A/N: I'm not a medical expert, and the injuries and treatments described are intended for dramatic effect rather than medical accuracy.

Warnings for graphic descriptions of child abuse. It gets violent and bloody. If that's disturbing for you, stop reading after Henry plays his guitar, and pick up the story again after the next scene break, where Henry yells Neal's name.

Burke family cabin, Catskills. Wednesday afternoon. March 3, 2004.

By the time they arrived at the cabin and took a brief walk through the wooded surroundings, Neal felt much more normal. The combination of a few hours of sleep and a setting he longed to paint made a big difference in his outlook. He felt grounded now, rather than adrift in his memories.

As they entered the cabin, he took in the sheer rustic beauty. The rough-hewn posts, the polished wood floors, the log walls, the massive stone fireplace, the pair of overstuffed plaid sofas that faced each other from opposite sides of the fireplace – this cabin seemed too pure to be sullied by his emerging memories.

He wandered into a kitchen that had recently been updated with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. The pantry held the bare necessities, soon to be augmented when El returned from the nearest grocery store. From here he could survey most of the main floor. The windows on the front of the cabin framed a pristine mountain view. On either side of the fireplace, shelves were filled with books and games. This was a place for family, for children. It should remain innocent.

Henry and Peter were carrying in the luggage, Neal realized, and he stepped forward, but Noelle put a hand on his shoulder.

"I should help," he said.

"Let them do this. They feel helpless. Being active gives them a sense that they're doing something for you."

When El returned, Neal assisted with the dinner preparations while Henry and Peter carried in firewood. Soon they had a blazing fire in the fireplace and a beautiful meal on the granite island that served as a dining table. They gathered on barstools and ate. Neal appreciated the simplicity of the meal – nothing too rich – because his stomach was churning at the thought of what would happen next.

There was conversation, but it flowed over Neal. His worries and doubts kept distracting him. In fact, he was surprised to look up and see El and Henry were loading the dishes into the dishwasher.

Noelle was talking to Peter. "I love open concept homes, but it is a challenge from a therapy perspective. It doesn't offer much privacy."

"There are three bedrooms upstairs," Peter said. Neal finally noticed that while the fireplace led up to a vaulted ceiling, the opposite side of the cabin had lower ceilings and a staircase leading up to a second floor. "They're tight, but you could close the door."

Neal wanted to suggest that they not do this. He felt much better than he had this morning, but he knew it was a temporary reprieve. If they didn't have this session, he'd spiral back into a cycle of nightmares and flashbacks. "Can we do it outside?" he asked.

"It's dark and cold out there," Peter protested.

"But in here it's..." Neal gestured around the room. "It's cheerful and good and light. I don't want to spew my darkness all over it and ruin it."

Peter shook his head. "Kid, this place has seen poker games, bachelor parties, an affair and subsequent fights leading to my oldest brother's divorce, and my Uncle Ed's heart attack. Not to mention the microwave incident that we never speak of in front of my mother, but caused so much fire damage we had to replace the kitchen a couple of years back. It's no stranger to real life."

"Let's look at the bedrooms and see which one you'd like to use," Noelle suggested.

"No. Here," Neal said.

"I guess Henry and El and I could head upstairs, and turn in early," Peter said.

"Stay," Neal requested. "That way I don't have to repeat it for you afterward."

"I can't believe I'm saying this," said Henry, "but are you sure you want us to hear it?"

"I don't want to hear it," Neal countered. "I sure don't want to hear it a second and third time. I want you and Peter to know, so you can... you can..."

"What?" Henry asked softly.

Neal stared into the fireplace, craving the light and warmth. He felt so cold and dark inside. "Help me deal with it."

They gathered in the family room, Peter and El on the sofa facing the kitchen and Neal and Noelle on the sofa opposite. Henry took a chair facing the fireplace. Everyone had changed out of their business wear into something more casual and comfortable. Neal had learned that the two sofas were sleepers. Henry had claimed them for the cousins, with the Burkes and Noelle taking their luggage to the rooms upstairs. It would all be very organized and cozy, once they got past this session.

"Should we have popcorn?" he asked, trying to break the tension, but no one laughed.

"Make yourself comfortable, Neal," Noelle said. "Is there anything we can do or get to help you relax?"

