Author's additional note: The demon language used in this part is actually called Rhefugi (I do believe it's from a roleplaying game, but I have been unable to verify this). There's an actual English to Rhefugi translator online which was very helpful in creating Lucy's ancient language, which I have taken the liberty of calling Kandarian (based on the Evil Dead movies). Hey, it beats coming up with something that sounds even vaguely possible without it being Latin. :D Oh, and just for your information, I don't speak a lick of Spanish and have used AltaVista's Bable Fish to translate the Spanish in this part. If it's wrong, please let me know and I'll fix it right away. I want this to be as accurate as it can be. :)

***

Bobby's assumption that he would have a few restless nights ahead of him turned out to be more than true. He didn't have nightmares as such, but every little sound woke him up and eventually he gave up on sleep and got up to check on Sam and Dean.

Sam was out cold, slightly feverish which was to be expected, and the second bag of blood he had been hooked up to since Hector and Bobby had carried him back to the house from the old garage was half empty.

For as long as he had known these boys, Bobby had always thought that nothing about them could ever be scary. But now he felt a certain amount of fear. It wasn't fear-of-death fear, but more the fear that Dean might have come back wrong. It had happened to Sam and that sure as hell had not been a good ride.

Somewhat reluctantly, Bobby turned his attention toward the other bed, intending to check on Dean, and stopped short when he realized the bed was empty. If it hadn't been for the rumpled covers, he would have thought that he had imagined the whole thing.

He frowned lightly, unsure of whether it was a good thing or not that Dean was up and moving of his own volition. If he had come back right, the way he had been before he had been killed, then Bobby assumed that he would have to be in the kitchen gorging himself. But the house was too quiet for that.

Quietly Bobby made his way downstairs, Hector's parting words still ringing in his ears. He had seen many a horrible event turn a peace-loving man into a hunter, but he had never actually seen someone being deterred away from the path of the hunter like this. Hector had sworn that he would never deal with evil again unless his hand was forced. Not that Bobby blamed him. Sometimes he wished he could turn his back on this life as well, but he was too deeply involved in it, knew too many people he cared about within the circle of hunters. There was no out for him.

His first stop was the kitchen, which was quiet, dark and untouched. Unsure of what to expect, Bobby proceeded cautiously into the dining room and then into the living room. But there was no sign of Dean anywhere.

A little confused and a little concerned as well, he turned toward the den, which was at the front of the house and stepped through the doors leading into it. For a moment, he noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Then he focused on the figure curled up on the windowsill. It was one of those alcove seats that his wife had loved so much. She had spent a lot of time there when she relaxed or read a book or did whatever she liked to do.

And now Dean occupied that spot and he just sat there, dressed in the loose sweat pants and the black t-shirt that Bobby had gotten him into after getting the blood off him. "Dean?" he asked quietly.

There was no immediate response, but it was obvious that Dean was awake, considering the way he was sitting there.

Bobby settled down on the edge of the sill and eyed him in the moonlight. It wasn't far until dawn if the almost rosy gleam along the horizon was anything to go by and Bobby figured the kid was just taking it all in right now. "Dean," he repeated and reached out to place a hand on Dean's knee.

Like a sleepwalker, Dean turned his head and focused on him. He blinked a few times.

Bobby smiled. "Welcome back, son," he said.

Dean just stared at him for a moment. "Is this Hell?" he countered, his voice hoarse, low, gritty.

Bobby was stunned, shocked even by that question. "No, of course not. Why would you ..." he tried, but trailed off when the truth behind that question came crashing down over him. "By all that's holy," he muttered and tightened his grip on Dean's knee.

Dean just kept staring for a moment longer, then he blinked again and returned his attention to the outdoors. And the look in his eyes was far away.

"Dean," Bobby tried, hoping to somehow keep him in the moment, to anchor him to this reality, but he soon realized that whatever little awareness Dean had possessed was gone. He didn't respond again, didn't even blink when Bobby snapped his fingers in front of his face, and eventually he gave up and just left him alone.

***

It took two days before Sam was even marginally able to do more than sleep and even then he was feeling dizzy and weak like a newborn.

Bobby helped him as much as he would allow for and was generally there to support him in every way, but he kept dodging the two questions that Sam kept asking. "Where's Dean?" and "How is he?"

