Sara stared at Frank Tancredi as they sat at the breakfast table, over the pile of toast, pots of jam and fruit basket.

"What?" he said.

Sara could not have been more surprised if he had grabbed a bottle of milk and poured it onto the floor.

"You just said, 'See you at the show'," she spoke cautiously. Maybe her dad was having some sort of stroke.

"Yes," Frank looked up from his phone. "It's tonight, right? Your Hamlet performance."

Shock congealed all the oxygen in her lungs. He remembered it was tonight? Remembered that it was Hamlet?

"What is it?"

"But—don't you have work?"

"You warned me months in advance. I booked my evening."

I always warn you months in advance. You never make it. Sara rolled the words back into her throat and swallowed.

"You look very surprised."

"I'm—very surprised," Sara couldn't think of what else to say.

Frank did not look offended. His phone beeped and snatched his attention, the way a dog's does when you toss a frisbee.

"Well, I'm looking forward to it."

His dismissive tone had slipped back on. They were not going to have this conversation, she realized. All the times he'd let her down, had proven how little her life mattered to him, so long as she got good grades and didn't get into trouble.

Sara licked her lips.

Maybe that was fair. After all, did she care what her father did at work? She used to. Used to worship him, as all little girls worship their parents.

But that was before she understood the basics of Republican politics. Then it was a mercy she and her father didn't talk, or try to get along. Because she would have invested hours in trying to change him, and even a father with fewer pride issues would have felt humiliated by it.

There's no common ground between us. There never was.

Sara contemplated her father. The piece of toast between her index and thumb had turned soft. She had agonized over how best to broach the subject of Michael, whose thought alone still sent her pulse into high alert, whose name she couldn't imagine letting out in this house.

Michael was the boy whose kisses opened windows inside her heart and tasted like stars. The raspy feel of his stubble when she rubbed her hands over his scalp, the wave of steadiness that rocked through her when he held her in his arms. It felt so private, she couldn't understand how girls talked about the details so much in the bathroom or in the halls.

It's all mine, Sara thought.

Both a treasure and a burden, to think no one in the whole world truly understood Michael Scofield, except for her. And when she met him, she truly understood herself.

At times, it seemed a miracle that they had found each other, drawn each other. Some say 'chosen', but that was the wrong word. Where had there been a choice in all of this?

The clock on the dining room wall struck eight. Frank had not glanced up from his phone.

What if tonight was the first time he met Michael—at the performance? Seeing him play, he would have to see something of the real Michael. As would everyone. He wore the part like a glove, but all the cracks in the leather, all the scars splintering at the seams, were Michael.

Maybe it was the naivety of a school girl in love.

But Sara could not fathom how her father could disapprove of him, if he saw him act.

"I'm looking forward to it, too," she said.

…

The first time Veronica agreed to follow Lincoln at the gymnasium when he went there to practice, by himself, his jaw actually dropped. She sat on the bleachers, her backpack tucked between her legs, so effortlessly beautiful he could not breathe for a second. And pulled out a book.

"You don't mind?"

He laughed. "Vee, you could run me over with your car and I'm not a hundred percent sure I would mind."

"I don't have a car."

"So, that makes it out the picture then."

"Wait till I turn eighteen."

"Oh, I am."

She tossed him a pack of gum, a surprising un-Vee response when he sucked her into his teasing. Some say when you fall in love, all the songs start making sense. And they do. But Lincoln reckoned, sometimes, when you fall in love, bookworms who don't have a teasing bone in their bodies will start tossing things at you.

He practiced a few spin moves, stretched a little, then drained a shot, a second, and a third. "Whatcha reading?"

She showed him the front cover. A worn, well-read copy of Hamlet, which bore the stamp of the school's library.

"Oh." He looked at his shoes, the dam-dam-dam of the ball dribbling. "You know, I was terrible in that role."

"Oh, I know." She looked up over the book. "I mean, I imagine. Wrong part for you. You need an Othello or a Ferdinand."

"A Ferdiwhat?"

"It's in another play, by Webster."

Lincoln shook his head. "I don't think you get it. I'm a terrible actor."

"That's not true. For four years, you acted like somebody I wouldn't give the time of day to. And look at you. Look at me."

His heartbeat picked up. "I am."

He made out half a grin protruding from the book. "You're a great actor, Burrows."

Silence settled, and he started dribbling again, to give his hands something to do. "What are you reading Hamlet for, anyway?"

"Refreshing my memory for tonight."

The ball bounced back against the dome of his hands, but he let it slip, and it rolled all the way to the bleachers. "The play's tonight?"

She laughed. "Are you for real?"

