She has to wait in the Impala. Winston has less blood on him, and will attract less attention. The desk clerk is young, probably still in his teens. He's half-asleep and regards Winston with polite annoyance. He doesn't notice Winston's unease, the thinly concealed rage and terror he tries to mask with a quick smile and a causal inquiry. The motel has plenty of vacancies. Which one will Winston prefer? He decides on a double. The clerk shrugs, uncaring, and gives Winston the key to one Room 66. The number of sixes makes Winston uncomfortable.

He goes back to the car. Corinna is jumpy. She flinches when he taps the glass and tells her they have a room. Winston offers to carry the box. It's lighter than Winston first imagined. He wonders if it's empty, like this is some twisted experiment designed to test their dedication to the Race. He doesn't put it past Them, but the box definitely contains another clue, something to bring him that much closer to the 32 million. What's a little murder when that amount of cash is on the line?

Corinna walks silently beside him. She has taken off her jacket, and is using it to hide her hands. The tension and the fear hover around them, the night's events sinking in for the first time. Reaching the room is a relief. Winston allows her to enter first. He follows, placing the box by the door. He slings his coat over it. The package is suddenly ugly to him and he feels filthy looking at it. He sits on one of the beds and waits for Corinna to use the bathroom. She has more blood on herself than he does. She must want to wash her hands.

Winston is fascinated by them. The blood has dried black on her skin, gotten under her nails. The nails will be the hardest to clean. Winston wonders if their room even has soap. Corinna takes a deep breath. Winston hopes she's not going to crack, because he's barely holding himself together and he can't fix them both.

Another breath. She'll be fine. Corinna disappears into the bathroom. Winston hears the water running, and wishes she would hurry up. He glances at his own hands. The red is less pronounced because he had worn the gloves, having only removed them when he returned to his own vehicle. They're resting in the Impala's back seat; he should get rid of them before sunrise.

Winston's fingertips and his wrists are not clean. His pants are stained; his shirt is wet, mingled in sweat and his brother's blood. The pain in his chest intensifies as he thinks of Sean. It wasn't supposed to go down like this. It was just one bank, one vault in some small town in the middle of Georgia whose main claim to fame is fertilizer. Sean knew how to get the code. It was so simple, the prize was theirs, but then everything went so horribly, horribly wrong.

The rent-a-cop would have killed them, and done worse to Corinna. Sean was right to shoot him, but now Sean is dying in some landscaper's car, and Winston doesn't know what he'll do if Alex comes back with a body instead of his brother.

Winston can still hear him screaming.

"He shot me! I think I'm done, bro!"

Winston shouldn't have brought Sean along, but he wanted to hurt Fernando any way he could, and this was the easiest means to do just that. Winston stole his father's son; he prays Sean doesn't die for it.

Three days. Winston has known his brother for three days, nearly four. Winston doesn't know much about Sean, except that he's smart. He knows computers and hates Fernando in a way Winston never imagined his father's chosen son would. Sean is whiny, and demanding. He drinks mocha latte with extra foam, and Winston suspects he knows as much Spanish as Winston knows Russian.

This is Fernando's doing. Their father is a Cuban, and he discovered a long time ago that the best thing to be in America is white. After all, what self-respecting Latino would name his firstborn Winston? The name sounds English, WASPish and old. Fernando was probably thinking of Churchill. Winston doesn't know any famous people by the name of Sean, but it's another white name, respectable, but Irish, possibly Catholic, if one is bothered by that sort of thing.

Winston should have protected him. Sean is just a polo-wearing preppie; Winston's the one with the street cred. He should have been able to handle one lunatic with a gun.

Winston hears a noise. Corinna's back, her hands have returned to lily white, her clothing's still red, but it blends in well with the black.

When she speaks her words are full of conviction, "Alex will help him. Sean is going to be fine."

Just by looking at her Winston knows Sean has lost too much blood to be fine. "Did he say anything before he – when I wasn't there?"

Corinna is quiet for a moment.

"He asked for you."

