Disclaimer: Elizabeth (Ellie) and Landis Technologies are mine.

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We drove for a long time. It was hard to tell if John's safe house was far from the warehouse or if John was taking a roundabout approach, meandering through the nighttime traffic as a precaution to ditch anyone that might've been following us. Knowing him, it probably was both.

For the longest time, neither of us spoke. The interior of the car was filled with the sound of the rain pattering against the windshield, the soft swish of the windshield wipers, the grumble of the tires on the neon-smeared wet asphalt. It was cold. John had stolen the first nondescript car he had seen to get us away from that nightmarish place, but of course, the car didn't have a working heater. After five traffic lights' worth of freezing air pouring from the dash vents, I had switched the fan off and wrapped John's long coat tighter around my body, shivering.

It was way better than being naked, but it couldn't do much for my poor freezing feet.

John noticed.

"Cold?" he said in that quiet half-whisper of his. I nodded.

"Just another block."

He pulled the car into a parking space below a fizzling, flickering streetlight, turned off the engine, and waited. I fidgeted, rubbing my feet together to keep them warm, while John peered out at our surroundings through the raindrops.

"We're close. We have to ditch the car," he said. "Do you want me to bring you back a pair of shoes, or should I carry you?"

"I'll walk," I said. I knew that John wouldn't dream of having a barefoot woman walk a block or two in the rain; he'd try to argue and convince me to wait in the car, maybe even pull out the "you were almost raped just now" card to try to guilt me into behaving. I wasn't in the mood to argue—I was in a mood for getting someplace warm as quickly as possible. So I didn't give him the chance to argue. Before he could respond, I pushed open the door and stepped out of the cold car into the colder city street. I regretted it as soon as my bare feet hit the icy sidewalk, but I'd be damned if I was going to complain. I set my teeth, drew the coat as close as I could around my body to deflect the rain, and waited for John to circle around to the sidewalk.

"You sure you want to walk?" he said.

"Let's just go."

The funny thing was, after the first fifty feet or so, I didn't notice the freezing water splashing up my bare legs or the rain pelting down on my hair, slicking it flat against my head. I was numb, both inside and out; exhausted, but running on fumes, sustained only by adrenaline.

I almost passed right on past the entrance to the safe house; if it hadn't been for John's hand on my shoulder, I would've just kept walking until the city ate me alive. But the hand guided me into a little alcove set in a squat two-story building, all gray stone and tall, narrow windows. Like a magic trick, a key appeared in John's hand, and he unbolted the heavy, graffiti-covered doors.

My wet feet slapped against wooden planks as we ascended an ancient staircase, which creaked beneath us. We made our way down a narrow brick corridor and soon we came to another door. This one was protected by a keypad. John punched in the code and guided me into the safe house.

It was nice, in a sort of spartan, minimalist way. The main room was a wide, airy space, open from one brick wall to the other; during the day, it clearly offered a full view of the street through a row of tall windows. A small but complete kitchen, decked in black granite and silver fixtures, had been sequestered into the corner. A single doorway led elsewhere in the building. Every surface in the place was clean and free of dust.

And, thank God, it was warm.

There wasn't much in the way of furniture; a few stools under the little bar at the kitchen, an old leather couch, a table with two chairs, a wide, low bookcase along one wall, an old-fashioned television in the corner. Decorations were sparse. There were a few paintings on the walls, arranged in a random, not-quite-geometric pattern; they were the kind of paintings that would've fit in any of a thousand rooms. Several tall, matte-black lamps cast their soft illumination throughout the room. And that was it. A small domed security camera kept a watchful eye on the place from its perch in the corner, near the door.

John vanished into the doorway and reappeared a moment later, holding a bundle of towels.

"You should take a hot shower, Ellie," John said, offering some of the towels. "I'll have dry clothes when you get out."

"Dry clothes for you or for me?" I said. A little ghost of a smile tugged at John's lips as I snatched the towels and headed for the doorway, which I could see now led to a bedroom that was just as sparse as the main apartment.

But I paused just before passing into the bedroom.

"Hey, John?" I said, peering over my shoulder at the man who had, yet again, saved my life. I had long ago run out of words to describe the debt I owed him, so I simply said: "Thanks."

He took his time about responding, looking as stoic and professional as ever, his presence hardly diminished by the pounds of water weighing down his shirt and hair, plastering both against his skin. But there was something intangible in those fierce blue eyes, something worrying, as he said, "You're welcome, Ellie."