Lincoln stayed silent, a lump of congealed porridge going down his stomach.

"What?"

"Nothing. I—"

But he found he couldn't put words on it, exactly.

How to tell her he'd been so wrapped up in her, the past few weeks, that he'd completely forgotten about the play—and that chilling encounter with Gretchen Morgan.

I want you to quit the school play. Just some idea I'd like to see play out.

Falling in love with Vee had felt to Lincoln like he'd finally stopped swimming against the tide. For as long as he could remember, everything had been a struggle. Looking tough, earning respect, making sure his peers got the right message from his clothes, his face, his words, his silence. Then the gleam of those green eyes had sliced into his world, like forgotten treasures winking at him from the bottom of the ocean. And he'd realized, everything could be easy. That if he stopped trying so hard, fighting against the current and the waves that hammered him into exhaustion, he could just sail down those waves and the world didn't end, nothing apocalyptic happened. At the end of the day, when he came out of those waters, all that was left was Vee—and himself. A self he had never suspected to exist, had never thought existed under the pressure of that cold ocean.

The easiness of letting go had swept everything in its wake.

He'd barely run into Gretchen this whole time—was not looking at the students he brushed against in the halls. They say love is blind, but it's really closer to tunnel vision.

For a while nothing else exists.

"Goddamn idiot," he mumbled.

"What is it?"

"I don't—I don't know exactly," he shook his head. "Maybe nothing."

"Tell me."

"Just—Gretchen said something weird a while back, about the play."

"Weird how? Mean?"

"No. Well, yeah. But all the air that comes out of her is toxic. More like—shady weird."

"She made fun of you?"

"No. Actually, she wanted me to give up the part."

A vertical line shot between her perfect brows. For a moment, he could not focus on anything but the infinitesimal change in her face, the beauty of her. No matter how many hours he spent looking at her, he could not wrap his mind around it. Every move she made splintered his frozen thought of her open like a kaleidoscope.

"Why?"

"I guess so Michael would play Hamlet."

Veronica licked her lips. "You're right. That does sound shady."

"Probably nothing. I mean, it's Gretch we're talking about, not an army of fascists."

"To be frank, I think she'd make a great fascist."

"What can she do?"

Veronica laughed. She was not amused. He knew the words out of his mouth were bullshit the minute she called him out on it. "Come on, Linc. You're too smart to act like you don't know that fucked up shit can happen in high school."

A cobweb gauze fell over his chest.

"You're right. Of course, you're right."

He scraped his foot against the ground, wishing he could kick at something. How much shittier could he get at being a brother?

It was plain as rainwater Gretchen was up to no good. Veronica hadn't needed more than two seconds for a diagnosis.

And what did I do?

Did I worry about Mike, give thought to what might happen to him? Nah. Too busy being in love. Too happy.

"Hey," Veronica closed the book and walked up to him. In an instant her face was on his face, and he relaxed, despite himself, thawing into her touch.

"I'm such a jerk."

"No."

"You really think Gretchen would try to mess with the play?"

"I think you think it, too."

He sighed.

"Whatever she's got planned," said Veronica, "the play must give her opportunity. She's not interested in Hamlet, or ruining stage night for everyone. She's not even interested in your brother."

Lincoln nodded. "She's interested in Sara."

Veronica gave a shrug. "I taught my brain to strain out gossip since junior high, and even I couldn't miss the drama that sparked up when their friendship ended. So, yeah. I'd say her beef's with her." She looked at her watch. Vee was the sort of person who still wore a watch, instead of checking the time on her phone like every other kid. "We still have three hours. It's not too late to warn them."

…

Michael sank his wool hat over his forehead, all the way to his eyebrows. The December air bit at his cheeks like a wild animal. The hat had been a gift from Sara. Michael preferred the cold to the texture of wool, which made his whole body itch. That was without getting into the whole animal aspect of it, because he'd read from several sources wool was just as cruel as leather to the poor creatures.

And Michael's whole life revolved around making his way in the world, while causing the least amount of harm as possible.

But he had not been able to refuse the gift as they passed a shop, and Sara teased him about his ears frosting over. She looked so happy to do it. Pop inside, swipe her credit card, and get him a hat. "Now you're not cold," she said.

Even as he allowed it, allowed her to bask in the illusion of simplicity, he was aware of the gap between them, as wide as ever. Aware, too, that she thought she could bridge it just by snapping her fingers, fishing into her purse. Getting him a wool hat.

Although the texture chafed against his skin, and made him think of the animal that had died for it, Michael began to treasure that hat, as he suspected she treasured the chocolate bar they'd stepped on when they first kissed.

The hat was not a bridge between her world and his.