On the morning of the third day, Sam woke up at dawn and since he obviously couldn't get a word out of Bobby about Dean, he figured he would have to see for himself. With an effort, he got out of bed and made his way over to the door.

The stairs were daunting when he finally reached them, but he was determined to get downstairs and find Dean. He knew two things from what Bobby wasn't saying. Dean was alive and he was in this house. Why he wasn't in his bed, recovering from the horrible ordeal he had just been through Sam didn't know, but his absence fueled terrifying ideas in Sam's mind and despite his own feebleness right now, he could wait no longer to find out where his brother was and how he was doing.

On severely unsteady feet, he made his way downstairs, having to stop several times on the way to counteract a fainting spell, but he somehow made it down the steps without falling flat on his face. Using the walls and furniture for support, he made his way slowly into the livingroom and through to the den and stopped just inside the doorway while leaning unsteadily against the door. He could truly admit that he had never seen anything better in his life when his gaze settled on Dean. "Dean," he said, a little out of breath.

He released his hold on the doorknob and made his way over to the sill, where he sank down on the edge. "Dean?" he tried and reached a slightly shivering hand out touch Dean. And all the while Dean made no move to respond. He didn't even look at him. He just sat there and stared out into the yard.

"Dean?" Sam tried again and closed his fingers over Dean's pulled-up knee. "Hey? Are you with me?"

There was no response.

"Dean, come on," he tried and tightened his grip a little more.

"He won't answer you."

Sam glanced over at the doorway where Bobby had just turned up. "Why not?"

"I don't know, Sam. He hasn't said anything," Bobby countered. "Just keeps staring out the window."

"But ... she said he would come back right, didn't she?" Sam asked, not sure how to respond. He was so god-awful tired that he was close to tears right now.

"Yeah, and physically I think he's okay," Bobby countered. "Hector checked him over before he left and he says there's nothing wrong with him physically. I guess he just needs some time to recover."

Unhappy about that, Sam glanced back at Dean, who kept staring out into the yard as if neither of them was there.

"You need to get back to bed, Sam. You're not nearly strong enough to be up and about," Bobby said and stepped up beside him. "Just ... give him time," he added, took a gentle hold of Sam's arm and pulled him back to his feet. "He'll come around."

Sam nodded and reluctantly returned to bed with Bobby's help. It rattled him more than he could say to see his brother so unresponsive. It wasn't right and he would have to fix it somehow if Dean didn't snap out of it soon.

***

Two weeks later

"I think it has something to do with this box."

Bobby looked up from the papers he had been going over and frowned at Sam, who was sitting on the other side of the table, the box in his hands. "What does?" he asked.

"The way Dean came back," Sam said and glanced up at him. "I think ... somehow ... that this box is connected to everything."

Bobby glanced at the box, then looked back up to meet Sam's gaze. "I don't think so," he disagreed. "It's a curse-box, Sam. Unless you opened it, I can't see how it could possibly have anything to do with that."

"I haven't opened it," Sam said and returned to staring at the damned thing. "But ... I have this feeling about it. I've had it ever since ..."

"Sam, are you talking premonitions here?" Bobby asked. "Is this your ... psychic stuff?"

Sam shook his head. "No, I don't have that anymore," he countered and sighed. "Thank god," he muttered under his breath. "But I still think ..."

"Sam, leave the damned box alone and go talk to your brother instead. I think the more you talk to him, the more likely it is that he will snap out of whatever is wrong with him," Bobby said. "Hector said there's nothing physically wrong with him. It's probably a transition period or something."

"You don't know that," Sam muttered. "He hasn't said anything at all since he came back, just ... sits in there and stares out the window," he added and glanced toward the den. "Why won't he talk to me, Bobby?"

Bobby sighed. "I don't know, Sam. I wish I did. The way alone that he was brought back, though, can't have been easy for him. Just ... give him time."

"He's been like that for two weeks. He can't go on like this," Sam said and his tone was feeble. Even though he wasn't looking up, Bobby knew the kid was close to tears.

"No, I agree. He can't. And I don't really think he will. Eventually, he'll snap out of it. Just give him time, Sam," Bobby repeated. They had been through this several times already and it was beginning to bother Bobby how fixated Sam was on the idea that the box was involved somehow.

"Don't you know anyone we could ask? I mean ... the buyer. Bela's buyer. Since he was so eager to get his hands on the box, he must know what's in it. I just want ..." Sam trailed off. He had turned the box over and kept rubbing his thumb over the initials carved into the bottom of it. "There must be a connection," he insisted.

