The early morning light was spreading across the sky in a magnificent display of colour. Rivers of light hit the hilltops as the men ran towards them. They were so intent, immersed in their training, none of them looked up.

Jogging through the pain in his side, Robert Hawkins stopped to look at the sky. He took in a few ragged breaths, pinching his side and staring at the endless sunrise. Though he had just as much focus on the next mission as he always did, he had returned to Jericho determined to notice every morning sky.

It stung, but he closed his eyes as he breathed in the early summer air. Suddenly, he heard shouts coming from the hill. He opened his eyes, looking over to where his men had gathered. He couldn't tell what they were shouting about, and he didn't care. He ran towards the confrontation.

As he neared them, it took only a second to recognize Stanley Richmond at the centre of the circle of men, shouting and turning red in the face. He was advancing towards another man, Josh Beckett, who was at least a foot shorter than him, but attempting to hold his ground. The other men in the group had gathered around them, and it seemed they were attempting to placate Stanley.

Hawkins gritted his teeth. This would not be the first time Stanley Richmond had interrupted a training session like this. He'd heard that another session had ended with Stanley almost coming to blows with another ranger, and Jake had barely managed to keep the peace. He had confronted Jake about this later, tried to warn him of the dangers of letting that sort of thing happen, and Jake had reacted in typical Jake fashion, insisting that he could handle Stanley. Jake wasn't here today and Hawkins' patience was running low.

He strode into the group of men, not needing to shove his way through as the crowd parted for him. Stanley seemed to be the only one not taking notice of his advancing presence, still walking menacingly towards Josh.

Hawkins stepped around him so that he was standing on Stanley's left. “That's enough,” he said in a quiet voice.

Stanley looked a little startled by Hawkins, but couldn't stop himself from shouting “I'm not taking any more crap from this guy!” He reached out an arm, and Hawkins grabbed it quickly, wrenching it away from the would-be target.

“I said that's enough!” growled Hawkins, in a voice that was louder and no less threatening than his first warning.

Stanley yanked his arm out of Hawkins' grasp, and glowered. “I'm done with this!”

“That's right, you-” Hawkins began, but Stanley was already storming away. He took a step after him.

Stanley reached the bottom of the small hill and stood, his hands in fists at his side. He stayed strangely still for what seemed an eternity, before sinking abruptly down on the hill top.

When it became clear he wasn't moving, Hawkins took a few more steps until he was standing only a few feet away. “Why don't you sit here for a while, think things over,” said Hawkins, in a tone that the others couldn't pick up from where they stood.

Stanley didn't answer, just yanked a particularly tall weed out of the ground and pulled it apart in his hands.

Hawkins turned and went back to his team of rangers. Many were new recruits and while it tried every last ounce of patience in him to do this job, he hadn't been able to say no to Jake. He wasn't in any condition yet to resume his old work, and this was a way to prepare the people for what was coming next. As much as it pained him to hear them exclaim over their 'skills' when they avoided disaster by chance, or to see them waste ammunition as they missed the targets he'd set up for them in the fields, part of him was glad to do this. He had a respect for these people, who had survived the nine levels of hell that had sprung up on their part of the planet. It had been partly thanks to him, he knew, but it had been them too. They'd rolled up their sleeves, pulled food from the ground, made their own light and heat, and carried each other through battlefields.

Though he had put the mission, the greater good, above all else, it didn't escape his attention completely that these were the people for whom he'd done this. The millions who were gone were his loss, his failure. These were the ones who were still here, and he would do what he could to help them survive the next peril ahead of them. Most of them would never know the depth of his skills, his knowledge, and the dangerous truth he had once hidden under their noses. But he would teach them what he could, while he was still able.

He turned to the group of them, standing there staring at him. “What are you looking at me for?”

They had done this course many times. They turned and started running across the field.

He almost ran after them, ignoring the stinging reminder of his recent injury. He found himself turning to look back down the hill. Stanley sat, his legs spread out in front of him, curled arms against his knees. For a moment, Hawkins was reminded of Sam sitting in the sandbox after a temper tantrum, years before any of this started. He immediately pushed the thought out of his head, and began to run after the others.

It kept nagging at him with each step he took, and his side continued to smart with pain, as if to chastise him, but for what, he didn't know. Finally, with a growl of disgust at himself, he shouted to the runner ahead of him that he would meet them back at the base point.

He turned and began walking back to Stanley. He did need to give him a warning, he reasoned with himself. He stopped when he was right behind the seated figure, his shadow stretching across the grass.

“Look, I'm sorry,” muttered Stanley. “He's been on my case all morning-”

“I don't care,” said Hawkins. This time, Stanley caught the authority in his tone and kept himself from speaking. “This is not some after-school activity. When you come out here with me, you've got to leave all that at home.”

“I know,” said Stanley darkly. “I know.”

