Henry read the text and noted that the only one who hadn't received it was his son.

Now was the time for action.

He punched in # and 1, and was calling Sanford.

"Hello, Mr. Spencer?" The deep voice asked on the other end.

"It's time." Henry said simply.

He could almost hear the other man smile through the phone. "Excellent."

The line went dead and Henry had a bad feeling in his stomach, trying to decide if it meant dread or regret.

Everything was white. Shawn was a little disappointed that that particular cliché was true. He had hoped for something different—like purple polka dots on a lime green and orange zebra print.

With a loud click, the vision before Shawn's eyes turned into a cacophony of colors no human being should ever have to experience. He quickly shut his eyes and grabbed his hair in agony.

"I was just kidding! Give me back the white! Don't make me suffer the torment of a female preteen's favorite pair of pajama pants!"

Shawn heard a loud click and a very deep chuckle from behind him and jumped.

"It's okay, son. Everything is white as you asked, though I do admit that I'll have to work on that cliché. It is somewhat embarrassing. How about beige instead?"

Shawn heard another loud click and nervously opened his eyes, but was pleased to see that everything was indeed beige. Feeling a bit more confident, he turned around and saw none other than Morgan Freeman himself—Shawn of course squealed at that particular revelation.

"What!" Shawn yelled excitedly. "No way! You're dead too?"

"No, however, I cannot be revealed fully to you unless you have completely departed from your body, so since you've seen Evan Almighty one too many times, this is how I've manifested myself to you." Morgan Freeman replied, chuckling again.

"Oh…wait, you mean I'm not dead?" Shawn asked incredulously.

"Nope. By my hand alone, you aren't done yet. I interrupted you by making an ice cream truck pass by your house at the exact same time. It was a lot harder than it should've been to convince the bastard to drive down your street," Morgan Freeman frowned, "nevertheless, I rewarded his obedience with a dozen paying customers." Morgan Freeman was smiling again.

"But I digress. You will soon be facing some rather…interesting…circumstances. Don't be too upset with your father, however. He was just trying to do what was best for you. You will encounter a lot of pain, but remember that there is always a reason. Everything is connected—there are no such things as coincidences." Morgan Freeman said solemnly.

Shawn stared at him like he was nuts.

"You're nuts." Shawn said. "I don't even believe in any 'Higher Powers.' Yeah, things generally are connected somehow, but this isn't The Lion King—even if you have a deep voice like Muhammad."

"You mean Mufasa."

"I've heard it both ways."

Morgan Freeman chuckled—something that was really beginning to grate on Shawn's nerves, no matter how silky smooth and beautiful Morgan Freeman's chuckle was.

"Perhaps I am nuts, but it's time for you to go back, my dear boy." Morgan Freeman smiled sadly at him.

Shawn felt something pulling around his navel, forcing him away.

"No! I had already accepted everything and got everything together—I can't go back! I wanted to take this into my own hands! You can't do this—stop!" Shawn cried, his voice fading with his body until Morgan Freeman was all alone.

"Good luck, Shawn Spencer." He whispered into the silence.

Morgan Freeman left and everything became white once again.

Henry regretted calling Sanford ever since he picked up the phone to call—he regretted ever listening to the suspicious man who sent him an email out of the blue. Henry had never felt so stupid in his entire existence, but his son was dying! Dying! He'd had to do something, and at the time, he ignored his gut and now his son was suffering for it. It had seemed like fate at the time—he was researching how to prevent his son from dying of brain cancer, and a man just so happens to email him regarding experimental cures. But now, he realized just how fishy that was. The odds of it all—there was no way it was a coincidence.

Henry had no clue just what exactly he had gotten himself and his son into, if Shawn was even still alive. And from what he learned from his research, that was a big FAT If.

When he had hung the phone up, a sense of dread had settled in his stomach. For some reason, he felt like something was off. In his brief insanity, he couldn't figure out what, but all of his still engrained cop instincts screamed that something was wrong. Very wrong.

The feeling of dread became even worse once the hospital called, telling him his son was there—but at that time, it was more in shock and fear for Shawn. Sanford had been completely forgotten.

It turned into guilt when the hospital called to tell him Shawn had disappeared. It made the front page and everything; "Psych-o Psychic's Suicide Attempt Ends in Disappearance!" Sanford had returned to his mind. Something was fishy—but hadn't he basically known that Shawn was probably going to disappear for a bit? Even he could tell that whatever Sanford was doing more than likely wasn't legal.

But it had been 11 months since then. Shawn had never shown up. Was he even still alive? If he was—then what was being done to him? Henry shuddered. He would have told someone by day two (when Shawn disappeared), but he had received a package on his door step with Shawn's pinky toe inside and a note threatening to torture his son—and that the next toe wouldn't be taken under the influence of anesthesia.

Henry took it to Woody, who confirmed the presence of anesthesia and that the owner was still alive—thankfully the man didn't question him too much, a fact that Henry took note of for future reference.

Five months from that incident, he got a picture of his son—supposedly alive and with a beard. The beard was probably only there to show a progression of time.

Henry sighed and looked out the window. Shawn, where are you?

During the first month, Henry prayed every day that his son would be found—alive.

During the second month, Henry prayed that his son would at least be found and have died in peace.

Now, Henry simply prayed that his son would be found.

Soon.

It had been 11 months since Spencer had disappeared from the hospital, never to be seen again, and Lassiter found himself thinking something he never thought would ever cross his mind.

Things were too quiet. There were no more frustrating pranks, or "spirit vibrations."

Nothing.

"Dammit." Lassiter hissed when his pen broke in two and covered his hands with blood-red ink. That one had been the last in the cup—now he'd have to open up a new bag, throw the trash away, test each pen to make sure it worked, etc. He reached down, sighing, and opened up his bottom left drawer and felt around in it. He frowned when his fingers met something that most certainly was not a bag of pens, instead it was heavy and smooth and cold. He lifted it out and set it on his desk, feeling his blood pressure boil.

Unbelievable! That little snot had the nerve to put a squirrel SNOWGLOBE in his desk!

He nearly threw it, but stopped himself, cradling it in both of his hands sadly.

"Idiot." He muttered and set it in a corner (a corner where no one would be able to see it unless they knew to look for it), scrunching his eyes when he saw something on the bottom. He held it upside down and read the note taped underneath it.

Psych! Happy shooting!

Lassiter blanched and set it down. Spencer had expected him to destroy his last gift…

He shook his head and rested it on top of his arms, still fiddling and stroking the snowglobe.

His pager went off, so Carlton lazily pulled it out with one hand and read it.

"Crazy person in the lobby?" Lassiter frowned, but released the snow globe he had still been fiddling with to its secret hiding place and headed towards the lobby.

When he got there, he couldn't believe his eyes.

"Spencer?" Lassiter shouted.