"Satchmo?" The dog lifted his head at the sound of his name. He'd been lying on his blanket on the other side of the room. "Is it okay?" Neal asked.

"Go ahead," said Peter.

Neal called, "here boy," and the Labrador ran over. Neal scratched his ears, and left a hand resting on the dog's head as he sat up straight again to face Noelle. "I can't think of anything else that's gonna help."

"In our first session, you told me about Vance abusing you when he dated your mother, and how she learned of the abuse. You said he disappeared from your lives for a time, and then he followed you home from school one day. Tell me about that again, and add in the new parts you remember now."

The memory was clearer now. "It was late April, a warm, sunny day. When the weather was nice I'd cut through a park on my way home. There was a wooded area. To adults it was just a greenbelt, but to a nine-year-old boy it was a magical forest rife with opportunities for adventure. I could spend hours out there, especially if Mom was working late, like she had been recently. It was starting to get dark, and I knew I needed to head home. I followed the creek until I could see my backyard. It hadn't rained recently, so the creek was narrow enough and the banks dry enough that I could jump across it without getting in trouble for having globs of mud on my shoes. I'd just made the jump when I heard something behind me. Vance was there. He stepped across the creek so we were both on the same side."

Neal could feel the fear building, as if it were all happening now. The shock of seeing Vance again after so many weeks. The terror caused by the anger on the man's face. "He was so mad. He told me I broke my promise not to tell, and now I had to pay. All I could think was that I had to get away. Ellen had taught me about evasion and hiding in case we were found by Dad's enemies, although I didn't know that was the reason. But I knew a dozen places to hide, and I ran deeper into the woods, scrambling between trees for cover until I found one I liked to climb. But Vance was too fast. He caught up with me as I was still hanging from a branch a man his height could easily reach. I was trying to swing my feet up, but he grabbed them. I hung on and he pulled until I was hanging by just my right hand. Then he let go, and before I could reach up with my left hand again, he swung a blow at the arm carrying all of my weight. I could hear the bone crack, and then I couldn't hold on and fell to the ground. It knocked the breath out of me. I was still gasping for air when he kicked me in the ribs. The blow caused me to roll downhill, toward the creek. It was rocky, and my head hit one of those rocks hard enough to knock me out."

Until recently that had been the last thing Neal remembered until he was released from the hospital. Now the rest of the memories were there, slippery and twisting in his grasp, but he could see where they led. "Oh, God."

Satchmo whined and jumped on the sofa next to Neal, who turned away from Noelle to rub the dog. Barely a minute later Noelle said, "Keep going, Neal. You need to tell me the rest."

He faced Noelle again, but his vision was focused on the past. "I came to in the trunk of Vance's car. I had a concussion, although I didn't know that word when I was nine. I just knew that my head hurt, and I was dizzy and queasy. The car was moving, and I couldn't tell where we were or how much time had passed. It was dark. I felt around to get my bearings. There were tools, not unusual for a car trunk, I guess, but the hammer especially made me uneasy, and when my hand landed on the rope... That's when it came to me: he didn't just want to hurt me this time. He wanted to kill me. Between the pain in my arm and the fear and the concussion, I faded in and out a bit. But I came around again and realized we had stopped. I could hear he was opening the gas cap, and filling the tank. Then I heard his footsteps, going away. I'd found the latch to open the trunk, and popped it open to see him walking around the corner of the building, to the restrooms. I slid out of the car, closed the trunk as quietly as I could, and stumbled my way to the convenience store portion of the gas station."

Peter leaned forward, but El poked him before he could speak.

"It was dawn," said Neal. "I didn't recognize where we were, but later I learned we were on the western outskirts of St. Louis. I never figured out where we went in all the time that passed before I escaped the trunk. It seemed like we were driving forever." He looked at Henry. "Do you know?"

Henry nodded. "Vance had moved to Kansas City after the relationship ended with your mom. I got the impression that the Marshals had pressured him to put some distance between him and you. It was before Amber Alerts were introduced, and I don't know if the Marshals would approve an Amber Alert for someone in WITSEC, anyway. He'd driven about halfway across the state that night when he heard reports on the radio about a missing child. Few details were given, but Vance was described with speculation that the abductor was taking the kid to Kansas City. He turned around at that point. He still had a home in St. Louis that hadn't sold yet, and that was probably his alternate destination. Probably would have..." Henry closed his eyes and couldn't continue.