Again Bobby sighed. Sam was like a dog with a bone when he wanted something and he turned all the odds against his opponent until he got his way. In a sense he was like a spoiled kid that kept begging for a certain toy until the frustrated parent gave in just to get some peace. Bobby was sure that Sam wasn't consciously aware of how obnoxious he could be when there was something he wanted, but it probably wouldn't change his behavior much in this case if Boby knew him right. He wanted to find out what was in that box and Bobby was adamant about it not being opened until they had a clue. "I have some connections, Sam, but ..." he tried, but Sam cut him off with a look that could make stone melt.

"Could you just try and find this guy? I need to know what's in this damned box," he persisted.

"Sam, the box is not the answer to this," Bobby tried.

"You don't know that," Sam argued. "It may be exactly what I need to get Dean back on track. I can't leave him like this. It's not ... right." He fiddled with the box, kept pushing lightly at the lid while he talked. "Maybe I should just open the damned thing and ..."

"No, don't open it! Not until you know what's in it, Sam," Bobby said, raising both hands to ward off what he thought could potentially be a disastrous move. "I'll call around. See if I can find out who the buyer is. I just don't know what you hope to accomplish, Sam. This guy put a hitman on Bela. If you hadn't shot her, he would have eventually. He's very eager to get the box."

"Then why hasn't he come after me?" Sam asked. "If he's that eager to get the box?"

"Guys like that don't do things in a straight line. And, Lucy did say that the box can't be taken from you, that you both have to be dead before whatever binds it to you is broken," Bobby countered and scrubbed a hand over his chin. "Okay, fine. Maybe it's a good idea to find out why he's so eager to get his hands on that damned box. Maybe we can convince him to back off," he added.

Sam eyed the box for a moment, then set it down on the table and glanced toward the den again, which was Dean's favorite spot in the house. Well, it was Dean's only spot in the house, considering that he hadn't moved from it since his return. Not since that morning after, when Bobby had found him sitting on the windowsill, staring out into the yard with empty eyes.

After a second, Sam rose and walked into the den to sit down across from Dean. He talked to him and just spent time with him, but to no avail. Dean never responded, just sat there and stared out the window, but in Bobby's book that was a good thing. He hadn't told Sam about Dean's response to him, about his reaction when Bobby had first found him sitting there, and Bobby found it wisest not to tell Sam about it. If Dean wanted Sam to know what he felt, he would say it eventually.

So Bobby got on the phone and called a few people and eventually found out who Bela's buyer had been. And at that point, he realized he wasn't the least bit surprised. What Sam would do with the information was something he could only guess at, but he figured the kid would demand an answer from the guy and that might not be the best way to go about it.

"So?"

He looked up and met Sam's intense gaze and realized how desperately he missed that innocent little kid Sam had once been; the kid who climbed his bookshelves to get at something he found interesting; the kid who drove his brother nuts with hide and seek games Dean didn't even know he was involved in. "Clavin Grant," he countered and sighed. "The buyer's name is Clavin Grant."

Sam just stared at him.

"Reclusive billionaire extraordinary. The guy collects oddities, from things to people. Most of those surrounding him are oddballs of one class or another," Bobby explained. "He's also known to be extremely hardball. And he's the silent head of Grant Industries. Tomorrow's technology today."

Sam nodded and settled down on a chair. "So, you think he would know what the box is or does he just want it because it's a curiosity?"

"Good question," Bobby said. "But there's no way you can find out. Nobody gets in direct contact with the guy."

Sam eyed him for a moment, then pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. "Yeah, hi. I'd like the number for the head office of Grant Industries," he said.

"Sam," Bobby tried, but Sam raised a hand, warding off any comments for now.

"Thank you. Could you put me through to them?" Sam said without looking at Bobby. He waited a moment. "Hi, my name is Sam Winchester. I'd like to talk to Mr. Grant if possible," he said, then made a face at the answer. "Well, he might be interested in talking to me. It's about a box that he sent Bela Talbot to collect."

Bobby watched him intently, but it was hard to tell what was going on at the other end just by watching Sam's expression.

"Mr. Grant? I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time. It's about that box you sent Ms. Talbot after," Sam said. His tone was almost pleasant, friendly, and Bobby once again realized how that kid was able to wiggle answers out of people nobody else could get close to. "Yes, I still have it," Sam agreed, grabbed a sheet of paper and looked around for a pen.

