Five minutes, as it turns out, is a very long time.

Daniel keeps his eyes on the digital clock on the nightstand and times his breaths to the silent second hand ticking steadily in his head, to calm his racing pulse.

Or maybe the persistent thud that he's attributed to his heart is actually just pain instead, a deep, throbbing ache that ebbs and flows to the rhythm of his breathing.

Is this what a fractured rib feels like? He's never broken a bone in his life – at least, not that he can remember – so he has nothing to compare against. Nothing seems horribly amiss when he presses his hand lightly over the sore spot on his chest; but then, would he even be able to tell through the vest? He's afraid of pressing too hard.

Regardless, he'll have one hell of a bruise.

At halfway past the four-minute mark, he takes a deep breath and pushes off the wall. The simple act of leaning forward to crawl towards the phone is enough to exhaust him, and he makes it no more than a few inches before crumpling to the floor, clutching his chest with one hand. "Ow."

He's sorely tempted to just stay where he is. He could sleep here, curled up on his side with his face pressed to the carpet. Maybe he'd even feel better by the morning.

He inhales with a shudder. Probably not.

He's psyching himself up to try again when a figure walks slowly past the window, casting a dark shadow on the closed curtains.

There's a harsh knock, and Dan stares at the locked door in silence. It wouldn't be Sayid, returning to kill him after all; he'd left with the extra room key still in his hand. He could let himself in, if he's changed his mind.

Another knock, more insistent this time, and then Daniel's blood turns to ice when the doorknob begins to rattle, slow and methodical, with the telltale sounds of a lock being picked. He tries to scramble to his feet but only exhausts himself again, and then there's nothing he can do but watch with wide eyes as the door swings open to reveal a tall man, silhouetted by the too-bright streetlights of the parking lot, pointing a gun into the room.

He steps forward, and Dan doesn't know whether to laugh or shout for help when his eyes finally focus on the man's face. "You?"

Abaddon lowers the gun and shuts the door behind him without looking away from Daniel. "Are you alright, Mr. Faraday?"

Daniel tries to back up. "S-stay away from me," he wheezes, an order which Abaddon promptly ignores.

He kneels beside Daniel and pries his hand away from his chest. "What happened?" Dan exhales weakly in response, a soft groan of protest as Abaddon unbuttons his shirt. "Where did you get this?" he asks after a moment.

Daniel rolls his eyes. "Well, the bullet came from a gun, and the vest– Ow!"

"Looks like it nearly went straight through." Abaddon continues to poke at the asymmetrical disc of metal embedded into the fabric right above Dan's heart, the only part of the deformed bullet that's still visible.

"Guess I'm lucky," Daniel mumbles through gritted teeth.

"Lucky they didn't aim for your head," Abaddon says. "Who did this to you?"

Lie. He has to lie. "I…don't know."

Abaddon casts him a doubtful look. "You don't know?"

He shifts uncomfortably and winces. "I couldn't– It was dark, I…didn't get a good look at him."

"Why would anyone want to kill you, Mr. Faraday?"

"I don't…" He huffs out a laugh. "I was…hoping you could tell me."

Abaddon frowns; instead of answering, he pushes Dan's shirt aside to remove the vest in a cacophony of ripping Velcro. "Can you stand?" he asks, offering a hand.

Daniel stares at it. "I don't need your help."

Abaddon raises an eyebrow.

"I don't want your help," he says instead, and he moves to get up, to prove his point. He makes it halfway before he has to stop and squeeze his eyes shut and breathe, one hand pressed to the wall for support. "What are you…doing here, anyway?" he asks, mostly to distract himself.

Abaddon stays where he is, watching him patiently. "I'm here for you, Mr. Faraday."

Dan scoffs and mutters, "Yeah, seems like everyone is."

"I'm sorry?"

He shakes his head and slowly pushes himself up to his feet. "What do you want?"

"I'm here to protect you," Abaddon says. "Mr. Widmore was concerned that you might be in danger."

"Of course he was," Daniel says flatly.

"It looks to me like he wasn't wrong."

"I'm fine," he insists.

