Carrie rolled the wheelchair down the sidewalk, stopping at an armadillo-link fence, next to a brown wooden sign painted with the school's logo. She pressed her foot down on the brake, and squatted next to him.

He was clad in a thick North Face jacket and a woolen hat, even though spring was approaching and it was warming up. He hadn't walked properly since he'd been brought to the German hospital, and been transported home. He said he felt cold all the time, and Carrie believed him. Who knew what such a potent neurotoxin could do to your system? Quinn had survived a longer exposure than almost any human alive, and he'd done so because of the hastily injected Atropine which had prevented his respiratory system from becoming paralyzed. However, his peripheral nervous system was longer in recovery. He had walked with crutches in therapy, though. Carrie took him in three times a week. They both had high hopes that he'd recover all his faculties in time, and the doctors were cautiously optimistic.

He turned his head towards her, and read the sign out loud.

"Saint Margaret Mary," he said. "Established 1948."

"It's a good school, if you go in for religion," Carrie offered.

Quinn snorted. "It's not my thing, but Julia always was saying the rosary."

"Praying for your soul?" Carrie asked playfully. He gave her a look, and turned back to the doors.

They heard the sweet sound of a churchbell ringing, and a moment later, a schoolbell followed.

"Second grade exits there," Carrie said, pointing to a set of double doors. "And parents line up there to pick up."

"Will I see her?" Quinn asked, referring to his son's mother.

"No. Tom picks up," Carrie said.

"When did they move to Harrisburg, exactly?" Quinn asked, his booted feet shuffling the gravel between the wheelchair footplates. They'd had this conversation before, but he didn't seem to remember. Probably another effect of the sarin gas. Hopefully that would also wear off in time, but Carrie wasn't counting on it.

"2013," she answered patiently. "Julia quit the force, when they had their second child. Now she works for his insurance firm."

"Another boy, right?" Quinn asked. He thought he remembered, but he wasn't sure.

"Yeah, another boy. Andrew," she reminded him. He nodded.

"That's nice," Quinn said. Carrie nodded. Quinn had insisted on visiting John, on seeing him. She didn't know why. But she hoped he'd rest better at the cabin after she helped him see his child. She couldn't count the number of nights she'd laid awake while he tossed, thrashed, crying in his sleep. It had to end.

They both stared at the children exiting the building, lined up for busses, headed for a bike rack, or walking down to the line of waiting minivans and SUVs. A dark-haired boy in an orange pullover banged the crash bar open, and came flying down the steps, two at a time. A sheaf of paper came flying out of his backpack, hastily slung over both shoulders with the zipper undone. A lay teacher appeared in the doorway behind him.

"That's your kid," Carrie pointed out, smiling. Quinn stared at the child, a laser-focused gaze. He said nothing.

"John," they heard the teacher shout. "Your homework!"

The boy ran back up the steps, and together he and the teacher collected his loose papers. Smiling, she stuffed them into his backpack, and zipped it shut, giving him a pat on the shoulder to let him know the job was done. Then he was off, back down the stairs, racing to the waiting line of cars, straight to a minivan with an open door. A stocky man in a suit jacket stood by the vehicle, and the child gave him an enthusiastic high-five and climbed into the car, where a thumbsucking toddler sat in a car seat. The power door of the van closed, and Julia's husband walked around to the driver side. Quinn's child was hidden from sight in the back row of seats, behind the smoked windows, as the car pulled out of the school drive and rolled out of sight.

"Alright?" Carrie asked. She'd do anything she could for him, her Quinn. But she couldn't do more than this. Julia had requested no contact.

"Yeah," he said. He leaned back to look up at her, as she took the brake off and started to wheel him back to her converted minivan. It was a sweet ride, a 2017. Not at all what she pictured herself driving at this point in her life, but it got Quinn around. And Franny liked it too – space for all her stuffies and her pink-covered car seat.

"Let's go, then," she said.

They got settled in the car, Carrie thumbing a message to Maggie as they pulled out of the parochial school's parking lot. "All ok," was all it said. Thank God for Maggie, who'd pick up Franny and feed her dinner tonight. It was a five-hour drive back East, and she and Quinn would have to stop at least once, to eat and use the facilities.

"Do you ever think about having another baby?" came Quinn's voice from the back.

Carrie was merging onto I-95, and used the traffic merge to delay an answer to the question. Only if you're the father, she thought. Get better fast, my love.

"Not usually," she said. "You?"

"Sometimes," Quinn said. She didn't hear anything from him for a bit, the thrumming of the car tires on the expressway made a hypnotic sound as they headed for home.

"Back to the cabin," Carrie said brightly. It was their sanctuary, it was her home with him. And she and the citizens of Berlin owed him everything – it was the least she could do, she thought. One day, maybe they'd even sleep in the same bed. What a thought.

"You getting hungry?" Carrie asked. But when she used the rear-view mirror to check, she saw Quinn had already fallen asleep.