"Buried me in his backyard?" Neal asked. "I suppose so."

"Neal," said Noelle, "you need to stay with the story. What happened after you walked to the convenience store?"

"There was a man behind the counter. Big, burly guy with a Russian accent. His nametag said Anton Nikolov. He asked... He asked if I needed help." He paused and shuddered, dreading the next part. "I feel sick."

Noelle looked at his face and said, "Go," and he ran to the main floor bathroom to throw up.

Neal didn't hear Peter follow him, but he was there with a damp towel when Neal's stomach was empty. While Neal remained on his knees, wiping his face, he heard voices. First it was Peter telling Henry to grab a clean shirt, followed by El offering to get a glass of water. When they were gone and it was just Peter there, Neal whispered, "I don't want to do this."

Peter kneeled beside him and took the towel. "I know it must be bad to affect you like this, and I hate to see you suffer. But I think you need what Noelle is doing. This stuff is running rampant in your head like some wild animal trying to break free. It's going to hurt you unless you learn how to tame it."

Neal almost smiled. "Noelle's a lion tamer?"

"Sure. You're a reformed cat burglar who still moves like a feline, so your personal monster would be a lion, I suppose."

Henry returned with a sweatshirt. "You need any help?"

"No, I got it," Neal said, pulling off his shirt. Then he caught the fresh shirt Henry tossed at him. "Can you find my toothbrush?"

A few minutes later, he was back on the sofa. Noelle reached for his hand and then took his pulse. "You look calm, but your heart is racing. Let's try to slow it down a bit." She talked him through some deep breathing. "How are you feeling now?"

Neal shrugged. "Cold, I guess."

"I could make you a cup of hot tea," Elizabeth volunteered.

That sounded soothing. Neal nodded. "Okay."

"I'll help." Henry followed El into the kitchen.

Neal frowned and Peter asked, "What's wrong?"

"Henry likes to keep busy when he's nervous. What's he nervous about?"

"He's worried about you," Noelle said.

"But he's already read the police report and trial records. He knows what happened, and that I survived. What's for him to get nervous about?"

"Think about what you just said, Neal," Noelle requested. "Even when you didn't remember what happened, you knew you had gotten through it. You survived, and thrived. Facing the past isn't going to change that."

"Thrived?" Neal repeated as he heard the ding of the microwave.

"Despite everything Vance had planned, you grew up to be a bright, talented, healthy adult. You have good friends, a fantastic apartment, an exciting job, and a father figure who treasures you."

Neal raised a brow, expecting a laugh or sarcastic comment from Peter. "Treasures is a bit much."

"No it isn't," said Elizabeth, who handed Neal a mug. "Getting my husband to take time off work almost requires an act of Congress. But this morning, when he saw you needed to get away, it was his idea to take off the rest of the week and bring you here. If you weren't important to him, he'd already be planning how to slip back to Manhattan for the next couple of days and meet us back here on Saturday. The fact that it hasn't even crossed his mind tells me Noelle is absolutely right."

Neal had to think to recall what day it was. Wednesday. Peter would be out of the office most of the week, because his wannabe son couldn't cope. He was raining chaos on everyone's lives. "I'm –"

Peter interrupted. "Your next word had better be grateful. Because if it's sorry, we're going to have some other words when this is over."

Neal nodded. "Grateful." And he was grateful, but he was sorry, too. Henry and Elizabeth were back in their seats now. Henry did look worried. "Am I doing the right thing, making them listen to all of this?" Neal asked Noelle. "It's hard on them."

"Not being here for you would be harder," Henry said before Noelle could respond.

"It's a challenge either way," Noelle answered. "There's rarely an easy path for your loved ones in this kind of situation. They want to do something to help. Right now listening and understanding is all they can offer, but only if you're comfortable with it. If you feel you can't talk about your experiences in front of them, then tell me, and we'll find a place to be alone."

Neal considered it. Part of him wanted their support now, while another part of him wanted to spare them. There wasn't a perfect answer. Over the years as a con artist he had learned to keep secrets until hiding the truth became second nature. It made him resist sharing these painful memories, and would make it hard to repeat the process again later. His initial instinct had been to let them all hear the story in a single telling, and he relied on his instincts. "They can stay." He looked up at each of them. "If you want. You don't have to stay."

