Set just after "Take Out," so it contains more Don angst. Gotta get away from that. On the other hand, it's what's in my head, and as a beloved character once said, sometimes I have to work on what's in my head. Note: Some pretty coarse language. You have been warned.

Whether or not what's in my head makes any sense is another question entirely.

L is for Lost and Found

Don Eppes is still unconscious as he's shoved out the right rear door of the slowly-moving sedan. He falls hard to the wet gravel of the shoulder. As glowing red tail lights vanish into the night, Don's limp body rolls over the edge of the embankment and down, crashing through weeds, bouncing over rocks, scraping past a spidery manzanita, finally coming to rest in the low scrub at the bottom of a shallow ravine.

He rolls onto his back, slack face raised to the overcast sky. The lights of the distant city paint the clouds a glimmering silver-gray, and that pale, ghostly illumination is echoed by the pallor of his skin. A steady drizzle soaks into his hair, his clothes, but it's falling too lightly to wash away the blood.

Los Angeles is little more than an hour away, Pasadena even closer. Yet for all the nearby trappings of civilization, the masses of people just beyond a horizon he cannot see, Special Agent Eppes is very far from home. And for the first time, not by his own choosing.

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"'Lo?" Don stuck his head around the solid oak front door of his childhood home and listened. No immediate "Donnie!" from his dad, or "Hey, bro!" from Charlie, but he could hear quiet voices from the kitchen and he sighed with relief as he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

As he tossed keys and handcuffs on the small table in the entryway, Don realized that this moment was precisely what he needed--to be near his family without actually being a part. Of course, in a few moments they'd discover his presence and he'd be expected to make small talk, but even then he could depend on Charlie to handle most of the dinner conversation. Afterwards, a companionable quiet would fill the house; Charlie would peck at his laptop, Dad would immerse himself in a book, maybe they could have a game on in the background. Don could be alone with his thoughts, but not alone.

As he turned away from the table, he heard a sharp "tik!" and froze. His gun had bumped the table edge. He looked down at it, pulled it from his hip, hefted the lump of matte black metal in his hand. Don usually didn't bother disarming when he wasn't staying over. Dad didn't have a safe place for his piece, and although he knew that neither Charlie nor Dad had the slightest desire to pick up a loaded firearm, Don could also list a depressing number of accidents with firearms that shouldn't have happened but did.

Yet--lately he'd been conscious of a growing sense of distaste when he looked at the weapon. There were times when he didn't want to touch it, didn't want it touching him.

Too bad the problem wasn't the gun.

A bit of bumper sticker philosophy popped into his head: "Guns don't kill people. People kill people."

Is that what I am? A killer? He thought back to the conclusion of the team's last case, the shot he could have taken but didn't, because really, he was tired of killing and Colby and David were both right there--

Except Colby and David had both been too slow, and now Bernardo Infante was dead.

Maybe the question wasn't, Am I a killer? Maybe the question he needed to ask was, Do I have to be?

"Yo. Don't get comfortable."

Don slammed the gun to the table, cushioning the sound against a tapestry runner. "Jesus, Charlie, do you have to sneak up on me?" He turned around.

Charlie stood in the kitchen doorway, eyes wide. "I-I wasn't sneaking, Don, it's called a swinging door, there's no latching mechanism to make noise, and if the hinges start creaking, Dad yells at me."

"Don't be silly, Charlie." Their father, Alan, appeared behind Charlie and gently maneuvered him out of the doorway. "I don't yell at you for creaking hinges. I yell at you for other things. Like forgetting the cornstarch. And your wallet. Hi, Donnie."

"Hey, Dad." Don raised a hand in greeting, but forced himself not to look away from Charlie's scrutiny. "You lost your wallet? Did you cancel your cards?"

"No, because it's not really lost. It's at Morton's Grocery, and you can't get comfortable because you need to take me down there to get it."

"And some cornstarch," Alan added. "And bananas, while you're at it."