Hawkins shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The pain in his side eased a fraction. “If I've got to worry that you're going to go off at any moment, I can't have you out here.”

“I have to do this!” countered Stanley, emotion rising in his voice.

“That may be, but I've got to put the safety of the group ahead of anything you may need-”

“No, you don't get it. I have to protect this town. After what they've done for me...and I've got a family.”

Hawkins almost threw out a retort, but he paused. This was where his close encounters with these people were making his job difficult. It would be so much easier if he hadn't helped the rangers hide Stanley in the garage. If he hadn't heard Darcy speak about Mimi Clark's surgery and recovery so often.

“I have one too,” he said slowly. “And I've come to learn that the best way to protect them is to do my job. To keep my head.”

“I don't want to be here,” said Stanley. “I just wanted to live my life. I thought we would be happy. Shouldn't have been so stupid.”

Had any of the other rangers or new recruits been present, Hawkins might not have given a kind answer. If he stopped to let everyone lament what their world had become, they would never finish a session. Now, it was only the two men, the hill and the sky. “None of us wants this. We all wish it weren't this way,” he said. “But it's what it is.”

“I thought I could keep them away myself. Scare 'em, stand on the porch with my shotgun. Stay inside, Bonnie and Mimi!” His voice cracked, and he stared down at the ground.

Hawkins was silent. He was much better at dealing with Jake's unpredictable whims, or Jimmy's bumbling efforts. Though he was inclined to give him tough advice, he couldn't help thinking about his own family.

He couldn't explain, not even to Darcy, the way he had once readied himself for the tasks ahead. He'd known all the dangers as he went in, and he had found a way to remove himself from the equation. That meant part of him- part that might enjoy the smell of coffee, laugh at a co-worker's story, or imagine a perfect place to take his daughter and son on a picnic- would have to cease to exist. He had had a sense, since he had begun his mission four years ago, that his time in the world might not go on for very long, so he didn't want to be attached to it.

After the bombs, he'd been focused on protecting his family, and salvaging what was left of his work. Waiting at the rally-point, getting his hands on information at an agonizingly slow pace, and with his family in such close quarters, he'd felt that other part of him rising to the surface. He'd found himself indulging its whims- playing football with Sam, thinking with bemusement at how grown up Allie had become, and staring across the table at Darcy. He'd found a way to suppress it, though, when the army had come, and the mission had accelerated. He'd stolen moments, for sure, but he hadn't let his ties to life get in the way.

Now, he'd been to the brink of death and back. Everything he'd ever expected had come to pass. He'd completed his task, made his sacrifice. The end had come. And gone. It was so strange, to face each morning. Now there was a different set of dangers ahead; ones he hadn't expected, and for which he hadn't completely prepared. There were still the skills he had, the work that needed to be done, the difficult times their country would face. There would be more moments with his children, conversations with Darcy, townspeople worming their way into his life, and sunrises. He wasn't sure he would be able to separate them. He would have to take them all at once.

“You know, maybe you should take some time. Talk with your friends. Go be with your wife.”

Stanley shook his head. “I need to protect her.”

He almost said, “You are not doing that when you lose it over Josh Beckett's ill advised joking,” but instead, he said, “I know.”

Stanley's brow was furrowed. He was still angry, but he was thinking. “Everyone else has lost things too. I'm not just giving up and sitting at home.”

“I'm not saying you should,” said Hawkins. “I'm just saying, take a break. Sort things out. We'll need you, but we'll need you with a head on your shoulders. Go, think about things. Don't lose sight of what you've got.”

Stanley nodded. He was still pulling thick blades of grass apart in his hands.

Hawkins stretched, his hands on his waist, and looked out at the sky. “You know, the sunrise never looked quite like this in St. Louis.”

Stanley glanced up, squinting in the light.

“I've got to catch up with the group. Think about it,” said Hawkins. He turned and ran down the hill.

He pushed the door open with his shoulder, and it swung shut behind him. The small room was already filled with coats, hanging on railings overhead and to either side of the doorway. Most people had already hung up their outerwear and gone to take their seats. He searched for a place nearby to hang up the coats he held, but he had to walk around the circular rack in the middle of the room. Letting out a sigh, he leaned on the wooden counter the coat-takers used to use for events, forgetting it was on wheels. He shouted with surprise as it slid away from him and he lost his balance, and nearly jumped out of his skin as someone laughed from the back corner.

Perched on a chair against the wall, her hands on her knees, Mimi kept laughing as he gathered up the jackets he'd dropped.

“Mimi! Why didn't you say anything to let me know you were in here?” He said shakily, his eyes widened.

“I would have, but I'm sitting in the best hiding spot in the room, in amongst some really ugly coats, so of course, letting you know I'm here is a big priority for me.” She stopped laughing and looked him up and down. “Awful lot of jackets, Jake. I wouldn't say red was your best colour, though.”