"Stop it!" Henry's hands were balled into fists. "That's what you said to Jones and George Knightley when you thought you were dying at Enscombe. You don't have to stay. You're not going to die."

For a moment Neal met Henry's eyes and simply stared. Having read the hospital files, only Henry knew how close Neal had come to dying at Vance's hands. Revisiting those moments wouldn't be easy for either of them. If Henry couldn't handle it, he should leave, but of course he would refuse to go. Neal wished he could think of a way to calm Henry down. And that wish brought Neal far enough out of his nightmarish memories that the solution came to him. "Get your guitar."

"What?" It was rare to see Henry so astonished. Usually he was better at either anticipating situations or masking his surprise.

"Play a song. It will calm us down."

Neal drank his tea and enjoyed the sense of reprieve. He heard Henry say the song was called "Fix You," and he let his mind drift as he listened. The song had been a clever choice. Neal had never heard it before, and it engaged his curiosity. He wondered where Henry had learned it, and who had written it, and if there was a piano arrangement he could learn. He pondered who was the original artist and thought he'd like to hear Coldplay perform it.

And when the song ended, Neal dove back into his memories and started to talk. The memories absorbed him, and soon he was back in St. Louis again.

###

He stumbled up to the door and pushed against it with his left shoulder, cradling his broken right arm. The door was heavy, but he was determined. There were chimes as he entered and he held his breath, afraid Vance would hear and come running.

A big man stood behind the counter. He had gray hair and a beard, and was stocky in his build. He looked a little like Santa Claus in gray slacks and a blue shirt. He turned to look at his newest customer and his blue eyes widened. "What happened to you?" he asked, with a Russian accent. Now that he was facing the boy, it was possible to see a nametag that said Anton Nikolov. "Do you need help?"

The boy nodded. "The man driving that car," he gestured out toward the large brown sedan, "he..." The boy didn't know how to describe it, but he looked down at his shirt. There was blood, he realized. He was finally noticing the cuts and scrapes on his face and arms from rolling down the rocky embankment. His green shirt was splattered with blood stains. There was a cut on his ankle that had reopened as he had walked and was oozing blood. Transfixed by the sight, he remained frozen until he heard whining and looked up to see a German Shepherd peeking at him from behind the counter.

"Sasha, quiet," Mr. Nikolov said. "That man, is he your father?"

"No! He used to date my mom, but she made him go away when she learned what he was doing." He sniffed, becoming a little teary-eyed. He wanted his mom or Ellen. They'd make Vance go away and they'd know how to stop the pain. "It hurts." He sniffed again. "He put me in the trunk. You aren't supposed to do that."

Mr. Nikolov looked out the window. "You closed the trunk, smart boy. Come here. Don't be shy. We need to hide you. Sasha will protect you, and I will call the police."

The boy curled up under the counter, pushing Sasha's water bowl out of the way. The dog sat closely beside him. She jostled his broken arm and it hurt, but she was warm and made him feel safe. He leaned against her and closed his eyes while he listened to Mr. Nikolov.

"Yes, the car, it matches the description from the news, about the missing boy. Yes, dark hair, blue eyes, white sneakers, jeans and green shirt. The man went to the restrooms and is returning to his car. Now he is getting in the driver's seat... Wait, he's getting out. He's opening the trunk, where the boy was. Now he's looking around. Hurry! He's walking this way. No, he has a big coat on, too bulky to see if he is armed."

The boy whimpered.

"Quiet, boy! You must be quiet or he will hear you." The chimes over the door sounded again. "Hold please, I have customer." There was the sound of a phone handset being placed on a counter, rather than being hung up. "Good morning." His accent had grown much thicker since Vance entered the store. "You buy something?"

"Where is he?"

"Sorry, my English not so good. Cigarettes?"

"I know the boy is in here. He left a trail of blood leading right to you."

"Oh, make Nadia mad. She scrub floor. Always scrubbing. I get towel. Where did I leave towel?"

Vance came closer and Sasha growled. "What are you hiding back there?"

