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Part Seventeen

Dr. Philpott, still somewhat dubious, agrees to go with me down to the hospital cafeteria. The place is practically deserted; a few hospital staff occupy the rectangular tables here and there, but we have most of it to ourselves.

The sight of food, hospital or otherwise, reminds me of how ravenous I am. I snag a sandwich and a cup of coffee and head for the cash register.

My dining companion lingers over the selection, then sighs and picks up a sandwich identical to mine. "I'm so tired of the food here," she confesses as she waits behind me in line. "I keep telling myself I need to go home and cook a real meal, but it's so much easier to just eat here." She smiles ruefully. "Hospital food's the same everywhere, you know. I feel like I've spent my whole life eating it."

We end up at a table tucked off into the furthest corner of the room, shielded from view by a rather pathetic attempt at atmosphere: some lattice and a couple of artificial ficus trees. At least here, we'll be able to talk without being overheard very easily.

I unwrap the sandwich and look at it, trying to come up with a coherent opening line. Dr. Philpott doesn't give me that luxury.

"So...Mr. Sandburg, what did you want to tell me? Or ask me?" she asks, paying no attention yet to her own dinner.

"Call me Blair, please," I stall. "When I hear myself referred to as 'Mr. Sandburg', I look around for a student."

"You're a teacher?" She gives me an appraising look.

"A teaching assistant and grad student, over at Rainier. Anthropology." Okay, good. Small talk. I can do this.

Her eyebrows raise. "And your friend's a detective with Cascade P.D.? What do you and he have in common?"

"Well, uh...I guess that's sort of what I wanted to talk with you about." I look at her face now, her eyes. I wish I could listen to people's heartrates, like Jim can. This woman is so reserved, how can I possibly know if I can trust her? Jim should be doing this himself...but for some reason, he thinks I have this amazing ability to read people's intentions. He's counting on me. And, let's face it, Jim's own self-esteem and faith in himself is sort of shot right now.

All right, the hell with it. Full speed ahead, Sandburg...if she doesn't believe me, she'll just think I'm a nutcase. No harm done. And surely, she'll be bound by ethics not to discuss this with anyone, at least right away.

"Jim is...sort of exceptional." I toy with the anemic-looking tomato from my sandwich. "Around the department, they think he's just a very good cop with incredible intuition and luck."

She nods at me expectantly. "But?"

"But he's more than that. He...has extremely sharp vision, hearing...all of his senses, really." The repeated self-conditioning is hard to break; the "never tell anyone about Jim's senses" injunction that I've laid on myself is almost impossible to overcome. It's the first time I can ever remember discussing Jim's senses with someone other than Simon.

She nods again, her face betraying nothing. "I'd noticed that he performed extremely well on my neuro exam, especially on the tests that measure touch perception. I didn't formally measure his visual acuity, though. Should I?"

I'm a little startled by her casual acceptance so far. "Uh, no, that won't be necessary. In fact..."

Now we come to the crux of the problem. Confidentiality, that is. I've got to find a way to get help for Jim, while keeping any mention of his special talents out of the formal medical record.

"In fact, Doctor...I need to tell you more, but I can't without some assurances." God, that sounded stiff. Like a lawyer or something. Or a terrorist with hostages. Yeah, I've got hostages all right: my best friend's career, his heart, his life. My life, really...they're sort of the same thing.

Now it's her turn to fiddle with her sandwich filling. "Blair...I'll tell you what I tell all my patients when they worry about what will happen to information that they tell me. Anything you say is confidential, unless I have reason to believe that you or Mr. Ellison is a threat to someone else's safety...physical or otherwise." She sighs. "As a matter of fact, I'll have to contact the Washington DMV about your friend. He shouldn't drive anymore, at least not until we get this under control." She looks at me again, and now I read a bit of concern through her expression. "Does that help?"

"Some," I admit. "What about the medical record?"

She looks back at me steadily. "You're going to have to trust me on that one, Blair. I have some discretion over how detailed, or how readable," she smiles, "my notes are. If there's an important reason to...gloss over something, yes, I can do that. I have to use my professional judgement, though."

I finally take a bite of that dratted sandwich, to cover my agonized indecision. No guarantees here, but did I really expect that? Eenie, meenie, miney, mo...do I tell her or not? "It's your call," Jim told me. Dammit, why do I gripe about Jim making all of the decisions? Right now, I sort of wish he'd appear at my elbow and give me a little direction here.

I glance back up again...to see kind grey eyes looking at me with more concern now. "Blair..." she says, hesitantly. "Whatever's wrong, it won't get better if you can't talk about it." She continues to hold my gaze for a moment, and in that instant I try to think with my heart, not my head. My heart says...when I force myself to listen to it, it tells me that at some point, I need to trust.

I smile a little, a bit shakily. "I think I can, now. But please, eat your sandwich, because this may take awhile."

So I tell her the entire story, starting with my interest in Sentinels and Jim's experiences in Peru, to our meeting in Cascade. I explain our unusual partnership and working relationship as best I can. I recount some of our "adventures", and give an overview of what Jim is actually capable of.

"Although I'm still learning that, really," I hedge. "It's hard to get Jim to agree to testing sessions. Maybe when this is all over, he'll let me. There's still so much we don't know about the way he works." I finish the last of my coffee. "So, the way I see it, his seizures are somehow tied in with all of this. Every time he's had one, except for the first one when he was poisoned, he's been starting to use his senses, turning up the dial."

She nods slowly. "Yes. Somehow, doing that lowers his seizure threshold." She thinks for a moment. "And he has voluntary control over...these 'dials', as you call them."

"Most of the time, but not always," I admit. "That's my job. If I'm around to help out, then yes, everything stays under control." Usually, I amend to myself.

"All right," she says decisively. "That answers one question, anyway. I won't need to put him on anticonvulsants - - seizure medications - - if he can avoid using his senses." She looks at me again, and I feel like I'm being sized up. "I'll speak to his nurses about bringing in a cot and letting you stay with him. I'd feel better about not using the Tegretol then."

"Good, I'd like that anyway. Usually, I'm pretty hard to get rid of if Jim's hurt or sick." I take a deep breath. "You'll help us, then? And try to keep the Sentinel stuff out of the chart?"

She looks faintly offended. "Of course I'll help you. Mr. Ellison - - Jim - - is my patient, and I'll do my best to find an answer for him. As far as the other...right now, it's not really pertinent from the standpoint of the chart. We'll have to take it one step at a time. I can understand the need to keep his abilities quiet, for his own safety, and for the sake of the police department."

She pushes back her chair and stands up. "Let's go back upstairs. I don't want you away from him for very long yet, until you're sure he understands the new ground rules. He mustn't use his special senses at all until we have some answers. Then I need to go hit the library." She looks at her watch and makes a face. "And sleep, at some point."

"Thank you," I say hesitantly.

She grins wickedly, bringing out laugh-lines around her eyes. "Oh, don't thank me. You're going to be my research assistant, young man."

Part Eighteen

Jim's door is cracked open, and as we approach I can hear voices. One isunmistakably Jim's; as I knock briefly and push the door aside I realize the other voice is Simon's. Uh oh...hopefully I'm not interrupting a major ass-chewing here. On the other hand, in Jim's current state he might appreciate being rescued.

To my relief, though, no one's shouting, and Jim and Simon both look relaxed. Tired and drained, to be sure, but relaxed. Maybe Simon is waiting until later to be a hard-nose about Jim's actions; maybe he's just wise enough to know that Jim's conscience will do a more thorough job of making Jim miserable than Simon could ever do.

I step aside to let Dr. Philpott in. Jim eyes me, the unspoken question plainly written across his face. For a few seconds, I savor the luxury of being the only person in the room who knows the entire story. Let's see: Jim doesn't know if the doctor knows, the doctor doesn't know if Simon knows, Simon doesn't even know we were thinking about telling her...Yup, I'm in control here, at least briefly.

But I hate to torture Jim.

"Dr. Philpott, this is Captain Banks of the Cascade P.D. He, uh, knows all about Jim; you don't have to worry about him. Simon, this is Jim's neurologist."

Simon stands up and shakes the doctor's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Doctor."

I turn to Jim, who now looks as if he'd like to strangle me for keeping him in suspense. "Jim, I told her, and she's going to help us."

Jim falls back against his pillows. "Thank God."

Simon frowns. "Sandburg, what the hell is going on here?" Someday, I'm going to have that phrase made up into a button for Simon to wear...he says it so often, I'd like to save him the trouble.

My partner comes to my rescue. "Simon, we think the seizures have something to do with my Sentinel senses," he says wearily. "I asked Blair to explain it all to Dr. Philpott."

Blair? The big guy must be feeling mellow.

Unexpectedly Simon laughs, a full, rich sound that we just don't hear very often. "Dr. Philpott, welcome to the Sandburg zone. Now you know what Jim and I have to put up with." He stretches in the (for him) undersized chair. "I must say, though, I'm a little surprised. Not that they chose to tell you, but that you found their claims believable. I took quite a bit of convincing, when this Sentinel thing first came up."

Dr. Philpott keeps a straight face. "Actually, I find it very believable. Mr. Ellison displayed a number of rather unusual responses on his neurologic exam. Not abnormal...just better than I usually see my patients perform." She turns to Jim. "You may have been trying to hide it, but you've probably forgotten what the limitations are for the average man's senses."

Jim looks a little nonplussed at this. The doctor continues. "Anyway, I've got some research I need to do now. I'll be back to torture you in the morning. You," she points at Jim, "are to keep these hypersenses of yours dialed down, or locked up, or whatever you call it. And you," she points at me, "are to stay with him. I may have the medical library send up some articles I want you to read, but don't leave him alone for more than a few minutes." She looks at both of us sternly. "If you can both agree to that, I won't order any anticonvulsants."

"Sure, I can do that," I answer brightly. Jim just nods and mutters something inaudible.

"Good," says Dr. Philpott. "I'll have the nurses scare up a cot for you, Blair."

"Doctor," interjects Simon, "you do understand that Jim's...abilities need to be kept secret?"

She nods. "Don't worry about that. I have no intention of letting this get out," she reassures him, as she leaves.

I climb onto on the foot of Jim's bed, as Simon has commandeered the only chair. Jim works the controls to make the bed sit up, and pulls his feet out of the way to make room for me. I sit cross-legged facing him, resting my chin on my hands, listening as Simon seems to pick up where he must have left off before we entered.