Charlie wrinkled his nose. "Why bananas?"

Alan nodded at Don. "For his breakfast. He likes bananas on his cereal."

"I don't need any bananas--"

"Well, I'm not making pancakes."

"Dad, I don't need anything for breakfast. I don't even live here."

"Tell that to my grocery bill," Charlie said darkly.

A familiar sense of bewilderment swept over Don, as though he'd once again opened the wrong door or taken the wrong turn and become lost in the convoluted interactions of his family. "Hold it. Hold it. Just--hold on."

Both Eppes the Elder and Eppes the Younger fell silent, watching Don with bright, expectant gazes. "One--one, singular, solo, one at a time," said Don, holding up a forefinger. He pointed at Charlie. "You. Go."

Charlie took a deep breath and glanced at his father. "It's not a big deal. I was supposed to stop at Morton's on the way home and pick up a few things--"

"From a list. Which had cornstarch written on it."

"Ah-ah-ah. Did I not say one? One at a time?"

"I obviously didn't get my math brain from you, Dad," muttered Charlie.

"You got your math brain from the aliens," said Don. "We already knew that. Keep going, Chuck."

Charlie glared at him, but continued. "I got distracted and left my wallet there. But it's not lost," he said, forestalling Don's next words. "It's not lost because I left it right at the checkout counter and Mr. Morton had already called by the time I got home."

"You got distracted at the checkout counter?"

"There was a big display of oranges at the front of the store. Nice face-centered cubic arrangement--"

Don and Alan exchanged a look.

"Sphere packing algorithms!" Charlie spoke as if that explained everything, and to Charlie it probably did.

"So, go get your wallet," said Don.

"I don't have my license."

Don actually rolled his eyes. "You've got to be kidding me. Morton's is like five minutes away."

"I don't have my license. How embarrassing would it be for you if I got stopped?"

"Hey, it wouldn't embarrass me. You're the one who forgot your wallet." Don looked at Alan. "You want the cornstarch. You take him."

Alan crossed his arms. "Charlie needs to learn that other people can't just drop everything and come running when he's screwed up."

Ah. Alan was on another responsibility kick. Don exchanged a sympathetic glance with his brother. "What do you need cornstarch for, anyway?"

"To thicken gravy. You can't thicken gravy without cornstarch."

"You mean you guys haven't eaten yet?" Don shook his head. No wonder they were both as crabby as toddlers who hadn't had their naps. They were getting hypoglycemic. "Just use flour, Dad. Even I know that."

"You don't use flour unless you want doughy gravy. Did your mother ever use flour?"

"When she ran out of cornstar--"

Do killers have conversations like this?

Don stopped, and his eyes widened as he stared at his father and brother. He swallowed convulsively against a sudden twist of nausea.

"Don?" Charlie, voice soft and uncertain.

"Donnie? What's wrong?" Alan took a step toward him, hand outstretched, and Don turned away, scrabbling at the tabletop until he felt his keys under his palm.

"Grab your coat, Charlie," he said, moving toward the door and away from his father's hand. "This is getting ridiculous. Let's go get your damned wallet." He stopped, one hand gripping the doorknob, one "Are you okay?" or "Want to talk about it?" away from bolting.

Instead, Charlie cleared his throat. "Okay. Yeah, sure. Give me a minute. I'll be--I'll be right back."

Don heard footsteps on the stairs and forced himself to turn to his father. "Cornstarch, right?"

Alan nodded once. "And bananas."

Don smiled at that. "And bananas. You want anything else?"

Alan was silent so long that Don thought he hadn't heard. Then he sighed and shook his head, his gaze heavy and--sad. "Want something? What more could I possibly want? No--wait. Say hi to Bill for me. I've been making Charlie do the shopping and I haven't been in for a while."

Charlie appeared on the stairs, zipping up a windbreaker. Don nodded. "Will do. Back in ten. Eat something, okay, Dad? Don't be so stubborn."

