Beep.

"Dammit!"

The uniform-clad girl in the headset reaches up and presses her index finger to the button on her headset, dropping her mop with the other hand. "Welcome to McDonalds, just a second, please." Who the fuck comes to McDonald's at eleven at night?

"No problem, we're going to be a minute ourselves." The speaker has a smooth, deep voice and sounds slightly like Jamie Foxx. His voice gets slightly fainter; apparently, he's turning to the other people in the car. "Are we doing multiple orders, Hotch?"

"No." This was another man, much more serious-sounding.

"Who's paying?"

"...the FBI?" The girl in the headset cocks her head to one side. FBI?

"Oh, yeah. Well... what do you want?"

"Grilled club, substitute shredded lettuce for leaf, extra tomato and a Coke."

"Christ, you're picky. Prentiss?"

A woman's voice. "Three-piece select, fries and a sweet tea."

Another woman's voice. "Uhm..." A pause. "Crispy club with light mayonnaise and a Sprite."

"Alright," the Jamie-Foxx sounding man says into the speaker. "We need a grilled club with leaf lettuce instead of shred and extra tomato and a Coke... three-piece chicken select meal with a sweet tea... crispy club with light mayonnaise meal with a Sprite... and an Angus bacon cheeseburger meal with extra onion and pickle and a Coke."

"Uhm, Morgan? You sort of forgot Reid."

"Shit, sorry, not done," he says into the speaker, then, "Wake him up."

The serious-voiced man—Hotch?—says, "Reid." Louder. "Reid." Then, "Spencer."

"Sorry—sorry—what?" Another man, but much younger-sounding than the other two; he sounds sleepy and uncertain.

"What do you want to eat?"

"Oh, uhm, I'm not hungry."

"Then I'll get you what I'm getting," the driver says.

"Which is?"

"Angus bacon cheeseburger, extra onion and pickle."

"Oh my God. Uhm... a side salad and a diet Coke."

"Alright, add a Caesar salad and a diet Coke to that, please."

"I said side salad!"

"You weigh eighty fucking pounds, Reid. If you're going to insist on rabbit food, it's at least going to be a human-sized portion."

"Then at least tell them to leave off the dressing."

"...Light dressing on the Caesar, please."

"Goddamnit, Morgan!"

"That'll be thirty-two sixty-four at the next window, please."

The SUV pulls up to the window a minute later, a huge black thing with FBI emblazoned on the side in white letters. The driver is a very handsome black man in his late twenties or early thirties. He hands her a fifty and she gives him his change; he smiles and says, "Thank you, honey."

"Hurry up, Morgan," the irritated-looking, dark-haired man next to him says. "We need to be in Denver by tomorrow morning."