"Jim," he says quietly, not in his usual bluster, "I can't promise you anything. You did make some serious errors in judgement that indirectly resulted in the injury of another officer."

"I know, sir," answers Jim hesitantly. "I'm not asking to escape the consequences of my actions. I screwed up, big time. I don't want you to cover for me."

"Hang on a moment, Jim. Since Rafe's injury was a fall, an accident, it's really more of a jobsite safety issue. Internal Affairs isn't going to be interested, unless someone complains to them. I'm not going to cover anything up, but I see no reason to tell IA about this. It's not as if you shot someone, Jim."

Jim sighs. "I may as well have. I'm not looking forward to...talking to Rafe about this." He looks up at Simon, and I can see lines of pain etched onto his face. "I want to tell him, though. I want him to know the truth, that it was my fault."

"Yes...you should tell him. It would be worse, I think, for him to somehow find out later. But not yet," suggests Simon. "Wait until the morning, when you'll both be a lot more coherent."

There's a knock on the door, and a red-headed volunteer wheels in an odd-looking sort of recliner. It turns out to be a chair that folds out into a surprisingly comfortable little bed. She shows me how to work the mechanism, and hands me a pile of bedding. "We borrowed it from the Mother-Baby unit." she says shyly. "It's what the new dads sleep on while they're here."

"Thanks," I look quickly at her nametag, "Marissa. I'm sure I'll sleep verywell on it." She's all of about fifteen, kind of cute, and blushes slightly as she leaves.

Simon stands up. "I'll let you both get some rest now. That's an order, by the way, not a suggestion. And Sandburg..."

"Yes, Simon?"

He talks to me, but keeps glancing at Jim. "You and your doctor friend...find a cure for this. And bring this man back to me when he's well. In body, and mind, and spirit." He turns back to Jim. "Officially, you're on medical leave. For as long as you need," he adds gruffly.

"And stay away from the candy stripers, Sandburg," he adds, slipping through the door.

Part Nineteen

After Simon leaves us, I make up my makeshift bed and stretch out in it. With the chair-bed opened up, there's hardly room to walk around in the tiny hospital room, but at least we're both comfortable.

Jim thumbs distractedly through a Sports Illustrated that one of the aides brought him, but he doesn't really look like he's reading it. When I count five yawns from him in as many minutes, I sit up and gently pry the magazine from his stubborn fingers.

"You need to get some sleep, man. You heard Simon." I close the magazine and lay it on the floor. "And you heard Dr. Philpott. She's coming back in the morning to do more test on you, so you need to rest.

"I always have trouble sleeping in the hospital," Jim grumbles, settling down against the pillows and punching them a few times. "The pillows are lumpy, the mattresses always creak, and there's usually a nurse coming in to take my vital signs every few minutes."

"Complaints, complaints, that's all I get," I respond lightly. I get up to turn out the overhead light, leaving on the soft light over the head of Jim's bed.

"Jim, who are you kidding? You're so tired, you're barely coherent," I snort. "Besides, if you've got your senses dialed all the way down, you shouldn't notice any of that stuff." I pause for a moment, after I climb back into my little bed. "You do have the dials all the way down, don't you?"

Jim sighs, sounding exasperated. "Yes, Sandburg, I do. Quit nagging me. Do you want to watch me brush my teeth, too, Mom?"

I grin goofily at him, refusing to be baited into an argument tonight. "Forget it, man. I've seen you brush your teeth. It's truly scary. Do you know you go up and down each tooth exactly twenty times? Now, that is the most anal-retentive -- oof!" Jim's pillow smacks me hard in the belly, momentarily knocking the wind out of me. But I'm up in a second, my own dense hospital pillow in my hands, climbing up onto Jim's bed. I wind up for the killing blow...

.only to find the pillow snatched away, and both of my skinny wrists trapped easily in Jim's iron grasp. I try to break free, but I'm laughing too much to struggle effectively. Jim switches his grip, pinning my arms at my side. His fingers wiggle against my ribs, threatening to tickle...and succeeding rather well.

"Anal-retentive, Sandburg? Got anything else that you want to call me, now that you can't run away?"

"Yeah," I gasp out between helpless spasms of laughter. God, it feels so good so hear Jim have a bit of fun again, even if it is mostly at my expense. "How about over-muscled? Or thick-necked? Hair-trigger temper? Paranoid?"

Jim releases me and laughs softly. "Get out of here, Chief. Go lay down so I can get some sleep." He hands me my pillow, still chuckling. "And take your projectile with you where it belongs."

I sit on his bed a moment longer, with the pillow on my lap...savoring the brief lapse into silliness, I guess. And, I confess, briefly debating the merits of bopping Jim on the head with my pillow while making a fast retreat. Hmm, no, probably not such a good idea. I don't want to get myself kicked out for breaking some obscure hospital rule involving late-night pillowfights between consenting adults.

"Hey, Jim," I call to him softly. "I'm sorry. I mean, breathing down your neck like this, keeping an eye on you twenty-four hours a day. It was your doctor's idea."

Jim becomes more serious in turn, appparently sensing my mood. "It's okay, Chief. I'm glad you're here." He reaches out a hand and squeezes my shoulder. "It looks like I've got a choice between having you as a babysitter and getting pumped full of drugs I'd rather avoid, with side effects that could be unpredictable in me." He smiles slightly at me again. "Given the choice, Chief, I'll take you."

* * * * * *

Sleep proves elusive for me, although Jim drops off soon after I crawl back into my fold-out bed. He really is exhausted, and I hope he'll get some decent rest. I lay on my back, thinking about everything that happened, and worrying about tomorrow.

It's time for the inevitable "what-ifs" and "if-onlys". Say what you will about the futility of second-guessing...but we're all vulnerable to that kind of thinking. Especially after a bad day. Especially late at night.

Especially when...people we care about have been hurt, or are hurting, because of something we've done. Or, in my case, not done. Sins of commission, sins of ommission.

So, even though my higher cortical centers tell me gently that it's a waste of time, I wonder what I could have done to give today a happier outcome. I ponder my actions of the past few days, worrying at my decisions over and over like a dog with a bone.

What if I'd gone right away to talk to Simon, instead of taking a nap? Then he would never have sent us to that arrest, and Rafe wouldn't be somewhere else in this same hospital, with metal pins in his arm.

If only I'd put my foot down that first time I came home and found Jim having a seizure. We could have gotten everything out in the open, right then, and it would have stayed a relatively minor matter.

What if I'd stuck closer to Jim during the first hospitalization? Then I would have known something still wasn't right, even before he came home.

If only...if I'd gone into the warehouse with him in the first place, maybe I could have done something.

I sigh, and roll over on my stomach. Again, the logical part of my brain prods me, telling me that in all probability nothing would have made a big difference. No matter what action I chose, in the end I think Jim would have gone on until his weakness caught up with him in some spectacular and horrible way. Maybe, just maybe, we're all getting off easy.

But as I finally slide into a troubled sleep...the wilder, more instinctive part of my mind whispers that I will always share some of the guilt, some of the pain.

Maybe we will both learn from this.

Part Twenty

I'm awakened briefly several times during the night by nursing staff who come in for a few minutes, flick on a light, and talk softly to Jim. Once, someone lays a thick stack of papers on the floor near my head. I stare blearily at the papers after they leave, recognizing the top sheet as the beginning of an article from a medical journal. Ah, must be my light reading assignment from Dr. Philpott. I contemplate sitting up and starting in on the articles, for all of about two-tenths of a second, but then fatigue claims me again.

When I awaken next, it's light out and Jim's sitting up in bed working his way through a breakfast tray. I can smell eggs, hot toast, and coffee.

Coffee, now there's a lovely thought. A blissful thought, in fact. I sit up, yawning and blinking, and reach for my shoes and jeans. "Hey, Jim," I start off, in what I hope is a reasonably cheerful tone. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than you look, Chief," he answers equably. "I was beginning to wonder if the nurses slipped you a sleeping pill or something. I've been awake for an hour, at least, listening to you snore."

"I do not snore, Jim," I respond automatically to Jim's recurring accusation as I finish getting dressed. "That must have been my empty stomach rumbling."

I walk over to Jim's bedside and cast a speculative eye on his breakfast, or what's left of it. Drat; the human garbage disposal has already eaten most of it. Although that blueberry muffin only has one bite out of it...

Jim slaps away my hand away just as I've almost captured the muffin. "Go get your own breakfast, Sandburg. I'm a sick man. I need to keep up my strength."

Oh well, can't fault a guy for trying.

* * * * * *

I troop downstairs to the hospital cafeteria, where I'm cheered by the sight of fairly decent looking and rather cheap food. Securing an enormous coffee and a blueberry muffin that looks even better than the one on Jim's tray, I pay for my purchases and escape back upstairs.

When I get back to the room, Jim's in the shower. Knowing that he's got his senses dialed down and won't be able to hear me over the shower noise, I use the momentary privacy to make some phone calls. I need to arrange for someone to cover my afternoon lecture today, unless I want to drag Jim along to class with me. Jim's feeling guilty enough about this whole affair; hopefully I can keep him from knowing that I've been having to make sacrifices.

I finally reach Leila, who covered for me during Jim's initial hospitalization.

"Blair, it's Friday. I wanted to go skiing," she whines.

"You went skiing last weekend," I point out. "Besides, it's a one o'clock class, and they're just supposed to watch a video anyway, with a little discussion afterwards. That still gives you plenty of time to get out of town." My voice takes on a pleading tone. "Please, Leila. It's very important. Just name your price."

"Cover my nine o'clock lecture on Monday, and I'll do it," comes the response.

"I can't, Leila. I can't promise I'll be free by then. Try something else."

I can almost hear the wheels turning in her head as she thinks of a suitable punishment...uh, price for me. "Okay, Blair. Dinner at Cavanaugh's, with all the trimmings. And wine. And dessert. Especially dessert."

I think quickly. I can't afford this, but maybe Jim will help me out here. Although I might have to tell him the truth in the process.

"All right, you've got a deal, bloodsucker. Dinner at Cavanaugh's it is," I answer, with some desperation. "We'll have to decide on the date later."

"Deal!" she crows triumphantly. "And wear that adorable blue shirt that matches your eyes," she adds before she hangs up.

I look at the phone quizzically for a moment. I have an adorable blue shirt? Leila even knows what color my eyes are?