Alan's eyes widened at that. "Me, stubborn?" Don pulled the front door open and ushered Charlie through.

The first three minutes of the five minute trip to Morton's passed in silence, and Don began to hope that the entire errand would be conducted in like fashion. Then Charlie said, "Want to talk about it?"

"No!" The word erupted with far more force than necessary--more force than he'd intended, certainly, and Charlie flinched. Don sighed. Charlie acting afraid of his big brother pushed way too many buttons, and Don peeled a hand from the steering wheel to massage his forehead. Maybe Charlie and Alan weren't the only ones suffering from hypoglycemia. "Look, Charlie, I appreciate the offer, but, this isn't something I can talk about with you."

"Why not?" Charlie, logical as ever.

"Because--" Don stopped, searching for an answer, and came up blank. Because there were no words in his head.

Don occasionally wondered how it had happened that Charlie had not only gotten all the numbers, but most of the words, as well. He couldn't spell for shit, but that didn't mean his vocabulary wasn't quite extensive. Don had long thought that Charlie had learned all those big words to try to explain the numbers to people like him.

Or maybe Charlie got the words because Charlie always had someone who'd listen.

Don shook his head, disgusted with the self-pitying turn his thoughts had taken. Here was Charlie, ready and willing to hear him out. He just had nothing to say.

"It's not you, Chuck. I--I don't even know what I'm thinking right now."

"That's why you start talking," said Charlie softly. He touched Don's arm. "You'd be surprised at how quickly thoughts start emerging from the stream of words."

They pulled into a parking spot in front of Morton's and Don shut off the engine. They sat in silence for a moment, as a light rain misted the windshield, turning the store's neon sign into a blurred band of color. Don unfastened his safety belt but Charlie didn't move, and after a moment Don sank back into his seat. An image came to him.

Charlie had gone on a maze kick for a while, tacking up photos of them, making replicas, even trying to talk their father into turning the backyard into a miniature hedgerow maze. Once he'd explained to Don how easy it was to navigate a maze: "Put one palm against a wall and don't ever pull away."

Don had thought he was doing that with his life--marching steadily along, eyes front, one palm tight to the wall, letting it lead him--but somewhere along the line, he must have lost touch. And now, when he looked around he didn't see the inside of the car, he saw paths he didn't recognize, paths he didn't want to follow.

"You like your job, don't you," he said softly, almost in a whisper. "Hell, you love your job, right?"

Charlie started, and Don could feel his brother turn to face him, could feel Charlie's scrutiny. "Yes, I do. So do you." A note of hesitation. "Don't you?"

Don sighed. No. I am my job. It's a little different. "What would you do if something happened to ruin it for you? Like if you hadn't been able to fix the problem with your equation that asshole Penfield pointed out?"

Charlie chuckled. "I never give up and you never back down," he murmured.

"What?"

"That's a good question," Charlie said more strongly. "And I'm honestly not sure how to answer you. I guess that's partly why I'm working on Cognitive Emergence--so that my entire reputation will no longer rest on one major accomplishment."

"More than one," Don protested, and Charlie smiled.

"No matter what happened, I'd have to figure out some way to keep being a mathematician, because I'm not fit to be anything else."

Don sucked in a sharp breath. I am my job. Not fit--

No. He could not do this now. He was hungry, he was tired, Dad was waiting--

Don forced himself to speak normally as he reached for the door handle. "We'd better get that cornstarch, or Dad's gonna disown us both." Then he was out, slamming the car door on Charlie's startled, "What did I say?" Without waiting for his brother, Don strode toward the door of the little grocery. He frowned at the "Closed" sign in the window as he shoved the door open. Well, no wonder the parking lot was almost empty, but that had to be a mistake, because Morton's was open until ten on weeknights--

"Get your hands up."