Without warning, Abaddon takes a single step forward and presses two fingers into Dan's left side; not hard, but it's more than enough to bring him to his knees with a groan. "You're not fine," Abaddon observes as he towers over him. "At least one of your ribs is bruised, if not broken outright. If I had to make a guess, I'd say it's more like two or three ribs."

Daniel lifts his head to find the phone, still sitting right where Sayid left it on the other side of the room. "I think I'll…get a second opinion," he wheezes from the floor before slowly pushing himself back up to his feet.

"You need medical attention, Mr. Faraday," Abaddon states. Daniel shuffles past Abaddon, who doesn't stop him, but continues, "I'm going to drive you to a hospital."

He shakes his head. "No, I'm not going anywhere with you." He stops and bends down to pick up his bag.

And then he's on the floor again and clutching his side, the pain so sharp and so sudden that he feels for the knife that must be buried between his ribs. His gasps for breath do nothing to fill the vacuum left behind in his chest.

Abaddon moves toward him, unaffected by the apparent and abrupt lack of oxygen in the room. "Having trouble breathing?"

It's a laughable understatement, though Dan couldn't laugh at it if he wanted to. He's not having trouble breathing; he just can't breathe, despite his increasingly frantic efforts.

"Lie down," Abaddon is saying, grabbing hold of his shoulder to shift him onto his back.

The adjustment helps, marginally, even if there's still a ten-ton weight on his chest. "Wha… What's…"

Abaddon watches him gasp like a dying fish. "Sounds like a collapsed lung," he says, calm as ever. "Not life-threatening, provided we get you to the hospital quickly." Then he raises an eyebrow. "Or, if you don't want my help, you can call an ambulance. This part of town, at this time of night, shouldn't take more than ten or so minutes for them to arrive. That is, if you can make it to the phone."

He gestures to the object in question, and Dan tilts his head back to find it, still out of his reach. He'll have to crawl to it.

"Of course, that's plenty of time for the air in your chest to build up and put you into cardiac arrest," Abaddon continues. He pauses, taking in Dan's terrified expression, and then he shrugs. "But what do I know, right?" He straightens up and heads for the door. "Have a nice night, Mr. Faraday."

"W-wait," Dan gasps out. Abaddon stops and turns back to him, and Dan shuts his eyes so he won't have to see the smug look on his face. "Help."

Daniel has hated hospitals for as long as he can remember; his stay following the accident must have left an impression, despite his lack of recollection, because even the slightest whiff of disinfectant has always been enough to overwhelm him with dread.

Or at least, it was, before his brief foray into custodial services in Ann Arbor served as an unintentional exposure therapy of sorts.

He's still not exactly comfortable here, lying in a too-firm bed surrounded by monitors and beeping machines all connected to him with wires and tubes, most of them completely unnecessary. Aside from the comically large needle that he was jabbed with once all the X-rays were done, the only treatment he's been prescribed for his injuries – two cracked ribs and a partially collapsed lung – is rest, meaning that he would likely have been just as fine sleeping in a motel room as he is here, contrary to Abaddon's diagnosis.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. At least he can do that much, now that he's getting a steady drip of pain medication. He can feel it every time the machine controlling his IV line dispenses another dose, crawling up his arm like pins and needles and finally rising into his head like soft, warm fog.

The door creaks open and he sighs. It can only be the nurse again, checking in on him for the third time in as many hours to ask if he's hungry. He lifts his head to give her the same answer as before, and then he freezes.

Charles Widmore stands in the doorway, staring back at him.

The single step he takes toward Daniel is enough to break his trance, and he scrambles for the remote attached to his bed, for the bright red HELP button that will summon someone else to his side, because the last person in the world that he wants to be alone with is–

"Don't bother," Widmore says dismissively. "They'll only do what I tell them to do."

Daniel clicks the button anyway, a few times for good measure, and watches warily as he approaches. "What are you doing here?"

Widmore doesn't answer right away, instead taking his time to survey the room like he's viewing a property for sale. When his gaze inevitably lands back on Daniel, there's a glimmer in his eyes that makes him feel like he's being sized up for something. "I came to check on you, of course." He takes a seat in a chair beside the bed. "I had business in Los Angeles, and I was told that you were injured."