"Sasha, very protective. Not like stranger near pup. Sasha, stay. Strange man stays, you stay." Mr. Nikolov stepped forward from behind the counter, blocking Vance's view. "Sasha and her pup, we let them sleep, yes?"

"Get out of my way!" Vance pushed Mr. Nikolov toward the front of the store. The store manager grabbed Vance's arm, trying to pull him away from the counter. Vance shoved again, pulled out a gun and shot Mr. Nikolov in the chest. The kind stranger slid down along the windows, his hands against the bullet wound, covered in blood.

This was what the boy had envisioned when his mom described his dad: killed in a hail of gunfire. James had died defending the world, including his son, from the bad guys. Mr. Nikolov couldn't be dead, too. There had to be something he could do. Sasha ran out to be with her owner, and the boy surged out of his hiding place intending to join them.

Vance had been distracted by the large, determined dog. He raised his gun and took aim at Sasha.

"No!" The boy shoved against Vance, making the shot go wild. Sirens could be heard now as Vance hit the boy repeatedly with the gun. He slid into a display of chips and a shelf broke, causing glass shards to cut his already broken arm as he fell. More blood soaked his shirt as he tried to scramble forward, still set on reaching Mr. Nikolov.

"I should have killed you at the park, but I wanted you to be awake for it," Vance said as he squatted down to grab the boy by his feet. Vance swung him along the floor, flipping the boy so that he was on his back. The boy crashed into another display case, and he felt a rib snap before being swung in the opposite direction. This time his head hit the steel corner of the counter and there was a horrific crack of bone breaking again. He went completely limp and could feel a warm pool of blood spreading from beneath his head. He couldn't see it, but by now he recognized the smell of blood.

His eyes were closed and he couldn't open them. He couldn't move, could barely hear the footsteps rushing in and the orders to put the gun down. Someone took Vance away.

"The child, he isn't breathing," Mr. Nikolov rasped.

Still stunned from the blow to his head, the boy realized he needed to breathe. How do you breathe? He'd never thought about it before, but the lack of air hurt.

How do you breathe? He concentrated and with every bit of energy he had, took a very small breath. It was so hard.

"It's clear. Bring in the medics."

More footsteps. A hand on his chest. "Still warm, but not breathing. God, I hate when it's a kid."

"The store has surveillance cameras pointed in this direction. The guy won't get away with it."

"Well, that's something, anyway."

The boy heard Sasha's nails clicking on the linoleum. He felt her cool nose against his face, and heard her whine.

"No, stay away from him. What's the dog's name?"

"Sasha," gasped Mr. Nikolov. "Come here, girl. Sasha, stay."

"Thanks, but try to stay still, sir. You'll be okay if you can hold still and let us stop the bleeding."

"We're going to start processing the scene over here, officer, if you're done."

"Yeah. Just don't let anyone follow you inside. Word is the kid's mom is out there and she doesn't know yet. Get your photos and then we'll clean him up a bit before we ask her to identify him."

"He's just a boy," Mr. Nikolov said on a sob. "Just a little boy."

"I know. Hush, Mr. Nikolov."

Sasha walked over again. The boy tried one more time to remember how to breathe. It shouldn't be this hard. The dog whined.

"You gotta get out of the way, girl. Let me finish the chalk outline and then we'll move him out of this mess."

She whined again and the boy finally managed another breath.

"Whoa! Juan, get over here. The kid's trying to breathe."

"You think he survived that?" The medic's voice grew louder as he got closer.

"No kidding. I saw his chest move."

Someone lifted an eyelid and shone a light. A hand ran over his torso. "Too many broken bones for chest compressions, it'll be a miracle if he doesn't have a punctured lung by the time we lift and transport him. Mirabelle, this one needs oxygen!"

"I thought there was just one..." started a female voice. "The kid's alive? God! I'll be right back!" Her voice was faint as the store's door closed behind her. "Bring the other stretcher, now! Get a move on!"

"He going to be okay, Juan?"

Juan was running his hands along the boy's head, seeking the source of the pool of blood. He found it, and the boy found enough energy to whimper. "That's a skull fracture. Hurts doesn't it? We're going to get you to a hospital and take care of you. Do me a favor, and breathe? Like you did before. I know it isn't easy but you gotta try. That's right. Good boy."