Jerked out of his reverie, Don glanced up. Bill Morton and his daughter, Penny, huddled together with their backs against the rack of cigarette cartons behind the cash register, their hands raised, their faces white. On the other side of the counter stood a man wearing dirty, baggy jeans, a USC Trojans sweatshirt, and a ski mask. He held a shaking Saturday Night Special on the pair. Young, Don thought; his body had the wired-together slenderness of high-metabolism late adolescence. And the voice hadn't come from there--

"I said, get your hands up."

Don looked left as his left hand went up. A better-dressed version of the boy at the counter stood in the snack aisle and pointed a sawed-off shotgun at him. Don's right hand swept toward his hip (shit oh shit the gun's at home) and past it to the bar across the door (Charlie's behind me), wrapping around cold metal an instant before he felt the tug. He held on tight, ignoring the torque on his elbow.

"Both hands," the boy yelled, while behind him he heard a puzzled, "Don?"

Don threw his body back against the door, felt it connect with Charlie behind him, heard Charlie's startled grunt. "Run!" He flung his keys out onto the pavement but didn't hear them land; the robbers (just kids, really) were screaming now, along with Penny, and he could only hope the shaky one with the Saturday Night Special didn't pop both Mortons right where they stood.

But Saturday Night Special wasn't the one he needed to worry about; Shotgun was advancing on him fast, shotgun raised up over his head. Don barely had time to sweep his left arm up in a block before the butt slammed into his forearm. Charlie screamed his pain from the other side of the door.

"I said run!"

Shotgun grabbed him by the left wrist and yanked; Don sank his weight down, dropping to his knees in front of the door. Shotgun slashed up with the butt and caught him in the jaw; Don went down, still in front of the door. He clung to the one coherent thought staying with him through the pain--Charlie was on the other side of that door.

Shotgun kicked him in the stomach, hard, and Don curled around it. Shotgun leaned over him, shoving at the metal bar, off balance, and let off a blast into the darkness. Don wanted to scream, but all the bright, hot points of pain--his gut, his forearm, his (probably broken) jaw--they wouldn't even let him breathe, let alone make any kind of noise.

"God damn it." Shotgun pulled back inside and kicked Don again, just for good measure. "God damn it!"

"You said no killing!"

"Well, I didn't get him anyway. And now he's gonna call the cops, and--fucking mess."

Charlie got away. Don concentrated on making his lungs work.

"We'll just get out of here. You said we'd be fast, right? In and out, right--"

"Then get the fucking money!"

"Oh." Don heard Saturday Night Special turn back to Bill Morton and tried to decide if he'd just killed two other people to save Charlie. "C'mon. C'mon, man." Neither kid sounded very bright. Too bad stupid was often more dangerous than smart, and scared and stupid was the most dangerous of all. "Move!"

Over the sound of the opening cash register Don could hear Penny sob, the breathless, hiccupy sobs of incipient hysteria. He hoped she could keep it together. These boys were too tightly strung to deal with another outburst. Shotgun kicked him again, but not hard. "Get out of the fucking doorway, man. We can't be tripping over your ass."

Don managed to roll to one side, then used his good arm to push himself to his knees. He took as deep a breath as he could and straightened slowly, sitting back on his heels and waiting for his stomach muscles to unkink. He kept his left arm wrapped tightly around his waist and prayed he didn't have to speak, because once he opened his jaw he didn't know if he'd be able to close it again.

Penny's sobs continued at their current level while Morton shoveled everything from the till into a plastic shopping bag. "Throw in a carton of Camels while you're at it," said Saturday Night Special. Don noted the brand.

"Shit. Where'd the bitch go? She was giving me her car keys." Shotgun took two steps back up the snack aisle, then turned to Don. "You gonna do something stupid if I leave you here, I know it." Don shook his head frantically, but Shotgun was already grabbing him by the collar and hauling him to his feet. Pain sheeted through Don's head as the cloth choked up around his lower jaw. "Get over there and don't move." Shotgun shoved him toward the counter and followed. Penny's sobs grew louder.

"We're ready to go," said Saturday Night Special.

"We need that bitch's keys. You better not have a back door, old man."