Daniel blinks and hesitates a moment too long before asking, with all the bite he can muster, "Am I supposed to be flattered?"

"Perhaps." Widmore chuckles, a sound that's as unsettling as it is unexpected. "You aren't an easy man to find, Daniel."

"That's because I didn't want to be found," he says flatly.

"Of course, I'm well aware." Another chuckle. "You've made quite the admirable effort to keep yourself hidden. Naive, of course, and entirely unsuccessful, but admirable."

Dan bristles. "What do you want?"

Widmore laces his fingers together. "First, I need to know that you've held up your end of our bargain."

"Bargain?" Dan shakes his head. "What–"

"I haven't seen or heard from my daughter in six years, Daniel," Widmore says, his voice sharp. "You're the only link I have to her."

Daniel exhales. Despite an admittedly rocky start, Penny and Desmond were quick to make him feel at home on Our Mutual Friend, something they didn't have to do, something he's not sure he ever really thanked them for. It had been easy to forget, after a while, that he was technically there on Charles' bidding.

"I won't demand to know what you've all been up to, over the past two years," Charles continues, "But at least, answer me this: Is she safe?"

Hesitantly, Daniel nods. "Yeah." Surely there's no harm in saying that much. "She's fine. She's happy, in case that matters to you."

Widmore's mouth twitches, but he nods, satisfied. "In that case, I'd like to make you an additional offer."

Dan's hand tightens around the remote. "I'm not interested."

Widmore raises an eyebrow. "You and I are after the same thing, Daniel."

Suspicion crawls up his spine like a spider. "And what is that?" he asks, as if he doesn't know the answer.

"The island," Widmore says simply, and Daniel tries to keep his face neutral.

"I don't know what you mean."

"You can't lie to me, Daniel." It's a simple statement of fact, and Dan exhales, defeated. "I've been keeping track of you since the moment you arrived in Ann Arbor. I know that you've been trying to find a way back."

"I was." He shakes his head. "I'm not anymore."

Widmore nods slowly, his gaze never leaving Daniel's face. "I don't believe you."

"Well, you should," he retorts. "I'm done with all of this. I have no reason to go back, and I…" He stops, and narrows his eyes. "Did you know?"

Widmore's expression doesn't change. "Did I know what?" he asks after a moment.

"Did you know what was gonna happen, when you sent the freighter?"

"How could I know-"

"Did you know that the island would move? That some of the people you sent would get stuck there?"

"I knew that it would be dangerous." Widmore leans forward. "I knew that there would be casualties."

"Is that why you didn't go yourself?" Dan's voice shakes, but he continues anyway, the words all coming out in a rush. "Because you knew that people would die? And you still sent them there?"

Widmore's eyes flicker with something that could be regret, or it could be something else entirely. "I did what I had to do," he says finally, his voice low and measured. "For the greater good."

"The greater good? What kind of–" Daniel stops himself. Closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. "Did you know that Charlotte would die?" He watches closely for Widmore's reaction, or lack thereof.

"Charlotte," he repeats. "I'm afraid I don't–"

"Charlotte Lewis. The anthropologist. She was on my team." Daniel swallows against the lump in his throat. "She's dead."

"That is unfortunate." Widmore's face remains impassive. "Still, it's imperative that we find the island again."

"Why?" Dan's throat feels tight, like he's choking, and he swallows again. "Why now?"

"Because we're running out of time."

He blinks, not understanding, but he doesn't want to understand. Not anymore. "Like I said, I'm not interested." His thoughts are turning fuzzy again, the edges of his consciousness softened by the medication. "So, why don't you just…" He motions toward the door. "Leave me alone."

"I wish that I could." Charles leans back in the chair with a sigh. "Unfortunately for both of us, it seems I'm not the only one whose attention you've managed to catch."

"What does that mean?"

"As I'm sure you're aware, the man that put you in this hospital was not working for me." He watches Dan carefully. "Do you know who it was?"

Daniel shakes his head, not trusting his voice to remain steady through the lie. "Do you?"

"I have my suspicions."

"But you're not gonna share them with me," he guesses.

Widmore's face remains carefully blank. "Benjamin Linus."