He glanced down at the red hood he held in his hands. “I just- grabbed them from a bunch of people. You know, Mom, Mary,” he said, pointing at each jacket as he named its owner. “Mrs. Dawson, Eric, Mrs. McVeigh-” he trailed off as he noticed she was eyeing him with an annoying grin.

“What?” he asked, somewhat irritably.

“I think maybe I'm not the only one hiding in here,” she said.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, feeling antagonized by the smug look on her face. “Why's that? Can't a guy help out?”

“Not that you're not normally town hero and everything, but you usually let Eric hang up his own damn coat.”

He chuckled to himself. She kept watching him appraisingly from her seat amidst the sea of wool and polyester. “So what are you doing in here? Come on, this coat room's not big enough for the both of us.”

“Hey, I discovered this hiding place long before you ever got here,” he smirked.

She was quiet for a moment, and for the first time, he smiled at her. “Who are you hiding from?” he asked.

She waved a hand. “Oh, that gaggle of church ladies that suddenly want to follow me around whenever I go out in public.”

He smiled sardonically. “You probably have my Mom to thank for that. She was so excited for you the other night, she's been talking about it ever since.”

She shook her head. “No, I definitely have Stanley to thank for that. I probably could've gone at least another month before people started noticing, maybe two since it's winter, but he had to go blabbing the 'good news' all over town.”

“Well, you know how it is with good news. They don't get much, so when they do they kinda-”

“Descend like vultures?” supplied Mimi.

“Yeah,” he said. He couldn't help laughing at her expression, since he was so used to experiencing the same phenomenon himself.

“They all keep trying to give me advice and offers to knit booties and sew diapers.” She wrinkled her nose. “And yesterday, that woman that works with your mother-”

“Mrs. Harvey?”

“Yeah. She tried to give me delivery tips. I was hoping to get through at least one month before I had to think about that.”

Jake chuckled softly. “Give them time. It'll die down when something else catches their interest.”

“Speaking of which, who are you hiding from?” she asked, remembering what she had asked earlier before he'd distracted her.

“No one,” he grumbled.

“Oh, you're just hanging out in the coat room instead of taking your seat which is no doubt reserved for you in the front row.”

“I'll be in there in a minute.”

“Uh huh. So, which one of them are you hiding from?” Mimi persisted.

“I'm not,” he said, his tone more forceful than he had intended. Mimi didn't shrink back as some might, but blinked her eyes as if to flick away the hostility thrown in her direction.

His face softened a little as he looked away. He stared at the grainy pattern on the counter top. “It's just- don't you think it's weird?”

She was silent for a moment. His question had strangely caught her off guard, even though she had, in truth, asked it herself a few times. “I don't know.”

He brushed a hand across his forehead. “I know, it's a time-honoured tradition,” he said, in a slightly sarcastic tone. “I know that. I remember when my dad used to give the opening speech. And he'd lead everyone singing the national anthem at the end.”

She sat quietly, contemplating what he was saying. He continued to study the counter top. After a moment, he said, “You know, my mom blackmailed me into playing 'farmer number two' one year. When I was ten or eleven, I think.”

Her eyes widened. “You? In the plaid shirt-overalls get-up? What did she have on you?”

“Something about selling Dad's mug collection at Emily's mom's yard sale. Anyway, I thought I would never live it down. There was this reception after, and I hid out to avoid having to talk to all the church ladies- or my friends.”

“Well, I'm sure your mom was very proud.”

“Yeah. And she chased me around with a camera. Wanted a shot of me and Eric together in our costumes.” He smiled in spite of himself.

“What was he? Farmer number three?”

“He played our Grandpa, actually. Back in his hey-day, when he was the mayor. Miscast, I think, but the whole family got a kick out of it.”

“I bet you were glad you didn't get handpicked to play that part,” she said with a grin.

He nodded. “Yeah, Mom would need something worse to threaten me with before I'd agree to that.”

They both laughed at this, a little too loudly.

“Alright, so you're not running from your mom's camera this time- you're sure you're not running from one of the pageant directors?” she asked, eying him with that annoyingly knowing expression.

He shook his head, firmly. This time, she picked up on his irritation, and surprised him by changing the subject. “They said they'd reserve us seats up front. We could have first pick. I couldn't though. I couldn't be front and centre, with all those people. Stanley didn't want to either. So we're sitting in the front row, but off to the side. I figured out that at least there wouldn't be anyone who could turn around and look at us, and the people in the play won't be able to see us either, if they're looking right ahead.”

“Wait- so Stanley's sitting out there now?” he asked, nodding his head towards the door.

“Yeah. It doesn't seem to bother him to have the church ladies chasing him around.”

“No,” Jake said with a smirk.

“I'll go sit with him when it starts,” she said, with just a hint of guilt.

He nodded, and they both stared down at their hands. “Don't you think it's just...too soon?” he asked.