Winston doesn't think it is possible for him to hate himself more, but he couldn't leave the Impala where it was, not with a body lying in the bank. Still, his brother is dying with strangers because he had to move the damn car, and also because Alex Tully is mad quick with the accelerator.

Where is Alex taking him? Last chance, last chance, what does that even mean? Some backdoor surgeon with rusty tools? Best Alex can do because if he goes to a hospital they're all screwed. With some surprise he thinks Sean's life is worth the prison time. Winston doesn't even know Sean, but Sean's his brother and Mama made him pray for the kid every day until she died, because she was a good person, and the sins of the father should never be placed upon the son.

"The wound isn't that bad," Corinna tries. "They should be back soon."

She has a terrible bedside manner. She leans against the dresser, arms folded and awkward. Winston thinks she should be a better liar.

"Or they may not come back at all," Winston mutters darkly, forgetting the manners his Mama told him he must always use when talking to a lady.

Her eyes dart to the box. "The clue's here. Besides, Alex isn't like that."

"You didn't know him before the race. How would you know what he's like?" The words come quick and bitter on his tongue. Winston is once again reminded of how worthless he truly is.

"They took his wife," Corinna says emotionlessly. She's used to rage. "He needs to win this to get her back."

The statement sounds false to Winston, rehearsed and repeated. He is in no position to contradict her.

"And if he loses?"

"She loses, too."

Corinna's eyes remain on the box, and Winston knows she doesn't give a damn about Alex's wife. She wants to win this thing as much as Winston did before he discovered the blood on Sean wasn't that damn fed's.

"They take anything from you?"

She doesn't answer, and Winston knows it's too personal a question to ask someone he's known for less than fifteen hours.

"I'm just doing this for the money." Her eyes are still transfixed upon the all-important clue.

"Same here," Winston replies, the blood on his body becoming darker by the second. He really should wash his hands.

Alex doesn't come back in the morning, and he isn't picking up his phone. Winston stays up all night watching the light move across the room. Corinna doesn't sleep, either. She's as restless as Winston. She spends the night tossing and turning and glaring at the package. It's all she can think about. She would have opened it already if Winston wasn't sharing the room with her. He sees every move she makes; she's itching to see what's inside, but Corinna realizes that the clue is not Winston's top priority.

She wonders what will happen if she pushes him too far. Winston's not like that. He's never been that type of guy. He hopes she gets that, but Winston has a record and that's all she needs to know to put up her guard.

Or maybe she just has a good heart and doesn't have the callousness needed to discuss business when her newest associate doesn't know if his brother's still breathing.

It's nearly two in the afternoon when Corinna announces she's leaving to get food. There's nothing left in the Impala. He and Sean ate the last bag of chips before the bank, after the meeting over coffee. She asks if he wants anything. Winston's not hungry.

She returns with a bag of sandwiches and a six pack of bottled water. There's a deli up the road, she explains, completely unnecessarily. Winston thanks her, and takes a bite out of one of the sandwiches. It's ham-and-cheese with mustard spread over the slices. It is the nastiest sandwich Winston has ever tasted.

They begin to talk again. The conversation is stilted and uncomfortable, nothing like the causal banter they exchanged in the bank the night before. The topic eventually steers towards the race; they have nothing else to talk about.

He asks if she knows more than he does. Who sponsors it? How long is it supposed to last? Does Mr. Bright sound like the inconceivable guy from The Princess Bride? The last question is asked solely to make her smile. His questions have bothered her, as evidenced by her clipped responses and haunted gaze. She laughs, and inquires when he saw the movie. He doesn't seem the type. Winston hesitates and tells Corinna his mother made him watch it with her when he was younger. It was her favorite.

They don't speak for a long time after that.

It's past nine when Corinna's cell goes off. It's Alex and he's asking about the room. Sean's breathing, but he's hardly conscious. Alex needs help carrying the boy in. Winston's out the door before Corinna hangs up the phone.

Sean is pale, paler than Winston remembers. The bruise on his face is swollen purple. The cop hit him pretty hard. Winston wonders if Sean has a concussion in addition to the bullet wound. Sean's frame is covered in a blanket. He's not moving.