Huh. Maybe I didn't just strike such a bad deal after all. I mull the conversation over as I tear into the muffin.

A light, familiar voice interrupts my thoughts, and my eating. "Good morning, Blair."

Dr. Philpott stands in the doorway. "Where's your troublesome partner? You didn't let him get away from you already, did you?"

I choke slightly on half-chewed muffin, and have to cough a few times before I can speak. "No, he's just in the shower," I reassure her. "Should be out in a moment."

She nods, and picks up the nurses' notes hanging outside the door. As she studies them, Jim emerges from the shower, clad only in a towel. "Chief, have you seen a bathrobe anywhere? I thought they brought me one last - -" He catches sight of the open door and the profile of Dr. Philpott, still looking at the chart, and flees back into the bathroom.

Laughing silently to myself, I pick up the blue-and-white striped hospital bathrobe and hand it to Jim through the partially opened bathroom door. "Is this what you're looking for, Jim? This thing lying in plain sight across the bed?"

"Just give it to me, Sandburg!" he growls, snatching it out of my hand.

Dr. Philpott clears her throat as she sets the chart back down, ignoring our exchange. "It looks like you had a quiet night, Mr. Ellison. How are you feeling this morning?" she asks casually, closing the door to the hallway.

Jim comes back out of the bathroom, tying the belt of the robe with a little more vigor than seems absolutely necessary. "Actually, other than being unable to do anything with my senses, I feel basically normal," he admits, sitting down on his bed. "Are you going to let me go home, then?"

"I think so. We've got our work cut out for us, though." She sits down in the lone chair, and I follow suit, sitting on my fold-out bed. Jim raises his eyebrows at the doctor.

"What did you find out?" he asks. I can hear the touch of nervousness in his voice.

She sighs. "I ran across a few references to individuals with unusually acute senses, but nothing very helpful. Certainly no accounts of seizure activity in any of them." She motions to the stack of papers by my bed. "I made copies of the reports for you, Blair. They're mostly anecdotal, but I thought you might have some use for the information for your dissertation."

I'm taken aback by this unexpected favor. "Thank you, Doctor," I say sincerely. "I appreciate it, believe me. " And I do...not so much the information, but the recognition of my academic pursuits.

"So what I'm left with," she continues, "is trying to understand why the toxin affected you the way it did. Since we don't even know how or why your senses work the way they do, that's rather a tall order.

"The toxin doesn't cause any permanent damage per se, at least in normal people; it causes seizures by its very presence in the blood and CSF. That's the fluid surrounding the brain. What I'm wondering...maybe your nervous system just isn't clearing out this garbage like it should. I'm hypothesizing that when you 'dial up' your senses, you're doing something that increases the excitability of your nervous system, and chases this leftover toxin out of wherever it's hiding."

"Therefore giving him a seizure when he tries to use his senses," I say slowly. I'm really just thinking out loud, making sure I can follow the conversation.

"Right." She turns her attention to Jim. "Mr. Ellison," she begins.

"Please, call me Jim." He smiles at her. "You're making me feel old, Doctor."

"Jim, then. I want to get simultaneous blood and CSF samples on you, just before and right after a seizure." She takes a deep breath. "We need to try and trigger one of these seizures, on purpose."

Part Twenty-one

Jim frowns. "Trigger a seizure on purpose? I suppose...we can do that, if you think that's what we need to do. If you really think it's necessary."

"I think so," she replies, her face now grave and serious. "I'll be able to have the lab do assays not only for the original toxin, but for the neurotransmitters - - or brain chemicals - - that are released as a result of the toxin. Then, maybe we'll be able to come up with a solution for this."

She points to the I.V. on the back of Jim's hand, which isn't currently hooked up to anything. "The blood is no problem. We can draw it through your I.V., right before we trigger the seizure, and right after it stops. The CSF will be a little more involved. I'll have to do a lumbar puncture, a spinal tap."

I shudder in sympathy. "Ow."

She smiles at me briefly. "It's not really that bad, Blair."

"Yeah, sure," I mumble, unconvinced. Dr. Philpott turns back to Jim.

"I'll numb you up first with some local, Jim. The tricky part will be keeping the needle in while you're having the seizure," she adds matter-of-factly.

Is it my imagination, or has Jim just turned a shade paler? "Doctor," I speak up with some hesitation, "is this safe?"

She sighs. "Blair, I wouldn't suggest this if I didn't think the risks outweighed the benefits. I can't make you any promises, but I'll do everything I can to make it as safe as possible."

Dr. Philpott stands up. "I'd like to do this now, and get it over with. We'll go down the hall to the treatment room; it's better set up for this sort of thing." She looks at me closely.

"Blair, normally I would do this sort of procedure with just the patient alone, or a nurse for support if the patient was significantly ill or uncooperative. I'd like you there, though, if you think you can handle it. I think your presence would be very helpful."

Okay, I have to admit that watching Jim get poked in the back with a big needle is about top on my list of things I'd rather not do. Not to mention watching him thrash around again, out of his head with another seizure, with only myself and a petite neurologist to help him.

But I think this falls in the category of Things That Friends Do For One Another. Or to put it another way: if our positions were reversed, Jim would have no hesitation about being by my side during any uncomfortable procedure that had to be done. Of course, he's had Army medic training, so he's not squeamish about this kind of thing, and he's certainly big enough to hold me down and sit on me if necessary.

He would do it, though, without question. That's what really matters.

All this passes through my mind quickly. I square my shoulders and look across the room at Dr. Philpott.

"Of course." I take a quick, deep breath. "Just tell me what I need to do."

* * * * * *

We assemble in the treatment room, a tiny space at the end of the hall. Jim climbs onto the hard naugahyde-covered exam table, and Dr. Philpott directs him to lie down on his right side. I sit on a rolling stool by Jim's head, carefully positioning myself so as to be out of the doctor's way. Hopefully, I also won't see a whole lot from here, either.

"Okay, we'll take the blood first," she says. She hooks up a syringe to the I.V. in the back of Jim's hand, and swiftly collects two tubes of blood. She pops them into a waiting bowl of ice chips. Noticing my puzzled gaze, she explains.

"The neurotransmitters tend to be unstable. We'll get better results if we keep everything on ice until I can get it to the lab." She stands up. "All right. Just let me get set up and get my gloves on, and we'll do the lumbar puncture."

She fusses with some equipment for a few minutes, then comes back over to paint Jim's lower back with a brown antiseptic. Jim wrinkles his nose at the smell.

"Keep it all dialed down, Jim, remember," I whisper. "I'll tell you when it's time to dial something up."

He just grunts slightly. I glance back at the doctor, who's draping pieces of what looks like blue paper towels over Jim's back. "Okay, Jim. We're ready. Now, I need you to curl up into a little ball. Bring your knees up as far as you can." She sits down on another rolling stool, placing her at eye level with Jim's spine.

I have to snicker slightly at that. "Curl up into a little ball?" I murmur to Jim. "Who's she kidding? You barely fit on the table, man." Jim smiles at that, as I'd hoped he would.

"Okay, a little sting while I numb you up," she calls to us.

I turn my attention back to Jim, and rest my hand on his head as I resolutely try not to pay any more attention to what the doctor is doing. I can hear her clinking around with something on the tray, and then a few minutes later she speaks to Jim again.

"Hold still, Jim. You're going to feel some pressure, but hold as still as you can."

Jim grimaces, but holds still. I reach for one of his hands, and squeeze it against the pain I know he must be feeling. Pressure, my ass! Why don't doctors ever just come out and say, "This is gonna hurt"?

"Ah, we're in," she says happily. "Hang on a second, while I collect some fluid." Silence for a few moments, then Dr. Philpott stands up and removes the blue drapes. "Okay, the stylet is back in the needle, so you won't leak spinal fluid everywhere. Jim, I want you to slowly straighten out your legs, then roll over onto your stomach."

Carefully, Jim does so, now resting his head on his folded arms. "That's better," he says with relief. "My back was getting stiff." I glance at his back reflexively, but look away again quickly. Okay, the needle isn't that big, but I'd still rather not think about it.

The doctor walks over to stand at Jim's feet. "All right, now for the tricky part," she says lightly. "Now we need to try to trigger a seizure event. Blair, our job is to make sure that Jim stays on the table. If things get out of control, I'll need to pull that needle out and we'll just have to put a new one back in afterward."

Jim closes his eyes, and I lean even closer, our heads almost touching, to whisper to him. "Okay, Jim, let's start with hearing, that seems to have done the trick a couple of times now. See the dial in front of you. Crank it up, quickly. Focus on, uh," I rack my brains briefly, "focus on the people working in the cafeteria, down in the basement. Maybe you can find out what you'll be having for lunch," I joke.

He opens his eyes. "This is tough, Chief," he murmurs. "It's like trying to pee in a cup for a drug test, with someone watching."

"Yeah, well, maybe that comes next, buddy. Come on, concentrate. Find out what they're really putting in that green Jell-o salad. I've always wanted to know." I grip Jim's arms, just above the elbow, waiting for the moment his muscles will start that nightmarish jerking again. "Take a deep breath. Now, turn up your sense of smell, too, send it along with your hearing. Look for that Jell-o, man."

"Cheap fruit cocktail, Chief," he answers, eyes closed. "And..."

"And what?"

"Coconut?" His brow wrinkles in concentration. "No, I think..." He trails off.

Then every muscle in his body spasms at once.

Part Twenty-two

I must not have had the best grip on Jim's arms after all, because they go flying out of my grasp. In the process, one of his clenched fists smacks me on my right cheekbone, hard. I fall backwards and land on my butt on the hard floor.

Tiny Dr. Philpott clings to Jim's ankles. "Keep him on the table! We can't let him fall!"

I scramble to my feet and grasp him by the shoulders, holding on tight as he shudders. Jeez, he's strong. His back muscles arch in another spasm, causing his head to come up and clock me on the chin so hard it feels like my teeth are going to fall out. I must be the first guy ever to be beaten black and blue by someone who is essentially unconscious.

After the first few violent jerks, he settles down into a pattern of alternate stiffening and twitching. This isn't particularly reassuring either, but at least he's easier to keep on the table. And he's no longer swinging at me.

Dr. Philpott abandons her post at Jim's feet, and comes up to look at his face. She frowns. "I don't like his color." She graps a clear plastic mask, plugs the attached plastic tubing into a small hole in the wall labeled "Oxygen". The mask hisses, and she clamps it over Jim's face.

