdered in my sleep."

Charlie produced a few packets of paper and looked at Hawkeye. "I can do that, Major."

Hawkeye frowned at Mustang, and he rolled his eyes. She knew as well as he did that Charlie had once been a soldier—he had served alongside them in Ishval, and again when they had fought in Central seven years later.

She clicked her tongue and shook her head. It didn't matter that she knew Charlie was capable and trustworthy; she didn't want to leave him.

Mustang jerked his chin at the door and leaned back against the bed, refusing to look at her and receive any response. "Don't come back until tomorrow," he said.

A moment passed before she said, "Sir." The door slid open, and closed, and she was gone.

He turned his head toward Charlie and nodded at the case. It was one lecture after another, it seemed. Did no one have courtesy for the wounded anymore? "So what do you have for me?"

Charlie pulled several pieces of paper from his case. "Revised speeches, schedules…. We've been meeting all morning to accommodate this—" he waved the papers around the room— "and figure out how to use it to our advantage."

Mustang dutifully reached for the papers. The top page was a calendar, showing dates and meetings and interviews all pushed back several days. It was good that he would have a bit of a break while he recovered, but it also meant that events would come closer together in the future. He flipped to the next page, a draft of a speech from Roth, and the next, a copy of a statement his team would release to the press regarding his condition. And the next page was a stump speech he would have to memorise, and the next a brief on a potential donor…. He sighed.

"Everything alright?" Charlie asked.

Mustang looked over the stack of paperwork, a thing he should have avoided while he was infirm. Even his adjutant, who always nagged at him about completing his assignments, would not give him so much to work through until he was stronger. "I miss Hawkeye."

Riza hadn't wanted to admit it in front of the General, but she was tired. She had been awake for almost two days, unable to sleep while he was in surgery and coming off of anaesthesia. Nor had she had a shower or eaten or even left the General's side for more than a few minutes. Instead, she had sat in a chair, read, and waited.

The General had sent her back to the hotel, and to the hotel she had come. But as she closed the door to her hotel room behind her, and as she looked around at the uninspired paintings and impersonal furnishings, her stomach rolled. She should go back.

She trusted Charlie. Of course she did. They had served in the field together, had toppled a government together, had managed one very headstrong general together. And yet, she thought she should go back.

What if someone came in the night? The assassins had killed the Cretan captain, a great many soldiers, and Denny—poor, dear Denny—in their fight to murder the Ambassador and the Minister of State. Charlie was unarmed. Would he be able to defend the General if someone attacked the hospital?

She had almost made up her mind to return when a knock sounded at the door. She turned, opened it, and gasped, "Rebecca."

Rebecca smiled, held up a finger, and said, "I got a telephone call." Then she pushed past Riza and into the hotel room, and Riza let the door shut. "And a mission!" Rebecca stopped and turned around with one hand on her hip, and she wagged a finger at Riza. "I'm supposed to make sure you don't leave the room and go back to the hospital."

Riza sighed. He had called Rebecca, and that fact came as no surprise.

Rebecca went to Riza's suitcase and pulled out a set of cotton pyjamas, then she turned and waggled her eyebrows at Riza. "Take it off."

Riza rolled her eyes and snatched the pyjamas from Rebecca, tossed them on the bed, and set to work removing her uniform while Rebecca dialled on the room telephone and ordered fruit and cold cheeses and meats and bread.

"I'm not tired," Riza lied. "Or hungry."

"Mustang sounded just fine on the telephone," was Rebecca's reply.

Riza did up the last few buttons on the pyjama top. "I'm sure he did."

Rebecca rose from the desk where the telephone was and crossed the room to give Riza a hug. "Charlie will be there. And Breda's wandering around, I heard."

Riza nodded and allowed herself to be sat upon the bed. "You're always taking care of me."

"Well, someone's got to," said Rebecca. "Now, lie down. I'll wake you when food gets here, and you can eat something."

But when Riza closed her eyes, she couldn't sleep. Instead of darkness, she saw the General lying in the street and her own hands pressing hard against his wound. She felt cold rain on her skin and warm blood escaping through her fingers and her throat growing raw from screaming for help. She saw Denny, his scalp shaved around a hole torn open by a gunshot.

And she saw the Cretan captain, his neck sliced and stained with dry blood.

At some point she must have slept, and the blood from Captain Berger's neck became her own, and it flowed down her chest and her arms, splashing against a dark and wet street as she fell to her knees and clutched at her throat. Above her, a gold-toothed doctor smiled, and he smiled as she bled and bled and bled and bled.

A/N: Thank you so much for your patience! This chapter was put on hold because the Betas had life happening, but we got it finished, and I am uploading this from an airport. Wahoo.

Thank you for all the comments! I really appreciate them.