I left John's coat in a sopping heap on the tiled floor of the bathroom and turned the hot water up as far as it would go. The shower was heaven. But while the feeling began to tingle back into my limbs, the numbness in my mind refused to go away. I was still seeing the world through a narrow tunnel, in black and white, and to make matters worse, my hands had begun to shake, because my god, Ellie, if he had just been a few seconds later, you would've been raped, and then you would've witnessed a murder, because John wouldn't have stopped at beating the bastard to within an inch of his life before bagging him for the police, and then I started to breath again, began to remind myself that I was fine, I just had a few bruises and rope burns, and now Dolly Pearson was safe because of what John and I had done to lure her attacker away from her, and so what if John had been a few seconds late? I'd known what I was getting into when I started helping John.

It would've hurt. It might've killed me. It would've shaken me to the core. It might've left me broken, beaten in both mind and body, with a long, long road to recovery. But if it had saved the person John and I were protecting, it would've been worth it.

I owed John a debt I could never, ever repay. Because of him, I was alive and well today instead of rotting away as a corpse handcuffed inside a shipping container in the middle of nowhere. Helping him help others was a good start, but it would never be enough. I would always be in his debt.

Sighing, I shut off the shower and dried off, wrapping a towel around my chest. I walked out into the bedroom to find that, as promised, there were dry clothes. They had been laid out on the bed: gray sweatpants, a black tank top, white socks, and the obligatory bra and underthings. I walked out of the room five minutes later to find John sprawled on the couch, legs crossed, wearing his usual suit. Without waiting for an invitation, I sat down next to him.

Neither of us spoke. John stared at the blank television with vacant eyes and hardly moved. If he hadn't been breathing, I would've thought him a statue.

Then his phone rang.

"Yeah, Finch?" he said, idly reaching up to tap his ear.

I heard mutterings and whispers, nothing distinct.

"She's fine." John glanced my way, making it clear he was talking about me and not Dolly Pearson. "A few bruises...no, I think we've got it covered." He listened awhile more, then nodded. "Will do. Good night, Finch." With another tap of his ear, he disconnected the call.

"Am I ever going to get to meet your mysterious employer?" I said.

"He's a very private person," John said. The smirk on his face suggested it was an understatement.

"Tease. I'm serious. I think I could help you help people more if you didn't have to relay everything Mysterious Mister Finch says to me."

The smile slipped, faded, and John's eyes grew vacant again.

"You should sleep, Ellie. You went through a lot today."

"We saved Dolly Pearson," I pointed out.

"You were nearly—"

"I don't want to hear it," I said, putting up my hand. "I didn't happen. I'm fine."

"You're bruised."

I rubbed my wrists, where the ropes had bitten deep. They were sore, but I'd felt worse. "I'm fine, John. Really. I feel fine."

"Either way, you've earned your rest. Go sleep, Ellie...I have some business to finish tonight. We'll talk tomorrow..."

Fine or not, I was most definitely exhausted. I fell asleep in minutes, curled up soundly beneath thick, soft quilts, and I slept until noon the next morning. I didn't know it at the time, but it would be the last time I would sleep soundly for the next few weeks.

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I dreamed of John Reese. It was like a flashback, starting from the moment I had met him, when he had swung the doors of the sweltering cargo container wide and found me lying against the back wall with both hands cuffed to a metal pole above me. I had a hazy recollection of a man outlined by light, and then, like fast-forwarding through a video, of the man picking the locks on the cuffs and carrying me out into the hazy afternoon and setting my naked body in the passenger-side car seat. I was too weak to move my head. All I could see was blue sky and the bulky weatherproof casing of a security camera mounted on a pole a hundred feet away.

The man started the car, and blessedly cold air blasted from the vents. A water bottle was pressed to my lips, and I drank like a helpless child.

"You're safe, Ellie," the man whispered. "You're safe now."

On the long drive back to New York, I learned only a little about my savior, the man who called himself John Reese. How had he known where to find me, I asked him. His answer said nothing: "I have my methods." What did he do for a living, I asked. That answer was more enticing: "I help people like you—people who have gotten themselves in nasty situations." I learned his name. I learned his mission. And that was all.

"You saved my life," I told him. "I—I don't know how to thank you. I owe you my life."

"You owe me nothing, Ellie," he told me in his half-whisper, half-croon.

"Seriously. Anything I can give you—name it. I—I make a lot of money, and..."

He glanced my way, shook his head. "Just be careful what friends you pick from now on, Ellie."

He gave me new clothes and took me home, giving me over to the care of a police officer named Detective Carter. John Reese accepted my thank-you hug, climbed into a little gray car, and joined the New York traffic. And then he was gone...