“The pageant?” she asked, not looking up.

“Yeah,” he answered.

“Well, it's not my first choice for entertainment, but I guess if they want to do something to celebrate today, it's a good thing. It's been a while since there's been anything this normal to force everyone together in one room.” She was thoughtfully staring at a crack in the paint adorning the opposite wall.

“I know,” he sighed. “I mean, I've heard the official explanation a million times, from Mom, and Eric, and even Emily. We're okay today, but this country is still at war. They've told me all the reasons, the bringing people together and wanting to do something to keep the kids occupied. Celebrating the town still being here. I get it. I just wanted to know what you thought. If you think it feels early. For the last part of the play.”

“Oh,” she said, suddenly looking up, as if she hadn't realized exactly what he had meant all along.

“I get that they want to look to history and all that crap. That's what the pageant used to be about. It just seems...I don't know, not the right time for the 'heroes of Jericho' to debut."

“I guess,” she said. “It's hard. But they already showed us what they're going to do.”

He looked at her, imploring her to go on.

“It was alright. At first, I was horrified when I heard they were putting on a play, and what they wanted to include, but the part they showed us, the part about her...it's just a speech.”

“A speech?” he asked in a doubtful voice.

“Didn't they preview it for you?”

“They came to the house, and did part of it for Mom, and Eric. I was busy.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding though he sensed disbelief in her voice. “They did it for us after work, last Tuesday. I thought I was going to hate it, Jake. I was all set to make a bunch of snarky comments, and they'd said if we didn't like it, they'd remove that part.”

“So I guess you liked it?” he asked.

“I turned into a blubbering basket case. I'm probably going to be worse today. I wonder if I can blame it on hormones.”

“But you let them put it in the program?”

“Well, what else could I do? It was obvious someone had worked hard and it wasn't sappy or anything. Besides, it's not like I don't think about it all the time anyway. Hearing other people talk about her...I don't think it can make me feel worse. It might be awful, listening to it in front of everyone, but if they want to do this for her, I didn't think we should stop them.”

She looked on the verge of tears as she finished. “Damnit.” She scrunched up her face. “I was trying to hold off at least until the play starts.”

“Don't worry,” he said, stepping over to pat her arm awkwardly. “The way your 'good news' spread through town this week, everyone will know it's the hormones.”

She rolled her eyes, but whispered, “Thanks.” Sniffing, she asked him, “So if it bothers you, why didn't you say something about it?”

He leaned back against the wall, feeling the coats between his back and the painted surface. “Well, you know, Mom and Eric seemed happy with what they saw. Emily's been bringing it up every time I see her, asking me if I'm okay with it. How could I tell her this bothers me, after all the work she's put into it?”

“What about Heather?”

“She doesn't bring it up at all. It's awkward.”

“She was probably waiting for you to talk about it,” she said in a tone that made it clear it should have been obvious.

“Yeah,” he smirked. “Probably.”

She was quiet again, thinking before she began in a hesitant tone. “They really loved your dad.” At the questioning look he gave her, she continued. “All of them. And they never really did get a chance to do much for him. There was the war with New Bern, then the army, and Ravenwood...”

“And we've still got that same army out there, trying to take back control of the land. A war bigger than we'd ever imagined two years ago. And we stilll get our friends from New Bern dropping by every now and then to be a pain in the ass.”

“So don't you think it's about time?” she asked.

They were both silent, letting her question hang in the air. He leaned against the wall again, putting his hands in his pockets.

“This better not be- I hate funerals,” he muttered.

“Me too,” she said.

“It better not be an obituary,” he said.

“I don't think so,” she said. “Hers wasn't.”

“It made you cry,” he pointed out. “I know, not a difficult accomplishment.”

“Hey,” she protested, her eyes flashing.

“Joking,” he said, wisely refraining from any of the hormone-related jokes running through his mind as he took in her expression. He stood, and began hanging up the jackets he'd wrestled away from his family members.

“My dad was good at these community events. I mean, he actually enjoyed them,” he said, wedging Eric's worn ski jacket between some other coats.

“I can imagine,” she said, a small smile on her face.

“He loved all that stuff they used to do on Founder's day. The pancake breakfast, the ceremony at town hall, the kids' pageant.” He made a face as Mary's woolen coat slipped from the flimsy hanger again. “I can't imagine what he'd say if he found out he was in the pageant himself.”

He chuckled to himself, pushing Mary's coat over to make room for his mother's. “Now that I think about it, though, he'd be pissed if he didn't get included.”

Finally finished with the coats, he held on briefly to the counter-on-wheels.

“Was Bonnie ever in the pageant?” she asked softly.

