Neal's loft, Manhattan, NY. December 21, 2003. Sunday morning.

The day had been filled with so much mental stimulation that Neal's mind refused to shut down and sleep. As a result, he was craving hot tea around 2am. There was a ritual to making a perfect cup of tea that he found calming. Often he didn't even drink it; by the time it was prepared, he simply breathed the fragrant steam and relaxed.

Tonight, he faced a quandary, because he hadn't purchased tea when he went grocery shopping. However, there was a fully stocked kitchen on the first floor, just waiting to be plundered. He chuckled, reminded of his conversation with Mozz about Beowulf, which had to be the reason he'd thought the word plundered. He should have asked if Mozz was on the side of Beowulf or Grendel.

Neal was wearing all black. Did that associate him with the bad guys? Personally, he still thought of his dark clothing as cat-burglar attire. His days of thefts were officially behind him, but it wouldn't hurt to practice his skills by going downstairs to look for tea. He was certain he could pull it off without waking June or Byron.

By habit, he'd made note of which stairs creaked when he'd traipsed up and down them throughout the day, and navigated now them in silence. He had excellent night vision and didn't need more than the light filtering through the windows and hallways to find his way to the kitchen.

The kitchen itself was the trickiest part to navigate, it was massive, dark, and unknown — Neal had never entered the room and didn't know his way around. Having made it this far, it should be safe to switch on the lights. Before he could reach for them, he heard a sound that was barely enough warning to squint his eyes so he wasn't blinded when the lights came on. "I'd never have known you were there if it weren't for the squeaky wheel," Neal said.

"I need to oil it," Byron said. "Or maybe it isn't worth the trouble. I'm losing my edge."

"Not as far as I could tell. I had no idea you were there until the last second. I guess I'm not as stealthy as I thought."

"If I hadn't been looking out the door of my room, I'd never have noticed you going by." Byron shook his head. "June would tell me to take one of the pills that's supposed to help me sleep, but I don't have many good days left. I want to be awake and doing things while I still can."

"I'm having a bout of insomnia myself. I thought making a cup of tea would help."

"Left-hand side. Upper cabinet, next to the sink."

Neal opened the cabinet and found several varieties. "Oolong. Do you want some?"

"Why not?" Byron wheeled over to a butcher-block table at the end of the kitchen island. The room was long but narrow, with quartz countertops that reminded Neal of glaciers — white with an underlying blue tone. The appliances were stainless steel, and the cabinets were the same rich brown as the paneling throughout the house.

Neal filled a kettle with water and turned on the stove. He leaned against the island and said, "That music room isn't just for looks. I could tell when we were moving them around that the instruments are well-loved. Which ones do you play?"

"We bought the piano for our daughters when they took lessons. I can noodle around on it, but the trumpet's my baby. When I met June, I was part of a jazz band playing in a club, and she filled in for our usual singer. Dream a Little Dream of Me. That's the first song we performed together."

June stepped into the room, wearing a royal blue velour robe and slippers. "It was the first song we danced to after our wedding, too."

"I hope we didn't wake you," Neal said.

"I couldn't sleep, and thought I'd check on Byron." She sat on a chair beside the kitchen table. "Stormy Weather was a favorite song, too."

"We used that one as a signal," Byron said. "Started humming it during a job if we saw a cop or some other danger, to warn everyone in the crew to scramble." He shook his head. "Where did the time go? I haven't picked up my trumpet since..."

June put an arm around him.

"Since I got sick," he finished. "Damn disease keeps taking away my life, and I'm tired of letting it. Junebug, let's go listen to some live jazz after Christmas."

She looked surprised.

"I know," Byron said. "I hate running into our old friends and having to explain why I need the wheelchair, but that's better than being house-bound with nothing to do. Let's go out while we can."

The kettle whistled and Neal took it off the burner. "Do you want tea, June? I'm making oolong."

Half an hour later, they were laughing over one of Byron's stories when he said, "Why don't you fetch me that trumpet, Neal? I want to give it a proper farewell."

They all went into the music room, and Neal carried the trumpet from where it was stored on a shelf. "Is this the one you played in the clubs?" he asked.

"That's right." Byron took the trumpet out of its case and inspected it. Then he held it to his lips and played a few notes. "Not bad. I should have done this sooner, but let's see what I can still do."

"What'll it be?" Neal asked.

"A Christmas tune, in honor of our decorations. I heard you singing this one at the hospital. Will you join in?"

"Of course."

Byron played "O, Holy Night." Neal sang along, and so did June. Byron's notes were strong and true, but after one verse he had to stop. He was breathing heavily. "Damn it. Not that long ago... I could have played the whole song. I hate this."

Neal glanced at June, wondering if he should leave or apologize for encouraging Byron to tell stories about his jazz days. The man was so frustrated now.

June put her hand over Byron's. "I'm glad you played it again, even for a little bit."

Byron was still catching his breath, and Neal said, "I didn't play that song the day we met."

"We heard you a few days earlier," June explained. "We slipped into the room after you started, and you were surrounded by children."