I stand by, feeling as helpless as I've ever felt. I don't like Jim's color either; he looks ghastly and grayish. The seizure seems to be subsiding, however, and after a few minutes of the oxygen he starts to look more like a human being and less like some pickled specimen from a jar in the Biology department.

"Whew," says Dr. Philpott. "I wouldn't want to do that every day. Okay, I think we're done with the seizure now. Help me roll him back on his side, so I can collect that second sample."

Easier said than done, as Jim has become absolutely limp. After a certain amount of grunting and wrestling, we get him propped back up on his right side, his arms flopping like a dead salmon as we roll him. I try to position his head and neck in a way that looks comfortable.

"Does he still need this oxygen mask?" I call out to her as she snaps on fresh gloves.

"Probably not, but it's not hurting anything. Just hang on a second...okay, there, I've got enough. Needle's out." I see her unwrapping a Band-Aid, which she sticks on Jim's back. "Done."

She comes around and gently removes the mask from his face. "He'll be fine. Most people are pretty out of it after a seizure." She lifts his eyelids, and shines a penlight at his eyes. Apparently satisfied with the response, she lets his eyes close again.

"I'm going to run these samples out to the nursing station, and find a wheelchair. You stay here with him." Huh, as if I would do anything else. She snatches up the plastic tub of ice and little vials, and slips out into the hallway.

I snag the rolling stool I was sitting on earlier, and sit back down by Jim's head. "Hey, Jim, wake up. Can you hear me?" I slap his cheek lightly, and he groans.

"Chief?" comes the hoarse reply.

"Yeah, it's me. We're all done. The doctor went to get a wheelchair. Can you wake up a little? You're pretty hard to lug around when you're unconscious." I try to keep my tone light, to not betray the pain I feel at having had to watch Jim go through this again.

"Uhhh..." is the only answer.

"Come on, Jim. Stay with me." The door opens to admit Dr. Philpott, a wheelchair, and thankfully, a large male nurse that I don't recognize.

Between the three of us, with occasional attempts at helping from Jim, we get him into the wheelchair. Dr. Philpott waves away the nurse. "We can manage it from here, Andy."

We can? I shoot her a concerned look as we push Jim down the hall, his head lolling slightly. "He thinks I sedated Jim for the procedure," she whispers conspiratorially. "I don't want him talking to Jim's regular nurse and comparing notes. This is all a little irregular."

Once in Jim's room, I shut the door behind us and then kneel in front of Jim. "Hey, Jim, come on now. Wake up. You've got to help us."

His eyelid slowly lift, and he looks at me foggily with eyes that don't track. "Help you?" he echoes.

"We need to get you into bed. Come on." I lock the wheelchair brakes so it won't move, and sling Jim's left arm over my shoulders. Dr. Philpott takes his other arm. "On three...one, two, three!"

Somehow, Jim gets his legs under him, and we drag him stumbling into bed. I get him tucked in and comfortable, then collapse into the chair.

"Thank you for your help, Blair," says Dr. Philpott quietly. "I couldn't have done this without you." She looks at her watch. "I'll call over here this afternoon from the office. If Jim is doing okay, he'll be able to go home. But I want to see him tomorrow in my office for a follow-up."

"Tomorrow's Saturday," I remind her.

She shrugs. "I'll be there. The nurses will set it up for you, and hopefully I'll have some information back on the blood and spinal fluid. Oh, and he's going to go home with that I.V. still in him. I may want to take blood out of it tomorrow." She turns to go, then stops with one hand on the doorknob. "Blair?"

"Yes?"

"He's lucky to have a friend like you," she says softly, then leaves.

* * * * * *

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Jim wakes up after about only forty-five minutes this time, but remains quiet and seems withdrawn. I leave him alone, for the most part, content to curl up and read through the articles that the doctor brought me. Jim watches television, channel-flipping distractedly.

At one point, I catch sight of my face in the mirror in Jim's tiny bathroom. The bruises on my cheekbone and chin are starting to color up nicely, a lovely shade of purple. I free my hair from its ponytail, trying to hide the marks, and keep my face buried more deeply in the article I'm reading.

They discharge Jim in the afternoon, with strict orders to show up in Dr. Philpott's office at nine a.m. tomorrow. Simon comes to pick us up.

"Where's my truck, anyway?" asks Jim as he climbs into the front passenger seat of Simon's car. I slide into the back, behind Jim.

Simon smiles ruefully. "Still parked across the street from the trailer. It's fine, though. I checked on it this morning. If you'll give me the keys, we'll get someone to drive it home for you."

Jim wordlessly disconnects his truck keys from the ring and hands them to Simon. "Sure," he says listlessly, "that would be great. I guess I won't be driving for a while, though."

Simon doesn't seem to know what to say to that, and turns his attention back to driving. I lean up against the headrest behind Jim, aching inside at the waves of depression that seems to be coming off of him. Last night's spontaneous pillow fight and tickling session seems to have happened in another lifetime, to some other pair of friends.

I hope we have some answers soon. I can't take much more of this.

Part Twenty-three

Simon drops us both off at the loft, but doesn't come in. As I'm climbing out of the backseat, he grabs my arm.

"Sandburg," he says quietly, "keep an eye on him. And call me if you need anything."

I nod in response, and he releases my arm.

As Simon pulls away, I hurry to catch up to Jim. "Hey, wait for me. Remember, you're not supposed to go anywhere without your Guide dog," I joke, trying to get a smile out of him. "Doctor's orders, Jim."

Jim flashes me an unreadable look, and keeps climbing stairs. "And just how long is this going to go on?" he asks, with surprising venom. We reach the top, and he pulls the door open.

I'm a little taken aback by his words. "As long as it needs to, I guess. Until we find a fix for that head of yours, and the doctor says you can use your senses again."

He snorts. "Maybe we should just find a way to turn them off forever. Then I won't have to worry, will I?"

"Jim, no!" comes my automatic answer. "You promised me. You said you wouldn't give up."

His eyes grow hooded, distant. "Chief, I was a cop even before my senses came on-line. I can be a cop without them, if I need to."

He tosses his house keys in the basket, then walks abruptly to the living area and sits down. He doesn't look at me, just stares off moodily into space. I watch him for few seconds, considering trying to talk to him, then shrug and walk into my room to gather up some clean clothes. Time for a shower, since I'm feeling decidedly gross. And if Jim's in too much of a snit to listen to me, I'll only make things worse by bugging him about it.

As I stand under the deliciously hot water, I have to admit to myself that he's got good reason to be worried. What if the neurologist can't offer us any hope of a cure? What if Jim has to take medication for the rest of his life? What if he has to take a desk job, give up the detective work he loves so much? What he's saying to me, what I'm seeing in his behavior toward me and the rest of the world...it's not just fatigue and irritation, it's fear.

I lean against the wall of the shower, resting my hot face against the still-cool tile. What if Jim's life as a Sentinel has come to an end? What if...he doesn't need my help anymore? Not as a Guide, and not even as his ever-present but informal partner in the department? Where does that leave me? I squeeze my eyes shut as tears begin to leak from them, mingling with the water on my face.

Jim's not the only one here who's afraid.

* * * * * *

That evening, after several fruitless attempts at getting Jim to participate in the "what-should-we-have-for-dinner" discussion, I give up and order a pizza. I can't seem to drum up much enthusiasm myself about eating, but I want to have some hot tasty food here in case I change my mind. And I'm determined to make Jim eat something.

When the pizza arrives, the aroma perks me up a little bit and I find I'm hungry after all. I swear, the smell of hot pizza must be buried somewhere in the ancestral memory of the American male. For me, it's a delicious olfactory experience that I associate with parties, company, and friendship. It brings forth memories of informal meals consumed in the living room, accompanied by a cold microbrewed beer. It makes me think of late-night conversations in dorm rooms, long ago when I was an undergraduate and the world seemed a straightforward place.

And, come to think of it, pizza makes me think of Jim. Yes, Jim, that unmoving granite statue sitting there that bears a close resemblance to my best friend. Gradually, the tiniest whisper of an inspiration begins to take shape in my mind.

Instead of setting the pizza box on the dining room table, I carry it over to the living room and plop it down on the coffee table, directly in front of Jim. He's still sitting in roughly the same spot as when we came home, half-heartedly watching the news. He doesn't bat an eye when the cardboard box lands in front of him. I return to the kitchen and grab a couple of bottles of a particularly tasty locally-brewed stout, and bring those over as well.

Then I sit down next to Jim, my stocking-clad feet propped up on the coffee table in a blatant disregard of The House Rules.

"So, Jim, are you going to mope all evening, or are you going to eat?" I pull off a piece of pizza for myself, watching as the cheese stretches and snaps. "Boy, this smells good. Real mozzarella, fresh tomatoes, yum."

I twist the cap off my bottle of stout, using my shirt to protect my hand against the scraping of the twist-off top. "Look at the color on this stuff, Jim. You can't even see through it when you hold it up to the light." I take a long swallow. "Umm. Rich, dark, a little chocolately, and pleasantly bitter with just the right amount of hops. A true Northwest masterpiece."

I shut up for a few moments while I eat my piece of pizza, casting occasional sidelong glances at Jim. He eventually reaches for some pizza and the other beer, chewing and swallowing mechanically. He continues to stare at the television as the news comes to an end.

Huh...all right, time for part two. I get up and casually slink back to my room, returning with a randomly picked Sheryl Crow CD and a soft lambswool throw that Naomi sent to me from New Zealand. I toss the blanket on the couch where I've been sitting, and grab the remote from the table next to Jim.

"Okay, I think that's enough television for a while." I walk to the stereo and slip the CD in, half-expecting to hear a growl of protest from Jim at my unusual high-handedness. "I think we need something nice to listen to." I press "play" and return to the couch, snuggling down under my cream-colored throw.

I reach down and stroke the wool appreciately as the opening notes of the wistfully sad music fill the room. "Wow, this is beautiful stuff, Jim. This throw must have cost Naomi a fortune. You can't get wool like this anyplace but New Zealand. So soft..." I hold it to my face. "Mmmm. Like a kitten." I hold a corner to Jim. "Here, feel it."

Jim sighs and pushes away the blanket. "Sandburg, does this monologue of yours have a point? I feel like I've wandered into the Home Shopping Network, dammit!"

It moves! It speaks! It's looking at me like I've gone completely insane!

Well, maybe I have.