Don had apparently interrupted a transaction with another hostage, but he was too busy trying to stay conscious to care. Besides, a five-year-old could outwit these bozos--no way she was still around--

"Smart lady," came Shotgun's voice from somewhere in the back. "You listened to what I told you."

Shit. Don heard a flood of Spanish--"Por Dios--por La Virgen--por mi hijo--" Don jerked up with a hiss. There's a kid? Saturday Night Special eyed him warily. So did Morton. Penny was now sobbing on her father's chest.

Don heard a sharp crack, like a hard, open-palmed slap. He turned away from the counter, and Saturday Night Special moved the gun to cover him. It still shook. Shotgun appeared from the maze of aisles, a set of car keys hooked over the index finger of his gun hand by the key ring; his other hand gripped the arm of a dark-haired, stumbling woman. A little boy with a black mop of curls trailed behind her.

"Now, we're ready," said Shotgun triumphantly.

Sirens answered him. The red and blue light of a cruiser's flashers poured in through the front of the store.

"Fuck!" yelled Shotgun, and Don couldn't agree more.

"Look, we can do this," said Saturday Night Special, and Don stared at him in surprise. "They just got here, it's one fucking car, we grab us a hostage, we're gone, just like that."

Shotgun stared at him as well. "Yeah. Yeah, just like that." He pulled harder on the woman. "Let's go, mamacita." She wailed and pulled back; the little boy clung to her leg, staring up at Shotgun with huge, solemn brown eyes. Don blinked. Pictures cycled through his head: the little boy, then the children crying over Bernardo Infante, then--

"Me," he rasped through his teeth, pushing himself one step forward. "Take me."

"What?" Shotgun lowered the butt and stared at him.

"No English...kid...she'll fight." God, even talking through clenched teeth hurt. "Something happens--" he gestured vaguely. "Woman. You're screwed."

"He's right." Saturday Night Special forgot he was wearing a mask, licked his lips nervously, spit out lint.

"Come out with your hands up."

"Hey, the cops finally pulled a bullhorn out of their asses," said Shotgun.

Don had been wondering himself. Maybe Charlie was still out there and had told them what was going on. "Decide."

Shotgun eyed him, and not for the first time Don wished he was capable of Charlie's kicked puppy look. He must have done something right, because Shotgun nodded. "Yeah. You ain't gonna fight."

Not with four other people, one of them a child, at stake.

Shotgun shoved the woman away and gestured for the plastic bag. "Gimme that. You take him."

Saturday Night Special stared at Don. Even through the mask, blue eyes looked worried. "You sure?"

"I can't hold a shotgun to his head. Jesus. And check for his wallet. All that bitch had was fucking food stamps."

Don stiffened. One look at his ID, and he and probably everyone else in the building would end up dead. He shook his head and eased back a step. "Forgot," he ground out.

Saturday Night Special frowned at him, confused.

"No, he's right." Bill Morton pulled Charlie's wallet from the pocket of his apron. Don thanked heaven for mom and pop grocery stores and a garrulous father. "He forgot it here earlier. His name's Charlie Eppes--"

"I don't give a shit what his name is. Just toss it here."

Morton flipped it to Shotgun, who shoved it into the bag. Following Shotgun's hurried instructions, Saturday Night Special turned Don around and grabbed a fistful of his collar. The muzzle of the little automatic nudged his jaw and Don gasped. "Arms up," said Shotgun. "Both of 'em this time."

Don had to use his right hand to push his left arm up, but after a few moment of intense throbbing he realized elevating it would help with the swelling. Oh, the irony of it all.

Shotgun issued last minute instructions to Saturday Night Special, eyeing Don all the while. "Keep tight to his back--he's your cover. And keep that gun to his head. I'll be tight on your back--you're my cover. The woman said her car's the Civic all the way to the left." That was a piece of dumb luck; Don couldn't think of a more anonymous car than a Civic. "Cover me while I get in the driver's seat, then open the passenger seat and stay down behind it while you shove him in, and follow. As soon as you're in we haul ass."