"I remember. I was helping a friend who delivers flowers to the hospital and met a young patient. She's a kindred spirit and an escape artist, like me. I noticed her peeking out of a closet and used a song to bring her out of hiding."

Byron's breathing was closer to normal and he put the instrument back in its case. He held it out to Neal. "Find a new home for it. I can't stand thinking of this old friend sitting around gathering dust when I'm gone."

June took a sharp breath.

"You know I'm not going to play it again. I want it to go to someone who'll use it."

"I'll check around," Neal promised.

Tears gathered in Byron's eyes, and as Neal walked up the first flight of stairs he heard the man sobbing. His voice barely carried to Neal's ears. "It's not fair," he said.

Neal couldn't make out June's response, but her voice was sad, too.

Sunday morning.

Neal woke up with a gasp. He sat up and ran his hands through his hair.

Not the most restful first night in his new loft, but at least he hadn't experienced one of his nightmares. This had been mild, a mere bad dream.

It was nearly 10am, and he decided to fix breakfast. Being up and about would help him shake the dream.

Or it should. But making an omelet brought back memories of his mom. She used to linger over breakfast, and had been the one to show him the proper method to fold an omelet. That had been back when he was in elementary school, during a dry period. By the time he'd reached sixth grade, she was drinking again.

He wasn't going to think about it, he told himself. He sat down with a glass of orange juice and the omelet, intent on thinking about something else. Byron. The man was a treasure trove of stories, and Neal looked forward to hearing more. What a life the man had lived — the heists, the cons, the music, the arrests, and then changing his direction to focus on life with his family. It didn't seem like he had any regrets, other than getting sick, and that was beyond his control.

Alcoholism is a disease.

Neal tried to shut out the voice in his head. Ellen had repeated the mantra, every time his mom went into rehab. It was a disease, Ellen explained, and his mom was seeking treatment.

After being away for six years, he'd returned to St. Louis and talked to Ellen earlier this month. She'd told him his mom finally found a treatment that worked. She'd been dry for years, apparently.

This morning's dream had been based on a memory. In sixth grade, he'd finally participated in his school's production of A Christmas Carol. His mom had taken the afternoon off to attend. Even though she'd started drinking again before Thanksgiving, she'd been pretty good about holding off until she got home from work, which meant she usually wasn't driving impaired, but that day... She must have knocked back a few drinks as soon as she left work, probably in lieu of eating lunch. Neal didn't smell the alcohol on her, so she'd been smart enough to hide that, at least, before going to his school. But when she drove them back home after the play, it became clear that her reflexes and concentration weren't what they should be. She barely avoided slamming into another car.

That's when Neal realized it was getting bad again.

Instead of fixing the promised celebratory dinner after the play, his mom slumped on the sofa, turned on the TV, and fell asleep. Neal called Ellen, who said she'd make sure Meredith got help. Days later, Meredith was in her second round of rehab, and Neal was staying with Ellen. The details came back to him with startling clarity.

It wasn't until his second night of staying at Ellen's house that she remembered. "Danny, your play!" she said. "I'm so sorry. I wanted to ask all about it, and then everything..." she waved her hands rather than mention his mother's drinking. "How did it go?"

Danny shrugged. "Okay. I mean, I didn't forget any lines."

Ellen smiled at the reminder he'd chosen a part that famously had no lines. "I thought you wanted to be the Ghost of Christmas Past. How'd you end up being the Ghost of Christmas Future?"

"That's when I was a little kid," Danny said. "I thought it would be cool to see the past, since Mom would never talk about it. You know, like to see my dad and stuff."

Ellen nodded.

"And then..." Danny's heart raced, the way it always did when the subject of his abduction came up. His mind had worked hard to put the memories behind a wall, but the feelings of terror sometimes slipped out. "It didn't seem so cool anymore. I'd rather know what's going to happen next." If he'd known Vance wanted to kill him, was planning to abduct him, was there anything he could have done to avoid it?

"You're a lot like your mom."

Danny stared at her, shocked. "Am I going to be an alcoholic, too?"

Ellen took his hand. "I didn't mean that. Don't worry about that, Danny. If you have issues with alcohol we'll get you help sooner and it won't be as bad as it is with your mom. I promise." She took a breath. "I meant the way she doesn't like to think about the past."

"Because my dad died?"

Ellen paused. "Because of your dad, yes."

In the present, Neal wondered if Ellen had been tempted to tell him the truth then. In the end it had been Ellen, and not his mother, who'd told him James wasn't dead.

Rarely did Neal feel he had much in common with his mother, but he had to admit Ellen was right about their mutual avoidance of the past. Learning her husband had murdered someone, that she'd have to leave behind her life and friends and family to stay safe from his enemies — it was a trauma his mother had hidden, and it took a toll on her.

Like the abduction.

He silenced that thought. He wasn't going to think about it, about how the flashbacks had become more frequent, and how the wall he'd built in his mind at the age of nine was crumbling.

Unlike his mother, who'd seemed frozen in time, he'd been inspired by the Ghost of Christmas Future, the one with the ability to show Scrooge what might have been, and thus changing the course of his life.