“Well, by the time she would've been old enough, I would have been way too, um, mature to show up, no matter what dirt my mom had on me. But now that you mention it, I vaguely remember Stanley whining about some costume she was making out of one of his shirts. I don't know if she was playing a night-of-the-living-dead scarecrow or something, but she cut all these holes in it. He was pissed because she hadn't even asked. It was one of his favourite work shirts.”

She laughed, almost hysterically, into her hands.

He stepped back from the counter. “I don't think she'd ever imagine herself in the pageant either, but I think she'd be pretty bummed if you missed her debut.”

“You think?” she asked.

He nodded.

She sighed, folding her hands together in her lap. “I guess I should go out there, before I miss hearing about whoever found this middle-of-nowhere hole and decided it would be a good place to build a town.”

He made an attempt to grin, reaching out his arm. “Here, I'll escort you to your seat. I have experience fending off the members of the women's league.”

She stood and patted his arm quickly, but didn't take it. “Thanks for the offer. I know you probably won't want to come up to the front with us, but I'll accept an escort for the walk down the hall. That's where they wait to ambush you.”

They began to walk towards the door, when two of the coats he'd just finished hanging crumpled to the ground. “Just a minute,” he said, going back over to them.

She stood by the door. “You'd better not leave me hanging, Jake Green. Not with the vultures waiting around the corner.” She said it in a teasing tone, but her eyes were serious.

“Okay,” he said, watching her open the heavy wooden door.

He quickly picked up the stubborn coats. For a moment, he stood still, in the complete silence of the now empty coat closet. He remembered the reason he had come in here in the first place. That other day, so many years ago now, sitting in the corner of this very room. His father finding him, as he'd known he would all along. He'd expected his dad to threaten him, as his mom had, give him a speech about honouring commitments or the importance of knowing one's history, anything but what he'd done. He'd merely stood there amongst the coats, telling his son a story about the time his own father had embarrassed him when he was a kid.

“If I could still go out in public after my old man had made me the square-dancing judge at the senior's social,” he'd said, “then I'm sure someone with as much guts as you have can go out there. No matter how 'lame' his costume is.”

It had been a weak challenge, but Jake had always been susceptible to any challenge, especially from him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he smiled to himself. He'd actually thought he could get away with hiding out here today- without a challenge.

“Alright, I'm going,” he said, to no one in particular. He walked over to the wooden door and opened it.

His spirits sank as he approached the small group sitting on the football field. Tyler Dean was lazily winding a blade of grass around his index finger, his head tilted and a deliberately casual expression on his face. Beside him, Brandon Wasik sat, his large shoulders hunched. He looked up at Sam as he approached, a grin forming on his squashed features. Sitting a short distance from them, her legs crossed beneath her and her back to Sam, was a girl. She turned towards him, a curtain of straight hair falling over her shoulder, and he recognized Julie. She grinned as soon as she saw him.

“Hawkins- didn't know you'd be training with us. Thought they might stick you right up there with the grownups, with big sis running things,” said Tyler. “I guess we should be honoured.”

Sam rolled his eyes, sinking down onto the grass beside Julie, but with a fair bit of distance between them. He probably had been better trained in the skills they'd need for border patrol duty, but he'd been drilled for years on the need for secrecy. It was funny, really, he told himself. Tyler and Brandon were probably looking disdainfully at him because of Allison's reputation, not his father's. Her fast rise from border guard to deputy had, of course, been chalked up to raw talent, honed during the hard times Jericho had faced over the years she'd been there. They had no idea where he and Allison had really gotten their skills. Everyone knew Hawkins as a good deputy, and a good leader, but most of them had no idea of the bigger secrets he had finally imparted to Sam a few years ago.

So he sat, ignoring the looks Tyler and Brandon were sending his direction as he would a mosquito buzzing around his head. Julie, however, had narrowed her eyes. “Don't be an ass,” she said.

Brandon chuckled to himself; Tyler made an exaggerated expression of contrition. “Oh, shit, wouldn't want to offend you.”

Julie fixed her narrowed eyes on him a moment longer, and turned to Sam. “Can you believe we have to start today? I think there's a storm coming.”

The four of them glanced at the sky. It was indeed darkening.

“Anyone know where our leader is? Or who's our leader?” asked Sam.

“I don't know. Scott Nystrom, I think,” she said, as Brandon said, “Looks like he's standing us up. I wouldn't want to train us on a day like today.”

Julie pulled back her hair, holding it off her neck. “I thought Woody was going to sign up?”

“He was,” said Sam, wishing childishly that his best friend had ended up in their group instead of Tyler Dean and his sidekick. “I guess he ended up with a different team.”

“Maybe he got daycare duty instead,” said Tyler. “But I guess he wouldn't either. Not with Daddy picking teams.”

Sam gritted his teeth. “How'd they let you out of the mine anyway?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“What can I say? Someone wanted me,” said Tyler.

“They signed up more of us this year,” said Julie. “The news about Utah is making people nervous.”

Tyler looked annoyed with her for a moment. “Explains how you got picked, Jules.”