Bobby snatched the page of the old manuscript away from him and handed him a pad and a pen instead.

"I can understand that," Sam agreed. "Yes, I'll be there," he added. "Thank you, Mr. Grant. I'm looking forward to meeting you in person." With that, he hung up. "He's agreed to talk to me," he said and stared down at the pad and the words he had written there. "Tonight," he added.

"And I take it you're going alone?" Bobby asked.

"Who would I take with me?" Sam asked. "Dean can't stay here alone."

Bobby glanced toward the den and begrudgingly had to admit that Sam was right. There was no telling what Dean would do if he was left alone. "Okay, fine," he relented. "But don't you dare go unprepared. Be prepared for everything, Sam. Down to the point that this guy may not show up alone."

"I fight demons on a daily basis, Bobby. I think I can handle this guy," Sam countered.

"That there is exactly the kind of attitude that's going to get you in trouble," Bobby said sternly. "If you won't take precautions, you're not going," he added.

Sam's expression was a little too bland for Bobby's liking. "Try and stop me," he said and rose. "I have to do this, Bobby. For Dean."

"You do not have to sacrifice yourself for your brother. It's not your fault that he ended up like this," Bobby tried.

"Then whose fault is it? He sold his soul for me because I failed. There's no way in Hell that I'll let him rot like this for the rest of his natural life. No way," Sam bit back.

Bobby considered a wide array of responses to that, but decided not to get into it. If there was one thing he had learned, then it was that talking these boys out of their guilt was impossible. They had to learn the hard way. "Fine. But you go armed, Sam, and you watch your back."

"Don't I always?" Sam countered, his tone a little more subdued. "I'd better get going. Huff is about four-five hours away," he added and rose.

"Sam," Bobby said, stopping him. "Be careful."

Sam smiled vaguely. "Don't worry. I didn't just go through a bloodletting like that to get killed by a man," he said and headed into the den again.

***

Sam settled down across from Dean and eyed his brother for a moment. "I'm gonna take off for a bit. I need to ... do something," he said. "I'm kinda hoping it'll help you in the end, you know."

Dean didn't respond, just sat there and stared out into the yard.

"Could you at least look at me?" Sam pleaded, but like all the other times he had tried to gain his brother's attention, it was to no avail. Dean's attention was fixed on a spot out there that Sam couldn't see.

"You know, I was just thinking about the first time we came here," Sam said. "Do you remember that?" He couldn't help a vague smile. "I climbed the shelves and you tried to pull me off and I got hit by that big book and started bleeding. And I was so scared that dad would flip out. And you took the blame for it." With a shake of the head, Sam sighed lightly. "I never understood until last year how much you've always given up for me." He reached out and placed a hand on Dean's right foot, hoping for a reaction. Dean didn't even blink. "Well, I'm trying to pay you back, Dean. I just wish ..." He trailed off, assuming that Dean either wasn't hearing him or just wasn't able to respond. Whatever it was, it hurt, but Sam couldn't let that show. He needed to find a solution to it, not wallow in it. He smiled. "I gotta get going. I'll be back soon. I promise."

That said he rose and turned away, just missing the single tear that trickled down Dean's face.

Fifteen minutes later, Sam slid behind the wheel of the Impala and briefly glanced up at the bay window where Dean was still sitting. For a moment, he had the feeling that Dean was watching him, but on closer inspection he was staring in the same direction he had been staring in for the past two weeks. "I'll find a way to get you back completely," he muttered, revved the engine and drove off. He hadn't been out of the house since the bloodletting two weeks ago and he hadn't really intended to go anywhere either. Not without Dean. But since his brother was unresponsive in most respects, he felt pressured into finding a way to deal with it. And if meeting Bela's buyer and getting some answers from the guy was the only way, then so be it.

He drove all the way to Huff in one go and arrived well ahead of time. Why a billionaire like Calvin Grant would choose to meet him out in the sticks was beyond him, but he figured the guy didn't want to be seen in public in a big town somewhere. Whatever his reason was for meeting Sam in that old, abandoned factory hall down by the docks near the Missouri River, Sam figured he would soon find out.