Daniel frowns. The name rings a bell, but only faintly. "The... The guy from the island? How could he-"

"He left the island," Charles says simply. "How long ago is anyone's guess."

"And you think he shot me?"

"I rather doubt that it was him personally. He's not the type to get his hands dirty." Widmore folds his hands in his lap. "But it's safe to assume that the man who did, did so under his orders."

Daniel shakes his head at the absurdity of the idea; Sayid working for Ben Linus? "But why would he want me dead? I never met him, I– I don't think he even knows who I am."

"You underestimate him," Widmore says. "That's why I'm here, Daniel. I want to offer you my protection."

Dan stares at him. "Why?"

"You clearly need it." Widmore leans forward. "And I need to find the island."

Daniel tries not to flinch. Of course. Of course that would be the catch. "What makes you think I would even be capable of–"

"I know you, Daniel," Charles says suddenly, his eyes intense. "I know what you're capable of. I know you can do this, if you put your mind to it."

"And what if…" Dan's mouth is too dry. He swallows. "What if I don't want to?"

Charles frowns at him. "This isn't something you can run away from, Daniel. Surely, you've realized that by now." He leans back in his chair again. "So? What's your answer?"

Daniel stares at his hands. "I'll think about it," he lies.

"That's all I'm asking." Satisfied, Charles stands and walks to the door, and Dan doesn't look up. It's too far away for his tired eyes to follow, distant like Charles' voice when he pauses to add before leaving, "I'll be in touch."

It's a miserable eight days in the hospital. Dan is never asked about what happened to him. He's never questioned, by doctors or police or otherwise, about who shot him, and why, and what reason he could possibly have for wearing the vest that had stopped the bullet. He chalks that up to Widmore's influence.

The assumption is all but proven when he's finally discharged, when he walks out the front door and sees Abaddon waiting for him, standing beside a black SUV idling in a fire lane nearby.

Daniel's grip tightens on the bag he's holding, full of personal effects and paperwork and a prescription for painkillers that he probably won't bother to fill and a plastic device meant for deep breathing exercises twice a day until he's finished healing – somewhere around six weeks, he was told. Six weeks until he can breathe freely again, six weeks until the ache goes away.

He doubts that, somehow.

He turns on his heel and walks away from the parking lot, away from Abaddon and toward the bus stop on the opposite sidewalk. The benches beneath its awning are full, so he heads for a concrete divider closer to the hospital building and further back from the busy street. It's a bit damp from the rain earlier in the day, but he sits down anyway, wincing a bit, and digs around in the bag for the tourist maps he'd poached from the hospital's lobby, so he can figure out where he's going.

Just as soon as he figures out where he's going.

He's puzzling over one of the unfolded maps for less than a minute before he feels eyes on him, a figure deliberately approaching, and he lifts his head with a sigh, ready to paste a polite smile on his face and assure this stranger that he's not lost, he doesn't need any help, thank you.

Instead, he locks eyes with Abigail Spencer.

She stares back at him, stern as ever, her fingers clamped tight around the strap of her purse.

He should probably say something, do something besides gawk at her like he's seeing a ghost. "Hi," he forces out.

Her expression doesn't change. She jerks her head toward the ground. "Shoe's untied."

He blinks, twice, then reaches down to fix it – too fast, and he bites his lip to hold back a pained groan. Still, it's a momentary distraction, enough to reintroduce some semblance of order to his thoughts. "You're– You're in LA," he says dumbly, and he doesn't have to look up to see Abigail roll her eyes.

The last time they met, she said she'd kill him if she ever saw him again. He believed her then, and he still does, but she isn't hitting him, or stabbing him, or trying to strangle him with her bare hands. She's just standing there, tapping her foot and glowering at her surroundings like there's a foul stench in the air, when he finishes tying his shoe and sits up straight again.

"What…are you doing here?" he asks, afraid of the answer.

She finally moves, reaches into her purse, and Dan half expects her to pull out a gun and shoot him on the spot, in broad daylight. Instead, she produces a single piece of paper, both sides covered with diagrams and equations in a familiar handwriting that he can't quite place.

Until Abigail steps forward to hand it to him and says, "I've got a message from Theresa."