Julie merely made an irritated sound.

Tyler smiled at this. Sam sighed. Of course, the more annoyed Julie would get, the more Tyler would be encouraged. He'd seen this between them before- many times, ever since eighth grade. He wasn't eager to sit through more of it.

“Come on, guys,” he said. “We're 'sposed to stop acting like a bunch of idiots now that we're in patrol.”

Tyler didn't seem to hear him. “Really, they must be getting desperate if they let someone in who cried during the seventh grade campout.”

Julie made a sputtering sound. She seemed to be pretending to laugh, but it lost the effect as her eyebrows knit together angrily.

“If Mr. Hubert's stories scare you that much, what are you going to do when all the deer and raccoons and stuff start snapping twigs in the woods?” asked Tyler.

Sam laughed to himself now. “Didn't you almost crap yourself when he told the one about the headless truckdriver?” he directed at Tyler.

Brandon turned, laughing, and pointed a finger at his friend. Julie smiled at Sam, who couldn't help but smile back at her. Tyler's face was more serious.

“Seriously, Jules,” he began. “You'll be so scared. There's lots of ghosts around here. You don't see them when you're working at the day camp, but at night, patrolling the streets and fields by yourself, you're bound to run into them. I just don't think you'll be able to handle it.”

“Ghosts? Oh no, what will I do?” she said with an overdramatic hand to her forehead. Sam grinned, and Brandon snickered.

“You don't believe me?” he asked softly. He was obviously trying for an effect, and Sam thought to himself how funny it was that the sky overhead was darkening, casting them in a shadow.

“This town's full of ghosts. Haven't you heard the stories?” asked Tyler.

“The ones about Bloody Mary and One-Eyed Jack?” asked Julie in a mocking tone.

“Or- the heeeaaad-lessss-truck-driiiiv-er!” said Sam, enunciating each syllable in his creepiest voice. Everyone but Tyler laughed.

“Not those, dumbass,” said Tyler. “The ones from around here. Gracie Leigh, and Old Man Bintner?”

“Those aren't ghost stories!” said Julie.

“Yeah,” said Tyler. “They are. Maybe no one ever told you 'cause they thought you'd cry.”

“Shut up,” said Sam, but Julie had a cautious look on her small features. “What do you mean, they are?” she asked, in what she obviously meant as a skeptical tone.

“You've heard who they were when they lived here-”

“I know who they were! I bought a Mars Bar with my first allowance at Gracie Leigh's. Mrs. Leigh was really nice to me!” Julie's hair whipped around her face as a breeze blew across the field. All four of them leaned back, letting it engulf them.

“I remember when Mrs. Leigh got killed. Everyone was freaking out worse than the bombs,” supplied Brandon.

Sam was quiet. He remembered, vaguely, the time to which they were referring. What he remembered most about that time was being quiet, staying indoors, and wondering every night about the secrets in the house. He'd heard more about Gracie Leigh, and her infamous murder, in the years after it, but at the time, he remembered being inconvenienced as his father had rushed out to find the killer. He had promised to practice football in the backyard.

“But I guess no one ever told you about Gracie Leigh's ghost?” said Tyler.

“No,” said Julie cooly.

“They say she's really pissed 'cause no one ever caught her killer. That's why she can't leave.”

“That's not true. They caught her killer,” said Julie, the conviction in her voice fading as she spoke.

“Well, who was it?” asked Tyler.

“It was...” Julie faltered.

“Jonah Prowse,” said Brandon.

“Or was it?” asked Tyler, grinning at the others' confused faces. “They let him go. Some people still thought it was him, but others weren't sure.”

“If they let him go, it must not have been him,” said Julie.

“Hey, who did do it?” asked Brandon, now puzzled.

“No one knows...except Gracie herself,” said Tyler. “That's why she comes back every night, clanging around the cans in her store and making a big mess. That's why Dale Turner is so weird. He's partly crazy 'cause of her.”

Brandon laughed, but Julie looked unimpressed. “That's stupid,” she said. “I don't believe that.”

“No?” asked Tyler. “Why's Turner so crazy then? Why's he chase kids away from his store with a broom?”

“Because some people-” Julie gave a not-so-subtle nod in Brandon's direction, “try to steal from him.”

“Bull,” said Brandon, but he had a proud sort of grin on his face.

“Okay, you don't believe in good old Gracie, how about Old Man Bintner?” asked Tyler.

“Who's that?” asked Sam dully. He glanced towards the school, wondering what could possibly be taking their leader so long to show up.

“Old Man Bintner used to live on Cooper Street. You might have known him,” he said to Sam. “Near your house.”

“I didn't,” said Sam quickly.

“I forgot, you used to be a hermit. Well, Old Man Bintner lived there for years and years. Probably his whole life. He was a bit of a douchebag, so most of the neighbours avoided him.”