But it was a token of how easy it seemed to her, how much she wanted to be able to open all doors and all windows so that they could walk into each other's lives as easy as hello.

Because it was easy for her to follow him, she did not understand he would need to tightrope his way through every interaction with her family and friends, did not understand that he would never belong.

Sometimes when she lay asleep on his shoulder, he thought the words so hard it was almost like she could hear. Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done, Sara. But that's where all the easy stops.

Michael picked up his pace, counting the footsteps to the auditorium. To Sara. They weren't scheduled to be there till five, but Sara wanted to run over her lines again. "I know it's too late to make changes. But there's this one line—I think I should try it angrier. I want your feedback."

"Sure," he'd said.

Thinking, Your beautiful face, your summer-night voice.

"Hey!"

Michael froze before he swiveled. The sound of his brother's voice stiffened the hairs in the back of his neck. Before he could help it, his jaw was clenched iron-tight. Part of him knew Lincoln was not about to attack him again. But Michael had endured too much violence, could never get his body to be as trusting as his brain.

A look dropped down Lincoln's face, like a curtain of rainwater. Oddly transparent. Are you that good an actor, Linc?

"Shit," Lincoln closed his eyes, halting at three feet of distance from Michael. His fists bulged from his jeans pockets. Maybe he could remember punching them into Michael's face a few months ago, one cold autumn night. "I didn't—I didn't really think of what I'd say next."

Michael sighed. "Well, you better think fast. I've got somewhere to be."

"Look, I—" his tongue travelled over his lips. "I know I've been an asshole to you."

"So, I'm special then. I just assumed you were an asshole to everybody."

Lincoln had the decency to meet his stare, dead on. If Michael remembered well, his brother wasn't very good at making eye-contact. At the crossroads of each other's eyes, Lincoln would shift from foot to foot and look at the ground, as if Michael were a strange beetle that might bite if goaded into aggression.

"I don't expect you to forgive me."

Michael laughed. Joy-free, a sound that ricocheted against the winter air. "Don't see why I'd give it a try, seeing as you never apologized."

A beat of silence. Lincoln sucked in his bottom lip. Five seconds. Ten.

"I'm sorry, Mike."

"Don't call me Mike, like you know me."

The words got out before Michael could stop them. Yet a vague memory clawed at his chest, of days before any complication strained his relationship with Lincoln, before they were even old enough to realize they were different. Three and five years old, putting together puzzle pieces in a cloud-colored room. Michael thought he remembered Lincoln getting annoyed with him for finishing the puzzles before he had time to identify all the pieces. But he couldn't be sure whether he was making it up.

"Look, I know you got no reason to trust me. I just—I've got to tell you something."

Michael wasn't sure he was expecting anything until the words came out of his brother's mouth, and he was left staring at him in bemusement.

"You've gotta drop the play."

"I gotta—what?"

Lincoln drew in a breath. "Gretchen Morgan. She's planning something. I don't—I don't know what, but it's got to do with the play."

Michael studied his brother. Water and salt pricking at the corner of his eyelids from the frosty breeze that blew into his face.

"I came out sounding like a conspiracy theorist, didn't I?" Lincoln said.

"I don't even know why you'd make up something like that."

"I'm not making it up."

Michael shook his head. "You want me to bail, hours before the show, letting down dozens of people, including Sara?"

"Yeah. And it's not some scheme to get her to break up with your or something. Shit," Lincoln sighed, "I just made it sound like that's what it was."

"Sara wouldn't break up with me over the play."

"Good," he said, too emphatically. "I'm happy about that, man. I swear."

Michael took a step back to gauge his demented-looking brother. "Sara's right about you. You're awful at being honest."

Silence settled for a while, long enough that Michael could see Lincoln's cheeks turn crimson.

"I'm not dropping the show."

Lincoln sighed. "Then be careful, all right? Just—I don't know what Gretchen's up to, but I know it's not good."

"How do you know she's up to anything?"

Michael waited. And waited.

To his credit, it looked like Lincoln tried to answer a few times, at least if you trusted the opening and closing of his mouth. But in the end he just stood there, shuffling snow with his feet.

"Right. Well," Michael said, "it was good talking to you."

Sarcasm. He'd picked that up from Sara, mimicking the way she teased him somehow—except she never did it with the ice he directed at Lincoln right now.

"Michael?" his brother said once he had turned around.

Michael didn't glance over his shoulder to look at him. Maybe that made it easier for Lincoln to say, "I really am, you know. Sorry."

It was a few seconds before Michael could move.

How surprising.

He found, when he wasn't looking at his brother face to face, he could actually bring himself to believe him.