He parked the Impala next to the warehouse, out of view from the street passing it, got out and opened the trunk. For a moment he eyed the contents of the trunk, then figured he only needed one gun to cover everything. He picked up the colt and weighed it in his hand for a moment, then loaded it with bullets and stuffed it into the back of his jeans.

Dropping the keys into one pocket of his jacket, he slipped both hands into the pockets and closed his fingers over the box. It was bulky, but for some reason he felt he needed to be able to prove to Grant that he had the box. At the same time he knew how dangerous it could be to bring the object of the man's desire to this rendevous.

With a shrug, he let himself into the warehouse through a side door and stepped into the cold, moist interior with apprehension. He was no fool, knew very well how wrong this could go, but he still felt the need to know what the hell the box contained and if it in some way might benefit his brother's healing.

The rain pelting the ground outside didn't make him feel any warmer, but he was here for a reason and he was going to see it through to the bitter end.

"Sam Winchester?"

He stopped short, surprised that Grant would be there already and found a man of massive stature standing a few feet away from him, half hidden by shadows. "Mr. Grant?" he countered.

"The same," Grant agreed and stepped forward into the shifting light of the single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. "Well, isn't that a pleasure?" he added.

Sam was a bit taken aback by the look in the guy's eyes. Calvin Grant was one big man. He was taller than Sam and twice as broad without actually being fat. He was wearing a tailored suit, dark grey with pinstripes, and his dark-brown hair was combed back, leaving his face almost brutally naked. Not that it made any difference. His eyes were shaded, unreadable, yet there seemed to be an undercurrent of something there that made Sam cautious.

In hope of appeasing the guy, he pulled the box from one pocket. "I brought the box," he said.

"Ah, how good of you. It's been a pain in my neck since day one," Grant countered. "I paid a fair amount of money for it, too. How annoying that Ms. Talbot was not able to deliver."

"Well, it wasn't really her's to sell. It belongs to us, after all. It was my father's," Sam countered.

Grant's eyes were glued to the box for a moment, then he focused on Sam. "Not many of your age are involved in this business, you know," he said. "Do you think you have what it takes?"

"What it takes to what?" Sam quarried. Grant's behavior confused him. If the man was so eager to get the box, he should either make an offer or try to take it by force. But he seemed more interested in Sam himself than the box and that put Sam off in a big way.

"To overcome the odds, of course," Grant said and smirked. "You see ... I'm not really after the box. What it contains is of interest, of course, but it is not of vital importance. It's what it takes to get the box away from you that interests me."

Sam frowned, then took a hesitant step back. "What's in the box?" he asked despite his growing suspicion that Grant was interested in the box only because it would mean the death of both himself and Dean.

"Unimportant," Grant said and smiled. "All I care about is you," he added and the smile transformed into a nasty grin that made Sam shudder inside.

The way Grant eyed him made him very uncomfortable and it suddenly struck Sam that Bobby had said that the man liked to surround himself with oddball characters. At no time had Bobby even indicated that this guy was into girls.

Grant tilted his massive head to the right and actually licked his lips in anticipation. "Oh come now. Surely you must have heard the rumors about me?" he asked.

Sam swallowed and took another hesitant step back. He couldn't very well kill the guy for being a pervert. It would raise too many questions if a man of Grant's status was found dead from a gunshot in a little backwater like Huff and Sam would not be able to move a body that size on his own anyway. "Look, all I'm interested in is knowing what's in the box and why the hell you're so eager to get it that you paid Bela twenty-five million dollars for it."

"As I said, it's you that I'm interested in. I know the box's connection to your family, boy, and I know you have to either give it up willingly or die trying to protect it before someone like me can get it. But, as I said, I'm not that interested in the box. I'm more interested in you." Grant eyed him up and down and that alone felt dirty to Sam, who backed up another step. "The last Winchester," he added in a whisper and chomped down on his lower lip. "I've never had a hunter before."

At this point, Sam was so totally grossed out that he figured he would have to find a different way to learn the secrets of this box or, if all else failed, he would have to open it. But there was no way he would stand around here and be ogled by this guy and it was definitely clear now what Grant was after.

Grant took a step forward and grinned viciously. It was an ugly expression that transformed the man's otherwise pleasant features into those of a predator on the prowl. And then his eyes turned black.