“My father knew him. He said he just liked to do things on his own,” protested Julie.

“Well, that got him screwed. Remember the first winter after the bombs?” Tyler looked around at his reluctant audience. They nodded.

“One night, the temperature dropped really fast. Most people were smart and made fires with whatever wood they had, or went to stay with their friends and shared body heat.” He grinned at Julie, who made a disgusted face. “Old Man Bintner just wanted to be left alone. Next morning, they found him, dead in his own living room.”

Julie's eyes were huge, but she didn't look afraid. Sam thought she looked sad. “That was the first night a bunch of people froze to death?”

Tyler nodded, looking a little embarrassed at the reproachful looks he was getting.

“What does that prove?” asked Sam. “Lots of people died. Lots of people die every year. I don't expect my old teachers and friends from St. Louis to start showing up in my bedroom in the middle of the night and throw cans of spaghetti-o's at my head.”

Julie giggled a little, and he smiled at her.

Tyler watched this with his mouth in an 'o' shape. Shaking his head, he returned to his 'scary story' mode. “He died before we got the windmills. He's jealous of everyone who doesn't have to suffer the same fate as he did. So sometimes, in the houses on Cooper Street, when someone's in a room by themself, especially if it's cold or stormy out and warm inside, their power mysteriously goes out. Sometimes, they even feel a cold hand brush against their neck. It's Old Man Bintner.”

“Come on,” groaned Sam. “I live on Cooper. If that was true, don't you think I'd know?”

Julie still had a doleful expression. Sam guessed she was thinking about poor Old Man Bintner more than eerie gusts of wind blowing out fires.

There was a rumbling in the distance. Tyler looked up at the blackening sky, and seemed to be even more encouraged. “And you know where it's the most haunted in the whole town?”

“Where?” asked Brandon, still obviously immersed in the story.

“The road by Richmond Ranch.”

Everyone was quiet. They all knew the significance of Richmond land in their town's history, and no one wanted to imagine the dead there.

“Seriously, Julie. You wouldn't believe how many ghosts they've got walking around there. Ghosts from Jericho, ghosts from New Bern, even a couple Ravenwood ghosts...”

Sam glared at him. Even Brandon had fallen silent. His father had been badly wounded in the New Bern war.

Tyler continued, undeterred. “Sit out there some night, then. Sit out there by yourself. Listen to all the sounds. They'll drive you crazy after a while. You'll hear the footsteps in the grasses. You can hear 'em whispering to each other. Reloading their guns. Driving the tank...”

The wind had picked up now, and it was whipping Julie's hair in her eyes. Her face was pale. Sam shook his head, thinking of his father's story about driving the tank. Thinking of his father made him think about those early days they'd spent together, that year after the bombs.

“Hey, I think I've heard that story,” he said suddenly, trying to hide his grin.

“What?” asked Tyler, clearly surprised he was willing to play along.

“Yeah, I have,” said Sam, trying to send Julie a covert smile. “All the guys, and girls, from our town and their town, all marching around whispering to each other. I've heard about that- and I've heard why they're still there.”

“Yeah?” asked Tyler. He apparently had not expected this, and, Sam wondered gleefully to himself whether Tyler had even heard a story or had been making it up on the spot.

“See, they've got some unfinished business. It's keeping them there, because they've never got to finish it. Some dumbass border guard is always getting in the way.”

Julie was giving him a quizzical look now, and Brandon was leaning in to listen. Tyler was also watching with a dumbfounded expression, surprised that Sam would jump in at all.

“When they're walking across the field, gathered together, it's because they're planning something...”

“Yeah?” asked Brandon in a tone so low it could almost be a whisper.

“They're planning...a football game.”

Sam hid a grin at their mystified expressions. No one said anything for a moment. Then, out of the blue, Brandon burst into laughter.

“A football game!”

Julie was taken by a fit of the giggles, and Sam joined her. The only one not laughing was Tyler, who seemed to be figuring out how his scary story had slipped out of his control and become a punch line.

“Well, that was a season they never got to finish,” said Sam, to roars of laughter from the other two. “Every fall, when we're busy harvesting crops, they're planning how they're going to kick each other's asses.”

“Bet that's why Mrs. Richmond is always yelling about people tracking mud on her porch. She doesn't know the football ghosts keep doing it!” snorted Brandon. This was met by peals of laughter, even from Tyler.

A large clap of thunder sounded directly over their heads.

Julie gave a mild shriek, and dissolved into laughter again. “We won't tell Mrs. Richmond it's you!” she shouted up at the black sky.

“Careful you don't let our leader see you do that. I don't think they want people on border patrol who scream at thunder,” said Tyler.

“They probably want people who are old enough not to believe in ghosts,” retorted Julie, as the thunder sounded again.

Sam looked up, and could see over at the playground in the distance, the children from the day camp running towards the school. Glancing at the nearer building, he could see a figure coming towards them.