Now I jump to my feet, the blanket forgotten. "Jim...I'm just trying to show you something."

"Show me what? That you're becoming a beer snob?" he sneers.

I know Jim isn't trying to be funny. In fact, I think he's trying to be as unpleasant as possible. But his response still makes me smile.

"No, Jim. I'm too poor to be a beer snob." I stand in front of him, mentally beseeching him to look at me. "No. I just wanted you to realize how much even my ordinary senses mean to me, and how lost I would be without them.

"With your Sentinel senses, you see....and hear, and smell, and taste, and touch the world in ways I'll never be able to. Even when you try to explain what it feels like, I can't understand fully. It's like trying to explain a rainbow to a blind man."

I realize I've started to pace. I halt myself, and sit back down next to Jim. He's looking at me dubiously.

I keep going before he can interrupt, turning to face him. "You talk about giving up your senses somehow, so you don't have to worry about the seizures coming back. Jim, that's like...cutting off a body part so you won't get cancer in it, or something." I reach up and give his shoulder a little shake. "These senses...they're a trust, in a way. Not entirely your own, to do with as you want."

Jim sags forward, his head in his hands. "Chief...why won't you just leave me alone? I'm in a rotten mood, and I don't want to hurt you any more," he whispers raggedly. "I know you're trying to cheer me up, but...I don't think there's much you can do," he finishes.

"Try me," I whisper, Sentinel-soft.

He doesn't lift his head, and I have to lean closer to hear him when he speaks again. "This morning...when you were trying to get me to trigger the seizure...and at first I couldn't do it. I thought maybe that meant they'd gone away, by themselves. Then waking up later, and realizing..." he trails off. Then he raises his head, and I see that his face is tear-streaked. "I was so out of it today, I forgot all about going to talk to Rafe, to see how he was doing. I'm a selfish bastard, Chief."

I can't help but smile slightly. "Technically, I'm the bastard here, Jim."

He tries to smile back, but can't quite do it. "Technically," he whispers, but his attempt at a chuckle comes out more like a sob. "Oh, Chief. You should just go away and let me be miserable."

"Is that what you want me to do?" I ask softly.

"Yes...no...I don't know."

I lean forward and pull Jim close to me. "If you're that undecided, I get the tiebreaking vote," I breathe into his ear. "I won't lecture you any more. Just...just sit here, and let me worry for a while."

He leans against me, burying his face in my neck. He's absolutely silent, but I can feel the occasional hot tear making its way down my back. I wrap my arms more tightly around him, and stare sightlessly over his shoulder as I half-listen to the words of the Sheryl Crow song that's playing:

"God, I feel like hell tonight

Tears of rage I cannot fight

I'd be the last to help you understand

Are you strong enough to be my man?"

Okay, so it was written for a totally different kind of relationship than the friendship I have with Jim. But the situations, the emotions are almost the same. I close my eyes against Jim's shoulder and listen to the rest of the song.

"Nothing's true and nothing's right So let me be alone tonight

You can't change the way I am Are you strong enough to be my man?

Lie to me, I promise I'll believe

Lie to me, but please don't leave"

"I won't leave," I mouth soundlessly, knowing that Jim can't hear me with his senses dialed all the way down. "I won't."

"I have a face I cannot show

I make the rules up as I go

It's try and love me if you can

Are you man enough to be my man?

When I've shown you that I just don't care

When I'm throwing punches in the air

When I've broken down and cannot stand

Will you be strong enough to be my man?"

I'm strong enough, I vow to myself. No matter what, Jim, no matter what kind of crap you throw at me, I'm strong enough to be your friend.

We sit there for a long time, until I feel his knotted muscles loosen up, until I feel the uneven respirations grow steady and slow. We sit there for the rest of the CD, in fact.

Then I shake him gently. "Come on. Let's get you to bed."

Part Twenty-Four

The next morning, I drive Jim to his neurology appointment. It is perhaps a measure of his persisting inner sense of disturbance that he doesn't argue with me as I direct him toward my car and slide into the driver's seat.

A few blocks from the loft, I catch him casting sidelong glances at me. What's he looking at? Unconsciously, I raise my right hand to my face...maybe there's toothpaste on my chin or something. Everything clicks into place when my fingers encounter the still-tender bruises on my chin and right cheekbone.

Damn. I've been careful, most of the time, to keep Jim from getting a good look at my face. I've been leaving my hair down, and last night's beard shadow helped. But this morning I shaved and pulled my hair back, forgetting the injuries, my mind busy with other worries. And Jim's position in the passenger seat gives him just the right angle to see the marks.

As we wait at a stoplight, he reaches out his left hand and briefly touches the injuries. "Where did these come from, Chief?" He frowns. "They're only about twenty-four hours old, from the feel of them."

I say the first response that pops into my head, which isn't necessarily the best one. "It's not important, Jim. Don't worry about it."

"Cut the crap, Sandburg. What happened?"

He suddenly sounds so much like his usual self, so much more in control, that I decide to tell him. Besides, if I don't, he'll just keep digging away until he gets an answer.

"You, ah, accidentally walloped me a couple of times yesterday, Jim. While you were having your seizure."

He recoils in shock, pain rising afresh in the too-vulnerable blue eyes. "I did that? God, Chief, I'm sorry."

"Hey, man, it wasn't your fault." The light changes, so I have to content myself with occasional glances at Jim as I drive. "You were out of it. You're not responsible. And it really doesn't hurt, Jim."

He's silent for a few minutes, then begins to speak in a low tone while looking out his window. "You know, Chief, when I was a little kid I knew a boy who had epilepsy. He had it really badly, used to fall down several times a day with seizures. His parents finally had to put a football helmet on him, to keep him from getting hurt when he hit his head."

"Jim, that's not gonna happen to you. We'll find - -"

He turns back, and once again touches the darkening bruise on my chin with that questing Sentinel's touch. "No, Chief. What I meant to say was...if we don't find a good treatment soon," he smiles sadly, "I'm going to buy a helmet for you. To protect your head, from me."

* * * * * *

When the elderly nurse calls "Mr. Ellison!", Jim flashes this apprehensive, almost-frightened look at me. It says, as clearly as if it were written on his face, that he wants me to come back with him...to share in the news, be it good or bad. So I rise to my feet and unobtrusively follow him back.

Dr. Philpott greets us cordially, and seems relieved to see me. "Oh good, you're here, Blair. I hope this means that Jim is taking the no-driving prohibition to heart?" She grins at me, and gestures at Jim. "Has he been behaving himself at home?"

"He never does, so I'd be worried if he did," I quip in return, relaxing slightly.

She examines Jim briefly, tapping on his knees and shining a light in each of his eyes. Then she sits down and pulls out Jim's chart, leafing through it until she finds the page for which she's apparently been looking.

"I've got some of the results back from yesterday," she explains. "Jim, let me see that I.V. in your hand for a moment. Is it still working?"

"It's fine," he asserts, but removes the dressing to uncover the I.V. site.

Dr. Philpott takes a syringe out of a drawer of the exam table. "I want another sample, just blood this time, then we can take it out. I want to confirm something." She draws blood from the I.V. then pulls out the tiny plastic catheter in one smooth motion. I look away too late, cringing at the sight.

"Doctor, can you tell me some of the results?" asks Jim, as the neurologist transfers the blood sample to a glass tube.

"Just a second, Jim. I want to get this straight to the lab, so they can run it stat." She slips out the door, leaving Jim frustrated and fuming.

"Dammit, Chief," he growls. "She knows something, and I want to hear it."

"Jim, take it easy," I soothe. "Be reasonable. She probably wants to wait until she's sure."

He sighs and rubs a clenched fist across his forehead. "I suppose so. I just want to know what to do about this," he says in a low voice. "Makes me impatient, Chief."

I have to laugh at that. "Oh, waiting for answers makes you impatient? Gee, I hadn't noticed." I make sure he sees my face so that my grin will take the sting out of the teasing words.

Dr. Philpott returns in a few minutes, looking satisfied. "Good," she says. "I should have some results back on that by this afternoon." She sits down, and meets Jim's gaze squarely.

"I think we're onto something, Jim, but I'm not entirely sure of the implications. And I still have some more research that I want to do today. Do you want to hear what I have so far, even though I'm not sure?"

Jim nods. "Please, Doctor." He smiles wryly, and gives me a slightly sheepish look. "The waiting is starting to get to me."

"All right. If you remember, I took samples of both blood and spinal fluid before your seizure, then after." She stops herself, looking uncomfortable. "Well, you won't remember the 'after' samples. Anyway, the CSF and blood after your seizure showed very high amounts of acetylcholine, one of the neurotransmitters. The CSF showed the original pesticide as well, a fairly small amount.

"When we analyzed the 'before' samples carefully, we found small but measurable amounts of acetylcholine in both. In each case, it was still many times higher than we would expect in a normal healthy young male."

Suddenly Jim smiles, and the effect of the expression on his face is pure sunshine. "Hey, Chief, she said 'young'. Remember that." He digs me with an elbow, which I ignore.

"And what does that mean?" I ask Dr. Philpott when she pauses.

"I'm hoping that today's sample will tell us whether yesterday's seizure did anything to deplete the toxin from your body."

Jim mulls this over. "When will you have the results?" he says at last. I get the distinct feeling that's not the question he originally meant to ask. Even Jim sometimes knows when not to push.

"This afternoon," she answers. "I'll call you."

Part Twenty-Five

As I drive us back to the loft, I try to think of something positive and interesting we can do for a few hours to keep Jim from brooding about the test results. He's doing a lot better than he was last night, but I'm still keeping a careful eye on him for telltale signs of stress and emotional strain.

The weather's actually decent, which gives me an idea. Without consulting my preoccupied passenger, I take a different turn than the one which would lead us back to the loft.

"Hey, Chief, where are we going? Are you lost?"

That's my buddy, always assuming the worst. "No, I am not lost. We're going to the park, O Great Sentinel."

"Why?"

"Why not? I've got a frisbee in the trunk. I thought we could throw it around for a while and see how long it takes for you to get it stuck in a tree."

Jim raises his eyebrows. "Me? I'll have you know, Junior, that I throw a frisbee with uncanny accuracy."

"Oh, that explains it. You've just been accurately aiming for all of those trees."

Jim reaches over and punches me lightly on the bicep. "Hey, at least I get distance. That's more than you can say, spaghetti-arms."