"It's gonna work. I know it."

Shotgun shrugged.

Penny sobbed.

It'll work. Only not for the reasons you think.

The cops from the cruiser had been so quiet that Charlie must have told them he was in here. What Charlie probably didn't take into account was the duty he shared with them--to secure the safety of the hostages above all else. If that meant letting two bozos get away with him in tow, so be it.

It worked. Not that it was a particularly pleasant experience--the spot trained on the door was so bright Don's eyes teared up, while Saturday Night Special kept a death grip on his collar. Everybody yelled, really loudly. Don was almost relieved to be shoved into the back of the car.

Shotgun turned out to be a surprisingly good getaway driver. After making a big show of peeling out and careening around the first corner, he cut the lights and ran silent through the local park, along a narrow lane that backed the barbecue pits. A few more turns, seemingly at random, and Don remembered what a maze residential streets could be. They could pass Charlie's house and Don wouldn't even know. Once Shotgun hit a slightly more urban stretch, the lights came back on and he proceeded at a sedate pace. Don listened for sounds of pursuit but heard nothing.

He slumped against the door as adrenalin drained from his system, leaving his body a network of pain, but he found himself feeling strangely upbeat. Four hostages, released unharmed. In fact, so far they had all walked away (I didn't kill anyone). The knowledge made him feel almost giddy. He felt a grin stretch his lips over his swollen cheek.

Saturday Night Special poked his knee. "What's so funny?"

Ah, hell. Why not be honest? It wasn't as though the kid would understand. "Didn't kill--"

"No killing," Shotgun interrupted. "My brother's in San--well, he's waiting for the needle, and all because he did something stupid. Woman and her kid, like you said. He's sorry, but he ain't been forgiven." Shotgun shook his head emphatically. "Uh-uh. Not me. Not making the same mistakes."

"Smart." Don slid his cell phone carefully out of his right jacket pocket and shoved it between the backrest and the seat cushion. It was already on vibrate and the car was so rattletrap he doubted the kids would hear it if it went off. He almost felt sorry for them.

"Shit." Shotgun slammed a palm against the steering wheel. "Already low on gas. We're gonna have to stop."

"Yeah, okay. Stop."

"We'll need to take our masks off."

Saturday Night Special pointed at Don. "What about him?"

"Let me go?" Silly question.

Shotgun snorted. "No, man. Too soon." He shook his head, then caught Don's eye in the rearview mirror. "Look. You'll be alive when we dump you, I swear. No hard feelings?"

"No hard feelings." Don sighed. Please use something besides the gun this time. But when the pistol arced towards him, he didn't even flinch.

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Don Eppes is still unconscious when he's shoved out of the car, but the cold rain and his pain-wracked body conspire to bring him around all too soon. He lays there, eyes still closed, too groggy to do much more than wonder how his head turned into such a huge, misshapen blob at the end of his neck. The cold rain is soothing on his jaw, his forehead, but it makes other parts worse, because he can't stop shivering. His teeth are still locked together, and this is good; if they start chattering, he's up shit creek without any pain meds.

Don thinks about keeping his eyes closed and waiting for everything to go away. He's heard that sooner or later the shivering stops; he'll feel warm again, and then he can sleep. But images start popping into his head, overriding the physical discomfort. He sees Shotgun and Saturday Night Special. He sees Bill Morton, arms wrapped tight around his sobbing daughter. He sees the nameless woman who speaks only Spanish and the little boy clinging to her dress, the little boy with big solemn eyes and curly dark hair.

He sees Charlie.

Don decides that maybe he's not as lost as he was just a few hours ago, but he's certainly not found yet, not by a long shot, and he won't be if he just lays there in the dirt. He has to get up, he has to move, because it's time for him to go home.

Don rolls onto his right side, wondering at the odds of all his injuries being on his left. He'll have to ask Charlie. But they are, and he's lucky--he can rest one side of his face against the ground without passing out from the pain. He gets his right hand, palm down, under his shoulder and shoves.