It wasn't that different from what Peter had done, Neal realized. He'd served as a reminder of what awaited if Neal didn't change his path. The FBI had been on his heels, and Peter was a formidable agent with the smarts to catch him eventually. But he'd done more than point out Neal's current trajectory, he'd also illuminated another path to consider. It wasn't an easy path, but Neal was glad for the chance and determined not to blow it.

Wanting to think about something else, Neal checked his watch and decided it was late enough to call Henry.

The "mmfff — what?" with which Henry answered the call indicated it might not have been late enough.

"Are you gonna sleep all day?" Neal asked.

"Up all night tailing someone for Win-Win, so yeah, that was the idea." Henry yawned.

Neal filled him in on the conversation with Byron. "Any thoughts on who might need a trumpet?"

"Not offhand, but I know who could point you in the right direction. There's a guy I've been meaning to send you to. The name's Randy Weston. He owns a music shop near your new stomping grounds. Hold on a sec." There was a sound of footsteps and a drawer opening. "Yeah. Here's the address."

Neal wrote it down. "Thanks. I wish you'd been here last night. I like to think I'm good with people — a con artist has to be, right? — but I had no idea what to do for Byron."

"You've heard about the stages of grief?"

"Yeah, that's pretty common knowledge."

"The thing is, most people think it's describing what you go through when someone close to you dies. I mean, it does apply, but the psychologists who originally wrote about the stages were describing what someone goes through when they learn they're dying. You gotta let Byron work through those stages. It's normal. And the stages aren't something a person just powers through and never revisits. Often people go through them in cycles. Something happens and it triggers the anger cycle again."

"Like realizing he can't play the trumpet the way he used to."

"Exactly. That was an iteration taking him back to anger and through acceptance, knowing he won't play the trumpet again and wanting to give it a new home. So, you don't go around trying to trigger the cycles for him, you know? But you don't try to shut him down when it happens, either. Let him work through it, and be patient. Listen if he wants. Give him privacy if he wants."

"Got it. Thanks."

"Sure. Any more dreams about being a passenger in a car?"

Neal froze.

"Must have been a doozy," Henry said.

"Different driver this time," Neal said. "Nearly crashed."

"Feeling even more out of control. Interesting. I wonder what we can do to put you in the driver's seat."

"Are any of us really in the driver's seat?"

"Have you been talking to Mozzie again?"

Neal smiled. "Yeah. We were talking about fate, you know, whether I chose to work for the FBI or was fated to." There was a beep in the background. "Tell me you're not nuking coffee. Don't you have a coffee maker?"

"I'm desperate for caffeine," Henry said. "Anyway, back to your question, I'm on the side of making your own path."

"Interesting, given you're following what your dad thinks is your destiny, working in the family business."

"Don't worry about that. I have a plan."

"You keep saying that," Neal complained. "When are you going to tell me about it?"

"When you've had more time to see how things are going at the FBI. That could change the plan."

"So, you're master of your own fate, and mine too?"

"You don't have to follow my plan."

"Yeah, right."

"According to my dad, your fate is to spend the rest of your life in prison as a hardened criminal. Believe me, my plan is better than fate, for both of us."

"One of your plans got me arrested in Las Vegas," Neal reminded him.

"I've learned a lot more finesse," Henry promised.

Neal thought back a few years. He'd run away from home when he was almost eighteen, and a twenty-year-old Henry had found him and saved his life. They'd traveled together on a multi-year road trip, getting by with cons, petty thefts, and playing music. A self-styled big brother, Henry had taken it on himself to teach Neal how to get by on his own. He'd also preferred to be the driver most of the time. Neal chuckled.

"What?"

"I'm thinking of all the times we squabbled over the radio when we were traveling together, slapping each other's hands away from the controls. It's just... saying you have 'more finesse,' it implies you ever had any. Doubtful."

"Fine." Henry huffed out a breath. "I'm less of a bull in a china shop."

"But still bull-headed."

"At Win-Win we call that leadership."

They both laughed, but despite his kidding, Neal knew the truth. Henry had a lot of finesse. He'd been a psychology major before dropping out of college, and eventually had earned an advanced degree. He might be stubborn about things and pretend to be straightforward in his goals, but he combined his skills at chess and poker to manipulate things the way he wanted. As a poker player, he could read the room and figure out what his opponents were up to. As a chess player, he planned a dozen moves ahead, with multiple contingencies. If he had a weakness, it was an unwillingness to share his plans with his partners, instead preferring a grand reveal when he felt the moment was right.

"You'll let me know if you need help, right?" Neal asked. "If things don't work out at Win-Win, you don't have to deal with the fallout alone."

"I'll be fine." Henry paused, probably drinking instant coffee. "You didn't say who was driving in your dream this time."

"Not you."

"Too bad. At least you'd have been in good hands."

A/N: I'm not a psychology expert. A few years ago, I read that the Kubler-Ross model (a.k.a the five stages of grief) describes what a person goes through when they learn they are dying, rather than what we experience when a loved one dies. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and David Kessler also wrote a book named On Grief and Grieving, which I found helpful after losing my mother.

On to happier topics... In the next chapter Neal remembers the first Christmas after he ran away from home, and we hear from Peter again.