"You get distance all right, Jim," I snicker. "The last time I went by the park, I noticed my blue frisbee is still stuck at the top of that Douglas fir tree, where you threw it last summer. I think I saw a couple of ospreys building a nest in it."

* * * * * *

An hour or so of frisbee-tossing does us both good. Jim, of course, really does throw a frisbee with uncanny accuracy, just as he does everything else. It's a relatively new pastime for him; I don't think his control-freak father ever encouraged that sort of freewheeling leisure activity. I mean, not many high schools or colleges have frisbee teams, okay? You can't get a frisbee scholarship, and flinging a flying toy around is not an activity that will make your resume shine.

Not to mention that, if you're going to fool around with something as beautifully useless but as satisfying as one of these brightly colored plastic discs, you need to have a good friend to go to the park with in the first place. Jim wasn't exactly long on friends before I came along, and I enjoyed teaching him this superb method of wasting time.

So, for most of what remains of the morning, we take turns watching this inanimate object take flight and soar gracefully through the sky, carrying the kinetic energy transferred from our arms. We run, we laugh helplessly, we make impossible leaps, and occasionally we make spectacular crashes. I acquire some impressive grass stains from the ever-damp turf, and Jim almost wraps himself around a tree trying to make a desperate catch. He misses, and does a belly-flop on the dirt with an audible "whump" as the blue frisbee rolls away from his outstretched fingers.

A little concerned, I run towards him. I can hear him laughing as I get closer.

"Hey, you okay?"

"I'm fine," he assures me, pulling himself to his feet and looking ruefully at his mud-smeared shirt. "Which is more than I can say for my clothes. It's too early in the year for us to be doing this, Chief. The ground's like a wet sponge."

I grin at him. "Well, I guess that means if you lose the frisbee we can always mud wrestle," I retort, walking over and picking up the escaped toy.

"Not on your life, Sandburg," he warns. I notice that he's rubbing his elbow.

"Too much throwing for the old man's elbow?" I tease, pointing at his arm and making sure I first duck out of reach of any Sentinel-powered mud clots.

He grimaces. "No, I banged it on the tree when I fell. It's fine, or will be in a moment." His eyes grow hooded for an instant, and a shadow passes across his face. When he looks at me again, I feel a psychic chill despite the warmth of the day.

"What?" I ask softly.

He looks at his watch. "Chief, will you do me a favor? Chauffeur me somewhere, after we both get cleaned up?" he says slowly.

"Of course I will," I assure him, responding to the changed mood by falling in step with him as we head back to the car. I stow the muddy frisbee back in the trunk, and open the passenger door for Jim. I wonder what he's thought of just now that precipitated the end of our playtime.

"Where do you need to go?" I ask him, as I back out of the park's tiny parking area.

He sighs. "I'm actually not sure." He pulls out his cell phone, and hits a number on speed dial. Even without Sentinel hearing, I can recognize the voice that answers. It's Simon, but that's all I can tell.

"Simon, has Rafe gone home yet?" Pause. "Why? I thought they were sending him home yesterday?" Pause. "Oh. That's true. Right, thanks, Simon." Pause. "No, everything's fine. I...just thought it was time I talked to him, told him the truth about what happened." Pause, a longer one this time. "Thanks. I'll call when I know something, sir. Good-bye." He presses "end" and closes the phone.

"To the hospital, then?" I ask, already turning onto the boulevard that will take us back to Cascade General. "Or do you still want to go back to the loft first?"

"No, straight to the hospital after all," he says tonelessly, looking out his passenger-side window. "I need to take care of this, Chief. Thanks."

"You're welcome, Jim. Always. You've driven me around enough, you know."

He nods, but doesn't answer. The guilt shows on his face again, just as it did Thursday evening in that hospital room when I told him what had happened to Rafe. The night he threatened to resign. The night I told him I would leave his life if he didn't try with all of his heart, soul, mind and spirit to fight against the despair, against the temptations of giving up.

I know him well enough not to ask what brought all of this to mind and ruined our brief sojourn in the sun, momentarily free from worry. Here is Jim, the one who screwed up big time, at least in his own eyes...playing in the park just a few minutes ago, laughing and running. Perfectly well, at least to the eyes of anyone who doesn't know about the Big Problem.

And he slips, and bumps his arm against a tree, and thinks of his friend who lies in the hospital with a serious injury that probably could have been prevented if one experienced detective and Sentinel had been more careful.

It's a short drive. When we pull into the parking lot, Jim sits there for a moment without moving.

"Do you want me to come with you?" I venture. I should go with him, anyway. I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on him for the doctor.

He closes his eyes for a second, then nods. "Yeah. It feels like a cop-out to take you along, but yeah."

I place a comforting hand on Jim's shoulder for a moment, feeling the tension in the powerful muscles beneath the skin. "Come on."

Part Twenty-Six

"Why is Rafe still here, anyway?" I ask Jim in a hushed voice as we peer at the room numbers on the surgical floor, trying to locate Rafe's room without having to bother the nursing staff. "Is he having complications?"

"Not really," Jim answers distractedly. "Simon said that the medications were making him too nauseated to keep anything down, so they wanted him to stay another day and get I.V. fluids. He might go home tonight."

I spot the room we're looking for. "Here it is," I whisper, raising my hand to knock. "Ready?"

Jim closes his eyes momentarily and takes a deep breath. "Ready, Chief. But...you go in first."

I knock lightly and poke my head in. "Hey, Rafe," I call softly to the pale figure in the bed. "How are you feeling?" From here, it's easy to see the enormous cast on his right arm, propped up by pillows.

"Hey!" The young detective's face lights up. "Hello, Blair. Thanks for coming by. I'm okay; they're going to let me go home tonight as long as I don't throw up any more. Come on in."

Okay, moment of truth here. Does he know, or doesn't he? "I've got someone else here who wants to see you," I say, with some hesitation, and step aside to let Jim in. I watch Rafe's face closely, as Jim walks forward and sits down at the bedside...

...and I watch several emotions slide across Rafe's handsome pain-etched features, each one quickly replaced by the next. Pleasure at seeing me, then surprise...then relief, and at last compassion.

No anger, no resentment. I breathe again, watching from my post in the doorway. If Rafe knows the role Jim's cover-up of his disability had in the accident, he seems to have already forgiven him. And if he doesn't know, then this will be Jim's chance to make things as right as they can be.

Jim's sitting awkwardly on the edge of the chair, almost as if feels the need to be able to jump up quickly and run away. He licks his lips and clears his throat. "Hey, Rafe," he says at last. "How are you feeling?"

You know, with all of the time Jim's spent sitting at my bedside in the hospital, you'd think he could come up with a more original conversation opener than that one.

"Not bad," answers Rafe. "A lot better than yesterday." He smiles slightly. "Now I just have to learn to get used to this damn cast." He gestures with his good arm.

Jim winces visibly as his eyes travel to the fiberglass-encased appendage. "Yeah, it's a pretty big one."

Silence.

Geez, Jim, you're drowning in the water, here, man. I mean, I knew you were conversationally impaired when I met you, but you've improved so much in the last couple of years.

Or maybe I'm the only one you can really talk to.

Rafe comes to Jim's rescue, though. Narrowing his eyes slightly, he looks up at the tense and miserable figure perched uncomfortably on the chair. "How are you, Jim? Are you okay? They tell me you were sick, that you were hospitalized, too."

Belated, I realize that I've left the door open. Not entirely sure that I'm doing the right thing, I step all of the way into the room and close it behind me. There are no other chairs, so I stand at the foot of Rafe's bed, trying to be semi-invisible.

Jim's jaw works for a moment, but no sound issues from his throat. "Jim?" Rafe asks again, now sounding more concerned. "Are you okay?"

I can see the blood vessels pounding on the side of Jim's neck. Finally, he opens his mouth to speak. "Rafe, I'm sorry," he says hoarsely. "I'm so sorry you got hurt. It was...it was my fault." He looks away, apparently unable to make eye contact with the young man that he perceives as his victim.

Genuine confusion springs to Rafe's eyes. "Your fault? Jim, you were sick, and you fell against me." I notice that his faint accent is slightly more noticeable than usual. Must be the pain meds. "How does that make it your fault? I'm just glad no one else got hurt."

Jim, still looking away, sighs. "Rafe, trust me, it's my fault. I had a seizure, and I've been having them since...since I was poisoned with that pesticide in the warehouse. I kept it quiet from Simon, and kept working when I shouldn't have." Now he turns his agonized gaze back to Rafe. "I'm sorry. I don't know what else to tell you." He barks a short, humorless laugh. "I tried to resign, but Sandburg won't let me."

Rafe looks shocked. "Resign? Jim, no! Don't give up your career. It was just a stupid mistake." He reaches out with his good hand, rests it hesitantly on Jim's hand where it clutches the bed rail. "It's all right. I'm all right."

Now, I sense, is the time for me to leave. I slip out the door and close it behind me.

* * * * * *

Jim comes out a few minutes later, and almost collides with me where I'm leaning up against the wall.

"Hey!" I grab his arm, laughing a little. "Watch your step, you big moose. A person could get hurt around you."

I don't need to ask how the rest of the conversation went. Jim's body language has changed dramatically from when we entered Rafe's hospital room. He stands tall and relaxed, his hands in his pockets as he in turn leans against the wall next to me. His face, which only a few minutes ago was taut and expressionless, now sports a goofy smile.

I grin up at him. "I take it that Rafe has forgiven his fallen hero?"

He throws a companionable arm around my shoulders, and we walk down the hall. "Yes, even though the fallen hero is an idiot."

"You said it, not me. Just remember that, man." I poke Jim in the ribs.

"Come on, Chief, let's get some lunch. And I don't mean hospital food."

Part Twenty-Seven

Jim's relief is evident as we leave the hospital parking lot, but I decide to pry a little anyway. Hey, what's a Guide for, anyway? I'm convinced that a little therapeutic needling is part of the job description.

"I take it you feel a bit better about...about what happened the other day, with Rafe," I venture, peeking into the rearview mirror as I merge onto the main thoroughfare.

He's quiet for a moment before answering. "He doesn't blame me at all,' he says, with what sounds like a touch of wonder.

"Did you really expect him to? Come on, Jim, you're human, and the guys know it." I reach across to lay a hand on his shoulder. "In fact, they may like you better now. Sometimes you seem a little too formidable, too superhuman. You scare them sometimes." I draw my hand back, wondering if I've gone too far with that last comment.