His body moves, but his head doesn't want to follow, and he grunts at the pain sheeting through him. All he has to do is straighten his arm and lock his elbow. Piece of cake--

With one last shove he's up on his knees. Next problem is how to keep the overfilled balloon previously known as his head balanced on his neck, but he's got two good legs and one good arm. What more could he need?

Sometime during the climb up the side of the ravine he goes on autopilot, and he doesn't bother to think again until he hears voices. Two kids, walking beside him as he stumbles along in the gravel of the shoulder, headed downhill. They ask if he wants help. They sound young, and pretty freaked. College kids, probably, headed up into the mountains for a weekend of recreational drugs, if the smell of pot is any indication. But they're good kids and they call it in.

He keeps walking.

After a while he hears two new voices.

"Hey, Don, where you going?" Colby, voice huskier than usual. Don squints at him. His vision is off, and he's been keeping his eyes shut as much as possible, but he can make out Colby as a blur to his left.

"Home," he mutters.

"Can we give you a lift?" David's voice comes from his right, warm and gentle.

Don takes another step forward. By this point he doesn't know what else to do.

"Hey, Charlie, tell your brother to let us give him a ride," says Colby.

From straight ahead: "Don. Don. Oh, god."

Don jerks his head up. "Charlie?" Just like that, his knees buckle, and he drops like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

Strong hands ease him to the ground, cradle his head so his neck muscles won't pull on his jaw. "I got a head wound and a broken jaw," Colby reports. "What have you got?"

David tugs on his left arm, still wrapped around his waist. "Something's up with this arm."

"The rifle butt." Charlie's hovering over him.

"Shotgun, Charlie."

"Whatever."

"Anything else, Don?"

Yeah. There was something..."Kicked in gut--few times. Probably okay."

David sighs. "I'll call it in." The instant he's gone Charlie takes his place, capturing Don's good right hand. Don squints up at him, but rain drips from Charlie's hair into his face and he closes his eyes again.

"Don, you're freezing!"

"David," yells Colby. "Bring a blanket. He's pushing hypothermia."

Don winces.

"We got 'em, Don." Colby lifts Don's head and shoves a wadded-up jacket underneath. "Smart move with the cell phone."

"Stupid kids."

"Yeah."

"Didn't kill--" Colby eases his head back down and a stab of pain stops him.

"No, everybody at the store was fine, Don."

He shakes his head once, frustrated. "Didn't kill--"

Charlie gasps, and he knows Charlie understands by the way he pulls Don's hand up to his cheek. Warm drops mix with the cold ones already cupped in Don's palm.

He still wants to share his triumph with his team member. "Good day's work, huh?" Colby can understand that much. Don's surprised to feel Colby's fingertips trail across his forehead.

"Yeah, boss. Good day's work."

David's back with the blanket and they want to wrap it all the way around him. They lift and adjust as gently as they can, but it still hurts, and every time he moans he hears Charlie make a choking noise in the back of his throat.

Finally he's settled with the blanket wrapped around him, feeling warmer and a little drowsy. He reaches out with his good hand, rests his palm against Charlie. His brother's chest feels solid, like a wall. "Keep messing up," Don says.

"What?" Charlie presses a hand over his. "No, Don. You did everything perfectly--"

"Keep pulling away. Getting lost." He sighs. "Hate mazes."

Charlie wraps both hands around Don's and curls over them until Don can feel Charlie's hair brush against his forearm. His little brother is silent for a long time.

"Buddy?"

Charlie straightens. He sniffles a little, but his voice is steady. "Not anymore, Don." He presses Don's palm tight against his chest and Don can feel his heart beat, slow and strong. "This is precisely where you need to be."

"Really?"

"Really." Charlie leans forward until his breath is warm on Don's face. "Follow me home now, Donnie," Charlie whispers. "Just follow me home."