Sam reached for the colt at the same second that he realized that Grant was possessed, but before he could dislodge it from the back of his jeans, Grant waved a hand at him and an unseen force slammed him into the nearest wall with enough force to make him lose hold of both the box and the colt in one go. He bounced off the wall and landed on the wet concrete floor with a thud that nearly knocked the breath out of him. Winded, he scrambled to get back to his feet, but didn't get further than up on his hands and knees before the demonic force knocked him backwards onto the floor and pinned him there.

"It's a pity I'll have to kill you," the demon growled. "I'm sure Calvin Grant would have loved the opportunity of violating you repeatedly. He has a fondness for boys your age. Especially if they're particularly unwilling to participate." He stepped closer and stared down at Sam with wide, unblinking eyes. "Ah well. Can't be helped. I can't take the chance of you getting a punch in, now can I?" He grinned gleefully, waved his hand again and the colt skittered out of reach. Then he stooped over and picked up the box. "Annoying little thing, this," he said. "There's a piece of paper in this box with a spell on it. But for it to work, you have to read it out loud. And, alas, you won't ever be able to do that again, Sam."

That said, the demon hurled the box over one shoulder and it collided with the far wall and splintered into a thousand pieces. Sam didn't have time to focus on what might be happening with its contents, though, because unseen claws started tearing into him while Grant's expression turned even more vicious and hateful. And all Sam could do was scream in agony at a pain he could not stop.

***

Something tore him out of the nothingness with a vengeance and it took his befuddled mind a while to realize what it was. He was cold and those sounds ... He grimaced, pushed up on his hands and knees and tried to interpret what was going on around him. His eyes focused on something lying close to his left hand, then on the floor beneath him; wet concrete. His gaze shifted back to the thing on the floor and he recognized it. And then the sounds broke through the haze surrounding him again, this time clear as day. He raised his head and squinted into the semi-darkness of the area he was in, the area with a wet concrete floor and temperatures that seemed to rival a bitter winter's day. He could see it, the dark creature, hiding in the big man over there. But the man wasn't making those sounds, those agonized screams.

Grinding his teeth, he grabbed the colt and struggled to his feet, only one thing on his mind. He had to stop those sounds, had to stop the big man from forcing those sounds out of ... He checked the colt, checked to make sure it was loaded, then aimed and fired while striding towards the big man, gaining strength and momentum with every step he took. He hit him in the back of the head and had no doubt that the bullet obliterated most of the big man's face, but that was beside the point. He reached the guy right before he could topple over and potentially squash his victim and he grabbed a handful of the pinstriped jacket and yanked the falling body sideways, away from ...

When he let it go, the colt hit the floor with a clatter that he was barely aware of. All he could see was ... He dropped down on one knee next to the big guy's victim. Memories rushed through him, raising old fears and adding new ones. "Sam?" he whispered. His voice was hoarse, not used to uttering words, but he had no doubt he would pick it up fast.

A quick inspection left no doubt. Outside help was needed. These wounds were beyond what he could deal with, those gashes. He searched Sam's pockets, wincing in sympathy at the groans any touch drew from him, found the cellphone and dialed the number he instinctively remembered. "I need an ambulance. Fast," he said gruffly. "An attack. Bad lacerations," he explained. "He's losing a lot of blood," he confirmed, his gaze roaming over the wounds, then up to the face, the half-closed lids, the labored breathing that could suggest a punctured lung. "My name? Yeah, sure you can have my name," he replied to the voice at the other end, then cut the connection. "The cops will come. Can't be around when they do," he muttered to himself, then cupped a hand against Sam's cheek. "Hang in there, Sam. Help's coming," he whispered.

He stayed with Sam until he heard the sirens. Then he got up and vanished into the shadows, to wait and watch. He needed to follow the ambulance, needed to get out of here before the cops turned up to turn this place inside-out.

The paramedics came and they took care of Sam, got him stabilized and then took him out of there. He followed them outside and found the Impala waiting beside the building. He had retrieved the keys without thinking about it, had sorted through Sam's wallet to make sure he only had the right cards on him. And he needed the car, needed a way to follow the ambulance that took off with screaming sirens again, rushing Sam to the help he needed. He hesitated briefly before getting into the car, searched the sky, the surrounding buildings, but nothing told him where he was. A town somewhere, small from what he could see. Then the thought hit him that if he didn't know where he was, how could the paramedics have known where to go? A frown furrowed his brow for a moment. Maybe someone had heard the shot and reported it in? It didn't really matter. The only thing that mattered was Sam.

***