Jim shakes his head slowly. "How is it that I don't scare you, Chief?" he asks almost to himself.

All right, that one catches me by surprise, and I turn my attention quickly back to driving...staring out the windshield to hide the emotions on my face. Jim scare me? Well, I've been scared on his behalf, lots of times. And worried about him, and annoyed with him. Sometimes I've been mad as hell. But I don't think I've ever actually been frightened of him, and I hope I never am.

As I do so often, I take refuge in levity. "Hey, you scare me all the time, man. Your driving, your cooking, your eating habits, your obsessive need for control..." I pretend to dodge slightly, as Jim directs a mock-swat at my head. "Personally, I find those all very scary, Jim."

Jim laughs. "Sandburg, you're impossible."

* * * * * *

We drive home, and Jim goes upstairs to change out of his mud-caked clothes. I head for the kitchen to see what edibles there are for lunch, since it's already 1:30. Huh, not much, but I can throw together some sandwiches. I begin pulling Ziplock bags out of the fridge, and check the bread to make sure it hasn't gone moldy yet.

Jim comes downstairs in his bathrobe. "I still feel like I've got an inch of mud on me. I think I'll take a quick shower before I begin to harden permanently."

I wave a mayonnaise-covered knife at him. "Adobe is definitely not a recommended building material in this climate, Jim."

"Smartass," I can hear him call out as he closes the bathroom door.

I've got bread and sandwich goodies lined up assembly-line fashion on the counter, so it goes quickly. A little of this, a smidge of that...what does Dagwood have that I ain't got? I'm standing there wondering just how much onion I should put on Jim's sandwiches when the phone rings. I zip over and pick it up carefully, mindful of the mayonnaise and mustard on my fingers. "Hello?" In my current slightly manic mood, I'm sorely tempted to tag on, "Sandburg's Sexy Sandwich Salon!" but I think better of it.

And a good thing, too. "Blair? This is Dr. Philpott."

I sober up immediately. To tell the truth, I'd sort of forgotten she was going to call. "Jim's in the shower, Doctor, but I can haul him out. Or have him call you back, if that's better."

"That won't be necessary, Blair. Actually, if it's not too much trouble, I'd like both of you to come back down here. I'd like to talk you face-to-face about the results."

Oh, geez. This does not sound good. This does not sound good at all. I run my fingers through my hair, trying to think of a way to stall while I somehow get Jim out of the bathroom. He'll be pissed at this. "Um...are you sure? I mean, we can, but..."

"Just come on down," she breaks in. "I'm done seeing patients for the day, but I'll wait. See you when you get here, Blair." Click.

I frown sourly at the phone, feeling used. Yeah, that's me: chauffeur, sandwich chef and bearer of bad news. Jim probably wouldn't have heard the phone ring, since he's got everything dialed down so far. Come to think of it, he's been doing great at that; I haven't had to help him at all. The next thought that follows depresses me completely: it's a good thing he's getting so good at keeping his senses dialed down. He might just have to do that for the rest of his life. And then what will I be? A Guide with a permanently disabled Sentinel?

I finish making the sandwiches, but all of the fun has gone out of the process. Jim emerges from the bathroom, dressed in his jeans and toweling his hair. I hand him a sandwich.

"What, no plate?" He seems amused.

Damn, I hate to ruin his good news. "We'll have to eat them on the way," I explain. Actually, Jim can eat his sandwich on the way...I think I've lost my appetite.

"On the way to where, Chief?" He takes a bite of his sandwich.

I fiddle absently with a bit of lettuce. "Dr. Philpott called. She wants us to go back down there and discuss the test results in person." I pop the plate of remaining sandwiches back into the fridge.

Jim's eyes widen slightly above the sandwich, but his face becomes otherwise carefully blank. "Damn," he says, his voice slightly muffled by food. "That sounds...bad." He sighs. "I'm not surprised, though. Giving bad news over the phone...most doctors won't do it. At least that's been my experience."

I swallow. "You think it's that bad?"

"It's got to be," he says quietly, closing his eyes for a second. "I think she'd tell us right away if things were great."

"Maybe it's just too difficult to explain over the phone," I hazard.

"Maybe," Jim sounds unconvinced.

I nod and grab the keys. "Well, we won't find out standing around the kitchen."

"Hang on a sec, Chief," says Jim, coming up behind me.

"Yeah?"

"Wouldn't you prefer to get the mustard out of your hair before we go back to the doctor's office?" Jim reaches behind my ear, holds up one yellow-besmeared lock.

"Ah, crap. Hand me that dishtowel."

Part Twenty-Eight

Dr. Philpott's office appears deserted when we get there; the shades are drawn and most of the lights have been turned off. I knock hesitantly on the front door, and she opens it instantly. She must have heard us drive up.

"Come on in," she says, holding the door open. "That was certainly prompt. I hope you didn't break any traffic laws, Blair."

I guess she intends that to be funny, but it's sort of lost on me at the moment. Neither of us answers the comment, and Dr. Philpott bites her lips and motions us back.

"Back to my conference room."

We follow her back to a medium-sized room with an oval table and several chairs. Jim and I sit on the far side of the table; she sits across from us with his chart.

"I have the results on the blood sample I took from you this morning," she begins without further preamble. "The levels of acetylcholine in it are definitely lower than the levels on the blood sample taken before your last seizure. I can't be positive, but it would appear that each successive seizure lowers both the amount of the original toxin in your body, and the amount of acetylcholine your nervous system has to work with."

Jim frowns. "So...does that mean I'm going to have a certain number of these, then stop?"

She shakes her head. "Only if they were fairly closely spaced together. Otherwise, your body has too much recharge time, too much time to make fresh supplies of neurotransmitters. I used a computer program to try to estimate how long it would take." She pulls out a graph. "Jim, if you had one seizure a week, it would take over twenty years to rid your body of the original toxin."

He sits back, looking stunned. And...something else, a look on his face I've seen repeatedly this week.

Jim looks defeated.

"So that's it?" I ask incredulously. "That's all we can do?"

She shakes her head. "Not quite. We can try to modify the seizures with medication; but given their unique cause, Jim, it may not help you. Even if we find a drug that helps, I'm not sure you'll ever be able to go back to active duty." She looks down at the table, nervously tracing spiral designs with one finger. "I've got a few articles that I still want to look at again. But...if the drugs don't help, I think your best option would be to keep your senses turned all of the way down. Permanently."

I want to yell, rage, scream. I want to leap across this table and shake this poor woman until she gives me an answer that my heart can live with. I want to blame someone, anyone, as loudly and unreasonably as I can. I want to weep out my frustration, shed tears of helpless anger.

Of course, I don't do any of these things.

Instead, I look at Jim, trying to read his thoughts behind the mask he's created of his face. He avoids my gaze, staring instead at the blue formica of the table. For a moment, I fear that he's zoned out...which ought to bring on a seizure faster than anything else.

But then he speaks, and his words bring a tiny chill of dread rippling through my body. "Doctor...you implied that things might be different if the seizures were spaced very closely together."

Oh, Jim, no. Tell me you're not thinking what I know you are thinking.

She answers him distractedly, looking at the back of the page that showed the graph. "For a seizure frequency of about thirty minutes, theoretically it would only take about forty-eight hours to drive both the toxin and the neurotransmitters down to a level that would be unlikely to cause seizures."

Now she looks up and meets Jim's eyes. "But that doesn't help us. It's impossible; having that many seizures could kill a patient." She shakes her head. "You wouldn't regain consciousness long enough between episodes to trigger another seizure within that time window anyway."

"But..." Jim leans forward, suddenly intent. "Even if we were close? Every hour, maybe? I don't think I've ever stayed out longer than an hour. Have I, Chief?" He turns to me; reluctantly, I shake my head.

"I think an hour was the longest, Jim. But --"

"Couldn't we try it?" Jim pleads with her, cutting me off. "Couldn't you put me back in the hospital, the ICU even, and give me I.V. fluids so I won't get dehydrated, and I'll just trigger one seizure after another? You could monitor me, and --"

Dr. Philpott interrupts. "No. Absolutely not! It's incredibly dangerous, Jim. That's called status epilepticus, and it's considered a medical emergency. There is no way I would let a patient do that to himself purposesly." She leans forward, appearing every bit as determined as Jim. "It would also be highly irregular, and would be considered experimental therapy. The nurses would report it to the medical staff president in no time. I'd lose my hospital privileges, and probably my license as well."

Jim and his doctor lock eyes across the table for a few seconds more, then Jim finally looks down and sighs. "So you won't help us?"

"That is not what I said!" She's getting louder. "I will help you to the best of my ability, and the best of my sane medical judgement! I will not be a party to your willing suicide, because that is what it would be!"

"All right, Doctor!" Jim stands up. "I would prefer to do this in the hospital, with your help, but if I can't have that, I'll just have to do the best I can."

"Uh, Jim," I begin uneasily. I'm ignored, as the Affronted Alpha Male and the Indignant Physician continue to bristle at one another.

"You cannot do this on your own, either, Jim," she warns. "It could kill you."

He puts his hands up to either side of his head. "Losing my career forever will kill me! It won't happen all at once, but it will kill me all the same! And to go through life always having to keep my senses locked down...I'll go insane. There's just no way."

"You will not do this," she repeats. "It's too dangerous. You've got to understand that."

"Sandburg will help me," he answers her, belligerently. "He can do it. Hell, he's helped me through worse."

I have? I can? Jim, buddy, your confidence is touching, but...

Jim turns to me, putting both hands on my shoulders. "C'mon, Chief. You can do it. You know how to keep watch over me." He speaks softly, beseechingly. "Be my Guide, for this. Who else can I trust?"

His gaze compels me to answer, almost against my will. "Jim, I don't like it," I whisper. "But I'll help you, if that's what you want." He looks down at me, smiles slightly, and releases me.

Dammit, that's not what I meant to say. I meant to refuse, to tell him that he's clearly out of his flippin' mind, that there's no way I can stand by and watch him place himself in such danger.

Now Dr. Philpott turns to me. "Blair, listen to me. I know you love your friend, but this is not the way to help. You don't have the kind of training needed here."

"I know CPR," I retort, stung by her words. "And I've picked up a lot of stuff from here and there. And I know Jim better than anyone else."