As they moved him onto the stretcher his head swam and it was harder to keep track of what people were saying. There was a bump as they maneuvered the stretcher out the door, and that jostling was the final straw. Enveloped in pain, he passed out. The last thing he remembered hearing was his mother scream right after the chimes sounded to let him know he was leaving the building.

###

"Neal!" Henry ran over from his chair to shake his cousin. "Don't you dare pass out!"

"He's tired, Henry," said Noelle. "He's falling asleep."

"Not until we get his head back in the here and now," Henry insisted.

Satchmo hopped back onto the sofa beside Neal and whined. Neal roused enough to pat the dog. "Sasha?"

"No, it's Satchmo. C'mon, kiddo. Come all the way back. We're at Peter's cabin, remember?"

"Peter..." Neal squinted, and then opened his eyes fully to look at Peter. "You're here?"

Peter stood up and moved closer. "That's right." He kept his voice calm and even, not only for Neal but also for Henry, who seemed on the verge of panic.

"Why didn't you stop him, Peter? You could have stopped Vance."

"I wish I could've, Neal. I'd give just about anything to be able to go back and stop him. But that was almost sixteen years ago. It's all a memory, and I can't change it."

"Vance wasn't here?" Neal asked.

"Vance is dead," Henry said. "He died in prison and he's never going to hurt anyone again. You're here with us now, at Peter's cabin, remember?"

Neal nodded. "Cabin." He yawned. "'m tired."

"Yeah, just a sec and we'll make up the bed." Henry zipped across the room and with El's help opened up the sofa into a bed. They had the sheets and blankets in place in minutes, and then Peter guided Neal over. He was asleep almost as soon as he lay down.

Henry took a deep breath of relief, but he was still practically vibrating with nerves. "Okay. We'll make up the other sofa for me and call it a night."

"Not so fast," said Peter. "You aren't going to rush us out of here without telling us what had you scared about Neal falling asleep after finishing his story."

"Sit down, Henry," said Noelle. When he sank into the sofa beside her, she put her arm around her son. "I know there's more to the story than Neal was able to tell us tonight, and I want to hear it from him. But Peter's right to be concerned about you. You aren't going to get a wink of sleep as tense as you are right now. What did you think was going to happen if we'd let Neal fall asleep without grounding him in the present day?"

"I was afraid he wouldn't wake up."

"Why not?" Noelle asked.

"Because by the time the ambulance reached the hospital, he was in a coma. And he didn't wake up for twelve days."

Noelle held Henry close, rubbing his back until he relaxed a bit. "You know he isn't going to fall into a coma again, any more than he's going to wake up with a broken arm. The memories are intense. I understand why you worry. I even love you for it." She kissed his brow. "Try to get some rest, sweetheart."

They made up the second sleeper sofa as quietly as they could, but Neal was sleeping too soundly to be woken by a little creaking. Noelle and Elizabeth headed upstairs while Peter added a couple more logs to the fire. Alone with Henry he said, "Your mom's the expert. You should listen to her and get some sleep."

"Mmm." Henry stared into the fire.

"You're planning to watch him all night anyway, aren't you?"

"Yeah." Looking up to see that the upstairs bedroom doors were closed, Henry ignored the bed that had been made up for him and sat beside Neal. He crossed his arms and looked up at Peter, silently daring him to argue.

Peter couldn't. After that story, he also wanted someone to make sure Neal kept breathing through the night. He checked his watch. "Tell you what. I'll come down after four hours and take a shift. That way you can tell your mom in the morning that you followed orders and got some sleep."

It took Henry a moment to process the fact that Peter wasn't going to object. "Uh, yeah. Okay. Thanks."

Peter went upstairs. It was only three hours later that Neal's screams woke everyone.

A/N: My apologies to any EMTs. I'm sure it's very rare for a medic to mistakenly think a patient is dead.

For anyone who has experienced or witnessed abuse, you have my heartfelt sympathies. I don't have first-hand experience, but friends have shared parts of their stories over the years, giving me a shred of insight.

FYI, I used "the boy" in these scenes for two reasons. The first is to allow Neal to distance himself from distressing memories. The second is to reduce the confusion that could be caused by switching back and forth between the names Neal and Danny, which was Neal's name in WITSEC.