"Hey, bro," Winston whispers, as if afraid loud noise will break him, "you all right?"

Sean somehow smiles. "Yeah, homes."

Winston can't help but grin as relief sweeps over him. "Good, let's get you outta here."

Winston puts his hands under Sean's armpits and gently pulls him from the backseat. Sean winches. They both pretend he doesn't. Winston uses one arm to cradle his brother's back and the other he links under his knees. Like the clue, Sean is lighter than Winston first imagines. Sean is shivering. Winston thinks he has a fever. If Alex knows what's good for him there better not be an infection. Sean's head is resting against Winston's shoulder. He's exhausted.

Winston lays Sean on the nearest bed, and pulls the covers over him. He's careful not to tear the stitches.

"Winston," Sean calls weakly, "I…"

"It's cool, bro," says Winston, taking his brother's hand. "Just go to sleep."

Sean's squeezes Winston's fingers before closing his eyes. He's asleep within moments.

Alex points to a paper bag resting by the TV. "It's full of antibiotics and painkillers. He'll be needing them to get through the next few weeks."

"Thanks, man," says Winston, the words catching in his throat.

"Don't mention it."

Winston nods. Corinna's already reaching for the box. She wants to win.

The clue is an address to a place in Tallahassee. Alex and Corinna are anxious to get driving - immediately. They don't need to sleep. Sean can't travel, and Winston won't leave him; not even for a 32 million dollar cash prize.

"I guess we're done," Winston smirks, regretful, but not really. This Race is attracting more trouble than he's willing to deal with.

"You think you can just quit?" Corinna demands. That's not how this game plays. "You're not done until They say you're done."

There's a scary intensity in her words. Winston again knows not to contradict her.

She and Alex agree to move to other rooms. The original room only has two beds and no one feels comfortable with sharing. Alex and Corinna are leaving tomorrow. Corinna strongly suggests that the Salazars accompany them. It's too late to try for Appomattox, and They don't take desertion lightly.

Alex and Corinna leave. Winston knows he is well and truly fucked.

He turns on the TV; maybe the mindless programming will calm his nerves. Winston's hours into an I Love Lucy marathon when Sean stirs. He clicks Lucy off.

"You okay?" Winston fights to keep the worry out of his voice.

"Yeah, when are we going?"

"We're not. We're done with this, bro."

"What – what are you talking about?" Sean asks, confused and just as tired as he was before Lucy started scheming.

"You're banged up pretty bad, homes."

"So? It's not like you let me drive, anyways."

That is the brother Winston remembers from the beginning; petulant and accusing. Winston is forever falling short of Sean's expectations. Sean still wants him to be the brother Winston doesn't know how to be, the brother the only child always imagines when a parent or a toy doesn't replace the longing for what can never be. Well, Winston has news for Sean; Sean isn't the brother Winston imagined, either.

"You can't even sit up," Winston says, certain Sean will not argue against simple logic.

"I'll lie down in the backseat."

"It's not big enough."

"I'll manage."

Sean's stronger than he looks, and more stubborn than Winston will ever give him credit for.

"You'll just get hurt again."

"Me, hurt? You'd be dead if it wasn't for me."

The shame returns and Winston wishes he wasn't responsible for everything that's happened since Miami.

"C'mon, bro," Sean continues. "We can win this."

Winston is thrown by Sean's resolve. This is the same kid who dared Winston to leave him two days ago because he wanted to help that girl's father. Sean's just dramatic. Rich kids always are.

Winston has everything to lose by walking away. Sean can go back to his life, no strings attached. He wouldn't even be here had Winston not invited him.

"Why do you wanna win so bad?"

"I just do."

His eyes glow with a terrifying determination not brought on by the fever or the drugs. Winston realizes that Sean and Corinna aren't that different. Sean will race, and Winston has to follow.

"We're leaving around seven," Winston admits. "We're going to Tallahassee."

"Good."

The conversation is over. Winston hopes he hasn't just made the worst decision of his life.