"Blair," she says, almost desperately, moving closer to me. "You've got to understand. If you are both foolish enough to go ahead with this, Jim will be basically unconscious for several days. His metabolic rate will be increased to three or four times its normal rate, because of the seizures. He probably won't be able to eat or drink because he'll be too groggy, so he'll get dehydrated and begin to starve."

Jim interrupts. "I used to be a medic, I can start an I.V. in myself ahead of time. Just give me the materials and the fluid."

She ignores him and presses on with her arguments. "At any time, he could choke to death on his own saliva, or possibly vomit and aspirate and get pneumonia from that. He could simply stop breathing in the middle of a seizure. He won't respond to your or recognize you most of the time. He'll be totally helpless, and you won't be able to sleep or leave his side for an instant."

I look at Jim, silently pleading with him to change his mind. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "It's your call, Chief. I can't do it without you."

Part Twenty-Nine

I look down at the table, unable to bearing Jim's pleading look or the doctor's anguished horror.

"Isn't there something else we can do?" I almost-whisper, to both of them. "Jim, I'll help you in any way I can, you know that. But I don't want to risk your life in the process." Forty-eight hours, or more, of standing by and watching while Jim convulses uncontrollably to rid his body of the poisons? Maybe we don't need a doctor. Maybe we need an exorcist.

"Neither of you should be making decisions when you're this upset, Blair," says the doctor, sounding calmer now. "Please. Think this over before you do something rash." She places a hand on my arm.

I remember a comment she made earlier, which had been itching at the back of my mind. "You said you had some more articles to go over, more research."

She nods resignedly. "Yes. I don't really see how they'll be helpful to you; they're just case reports. But here, you're welcome to them." She hands me a manila folder, heavy with papers and redolent of toner.

"Go home, both of you," she then instructs. "Get some rest, think about this. But please, I mean it when I say that your plan is too dangerous." She fixes Jim with a steely gaze, standing in front of him with her arms folded. "Jim, if I thought for one moment that I could make it stick, I'd throw you in the hospital on a two-physician court hold to keep you from trying this."

He glares back down at her. "Don't try it," he warns.

"I won't. You're not insane. You're perfectly competent, so it would never hold up. But you are the most stubborn, bullheaded, unmanageable patient I've ever had." She shakes her head. "Blair, I don't envy you your decision...or your task."

She shows us to the door, turning out the rest of the office lights along the way.

"I'll call you later in the week, Jim, to touch base. Blair, take care of him." She locks the door behind us.

Jim doesn't say anything until we're a few blocks from the neurologist's office. When he speaks, I'm startled by the bitterness in his voice.

"Thanks, Chief," he says sarcastically. "Thanks for backing me up like that."

His words slice deeply into me, almost as a physical pain. "Jim, you heard her. It's too dangerous --"

He cuts me off. "I thought you would pick it up and run with it --"

"-- too dangerous to try unless it's our very last resort!" I manage to finish my sentence before Jim shouts again.

"-- but you just backed down in there! If we had kept arguing, maybe she would have let us try it in the hospital after --"

"SHUT UP!" I yell, surprised at the force of my own voice in the confined space of my small car.

Jim opens his mouth, then closes it, then turns away and stares out the window.

I try to ignore him and concentrate on driving us home in one piece, my hands trembling slightly from the emotional overload. Maybe Jim can drive and argue at the same time, but I can't. Of course, if you look at Jim's driving record while on duty, maybe he can't either.

About a thousand years later, it seems, we reach home. I park the car and kill the ignition, and turn my attention to my stone-faced roommate.

"Jim," I begin, but my voice squawks. I clear my throat and try again. "Jim, if we had kept arguing in there, all we would have accomplished is getting you hospitalized. Even if it had just been temporary, you would have hated it. Not a good idea, man."

No answer from the Man of Marble in the passenger seat. Doggedly, I continue.

"I said I would help you in any way I can. If it turns out that the marathon-seizure thing is the only way, then I'll help you do it. But only if we exhaust every possible alternative solution first."

He nods, almost imperceptibly, still with his head turned away from me.

"In any case...even if we have to go with the seizures, we need a few days to prepare first. And we can't do it until Friday night."

That gets a response. "That's almost a week away. Why? We don't need that long to set up," he says, still a little coldly.

"I've missed enough of my classes lately. I'm not going to miss any more, not for something that can just as easily wait a few days. We've got a three day weekend coming up at the University, and I don't teach on Tuesdays this semester anyway. That gives us from Friday evening until Wednesday to...do what we have to do." I glance sidelong at Jim, who now at least appears to be listening. "Jim, if you want me to do this, we do it my way."

He turns back to me, and his eyes meet mine...reluctantly, it would appear. I know him so well that I can almost read his thoughts as we stare at once another. I can see him waver, between anger and acceptance. I can tell he's torn between agreeing with me and throwing a few choice expletives in my face.

But if Jim is stone, then I am wood: a young tree, flexible in the winds of change but unbreakably strong when I need to be. He'll not find it easy to overcome my will on this issue.

At last he looks away, a trace of guilt in his eys.

"Sorry, Chief," he mumbles. "I'm being a butthead, again. I keep forgetting that your life goes on, even though mine seems to have come to a grinding halt." Abruptly, he opens his door and climbs out. "Friday it is, then." The words float back to me, still sitting in the driver's seat.

I lean my head forward, resting my forehead on the steering wheel for a moment. "Sandburg," I whisper to myself, "how do you get yourself into thesemesses?"

Part Thirty

That night, after a dinner more notable for its restrained silences than for any exceptional culinary qualities, I curl up on the couch with the stack of articles from Dr. Philpott and begin slowly plowing through them. I've got both the folder she gave me today, plus the pile she sent to me when Jim was still in the hospital. It's a formidable amount of reading, but it's not going to read itself, is it?

I read until my eyes ache, until the words and phrases swirl around in my brain like oil trying to combine with water, until my mind grows fuzzy around the edges.

Somewhere in these papers I've got to find something else to work with, some other way to help my friend, some other way to redeem my word to him. I've promised to help, even if it's on my terms...but I know Jim well enough that I can't stall forever. I've got to deliver, or he'll just take matter into his own hands.

I'm having trouble concentrating on the articles, though. Dr. Philpott did entirely too good a job describing the ways in which Jim would behave under the influence of the continual seizures, and the mental image painted by her words swims before my eyes. It doesn't help that I've already witnessed a few of these events. Every time I come to the end of a paragraph, I have to fight to keep the same visions from tumbling through my mind: Jim on the floor by the fireplace, twitching helplessly; Jim and I in the stakeout house, alone while he shudders and trembles; Jim falling down the porch stairs, in slow motion...Rafe screaming in pain...

I come abruptly back to the present, as a weight settles on the couch next to me. I blink a few times, and focus on Jim. He hands me a steaming mug that smells delicious. Ah...hot chocolate. Instant, but who's complaining?

He looks at me obliquely. "It's kind of chilly in here. I thought you could use this."

Jim, you creampuff! Who are you kidding?

"Thanks, man. That's just what I need." And I mean it. Not the hot chocolate per se, but the attention and the unspoken appreciation. I take a slurp, nearly burning myself on the hot liquid, and settle back more comfortably against the arm of the couch. Jim's very presence as his normal, non-convulsing self helps to banish the demons of my imagination, and I pick up the article again.

"Are you going to read all night?" Jim asks me after a few minutes of companionable silence.

I grin up at him with mock belligerence. "What, is it past my bedtime already? You gonna make me go to bed?"

"No, Einstein, you're a big boy. You want to read until your eyes turn red, you go right ahead." He shifts his weight slightly. "But if you don't mind, I think I'll stay with you a while. Make sure you don't get sidetracked."

"Okay." I return to my article. This one seems to be the most helpful so far. It's a case account from a medical journal, published about twenty years ago. It tells of a man who was poisoned by a pesticide in the same general class as the one Jim was exposed to, and who went on to have recurrent seizures that were refractory to the usual treatments.

Dr. Philpott's stack of papers contain two additional accounts of individuals who had similar experiences, and who went on to have a lifetime of seizures. None of the three victims are described as having unusual sensory abilities, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything.

But there's one reason I remain fixated on the account I now hold in my hand. There's one reason I've now read this brief summary three times. Unlike the other two, this guy's seizures went away.

Abruptly. On their own, without any apparent medical intervention. Approximately four weeks after the initial exposure.

I read through it again, searching for clues...but Jim's lowered voice again interrupts my churning thoughts.

"Hey, Chief. Thanks for sticking with me." He clears his throat. "I'm sorry I jumped down your throat earlier. I know you're trying to do the right thing."

"I know," I murmur. "This isn't easy for you."

"It isn't easy for either of us." He searches my face for a moment, his own countenance deadly serious. "Blair...I sometimes wonder what I've done to deserve you."

"Probably you were just really rotten in a previous life. Cruel to animals, or something," I quip.

"Always the wiseguy." He smiles briefly. "I think I'm going to go back on what I said earlier. Go to bed, Chief." He collects the empty mug. "There, you've officially been nagged. Are you going to listen?"

"Yeah," I agree. "I need to sleep on this. I feel like I'm close to something."

"Well, maybe it'll come to you in a dream or something. Weren't there a lot of scientists who made great breakthroughs that way?" Jim stands up, and extends a hand to me. "Come on. Up you go, and off to bed"

* * * * * *

No inspiration finds its way into my dreams that night, however, at least none that I remember. Then again, at least I don't have nightmares involving Jim and repeated seizures. I guess I should be grateful for small favors.

After breakfast I tackle the article again, with a fresh cup of coffee by my side. Let's see...the author describes the patient as a "Thirty-four year old white male, married. Employed as a security guard by a large chemical manufacturing firm. Exposed to multiple acetylcholinesterase inhibitor pesticides during an mild earthquake which knocked several bottles off their storage shelves."

Well, there's a few minor similarities there. If this guy was a closet Sentinel, maybe being a security guard was a good career choice for him. And the methods of exposure are very close.

The article goes on to explain how the patient was hospitalized and treated. Just as in Jim's case, the scans and tests all came back as normal, and he was discharged. He continued to have recurrent seizure episodes, despite several trials of medications. And then...the article states that the patient was "lost to follow-up" for about six months. When the man finally returned to his physician, he stated that his seizures resolved about a month after the poisoning, rather abruptly.

The author of the article finishes up with no clear explanation of the reason for his patient's apparent cure.

A germ of an idea forms in my mind. I pull out Dr. Philpott's card, and reach for the phone.

On to Part 3...