“Miss Sullivan,” he alerted the others. They jumped to their feet, and stood blinking as a blond woman jogged towards them.

“You guys are here for border patrol training, right?” she called.

They nodded, as the rain began to fall from the skies.

Shielding her face with her arm, their teacher shouted over the sound. “Sorry, guys, I guess there's been some kind of mix-up. Let's go in to the office and we'll figure out what happened.”

Reluctantly, they began stepping towards her. The rain soaking through their clothes was such a glorious change from the humid heat they'd been subjected to all afternoon.

“Hi Sam,” said Miss Sullivan as he came closer to her.

“Hi,” he said. He let her keep walking, waiting for Julie and the others to catch up.

“I hope we don't still have to train today in this,” she said, her hair plastered to her face.

“I hope you don't get freaked out and have to call home,” said Tyler in her ear.

“I hope your aim's better than your stories,” said Sam. Exchanging a smile with Julie, he yanked on the metal door handle and stepped inside as lightning lit the sky.

Tonight was different. Not one of her borders was home. Allison had mumbled something about visiting her parents before disappearing in the afternoon. Leah and Brent had awkwardly expressed their condolences before walking into town. Tim hadn't even come home after his shift at the salt mine. It was no surprise, really, with the way bad news traveled. Someone had probably warned him. Of course, they'd been thinking of her, trying to be helpful. She was now alone in the house, without a single living thing contributing to the silence, all because of her helpful friends and neighbours.

The truth was, she didn't really want the quiet, the stillness. It was easy to see why they'd all thought she would. They knew enough about her to understand that she would try to escape from other people when she had to deal with a personal crisis. They had just made one mistake: assuming she was going to treat this like a crisis. She hadn't been able to tell them, as they'd scurried past her and out the door, that she didn't want tonight to be different from any other night. She hadn't been able to find the right words to stop them from leaving, ending any chance she had of pretending tonight was normal.

She sighed, looking at the paperback she'd tossed onto the floor. She'd given up after realizing she'd read the same paragraph four times. It was so irritating. This was how she would spend the night if she was racked was guilt and grief. But she wasn't. This solitude wasn't warranted.

She couldn't go out either. If she couldn't find words to tell her former students she wanted them to stay, she certainly wouldn't be able to explain to the others in town why she didn't want their sympathetic grimaces, words, or embraces. Even if she had wanted to go out and drown out her thoughts, her life was different now. Gone were the days she would sit at the river with Jake and Stanley, drinking their way through the Green's stash of hard liquor. Heather wasn't going to come through the door and hand her a bouquet of weeds. She couldn't even throw herself into another training session with the new rangers for whom she'd once been responsible.

That was not her life now, and she would have to deal with this as she did everything else. No, she told herself again, there is no dealing. There is nothing. She held the book in her hands again, feeling the worn pages beneath her fingers, but couldn't bring herself to open it.

There was suddenly a pounding coming from the front hallway, that made her draw in a quick breath. Someone was at the front door. Shaking it off quickly, she got up and went to see who it was.

Standing on the front stoop, rubbing his hands together though it was only late October, was Dr. Kenchy Dhuwalia. She smiled to herself. He'd been through ten Kansas winters but he had never fully adjusted to the cold.

“Dr. Dhuwalia. What brings you out here on a Wednesday night? Don't you have a shift at the clinic?” she asked in a teasing voice.

He shook his head. “No. I had more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Really?” she asked.

He nodded. “I heard. I wanted to see if you were alright.”

She folded her arms, answering quickly, “Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?”

“Well, a death in the family can lead to some major-”

“That isn't what's happened here,” she said.

He looked mildly surprised, but didn't say anything more on the subject, merely looking at her. She recognized his diagnostic gaze, and shivered. She was not in the mood for scrutiny, from him or anyone else.

“Look,” she said, “I was just...” He didn't interrupt, as someone else might, and she didn't finish. What had she just been doing?

After an intense silence that seemed to go on for hours, he cleared his throat. “Well, never mind that. I was wondering if you'd like to go out for a drink.”

“Go out? Kenchy, I don't know if that's such a good idea-”

“What, to get out of the house, talk with old friends, toast to good health?” His voice sounded strange, but he raised his eyebrows, with a hint of a smile. “On the other hand, it could be immensely awkward, drinking in silence, wishing you were somewhere else. But I'm sure it won't be any worse than...” His eyes flitted past her into the dark house.

She stood for a moment, staring past him at the empty street. “Just a quick drink,” she said.

She stepped back into the house and glanced, in the dim light, at her reflection in the hall mirror. She could barely see, but knew she didn't look as presentable as she would have liked to be on this evening. The townspeople would, of course, excuse her, on account of her father's tragic demise. She grabbed a jacket from the hook on the wall and opened the door again. She quickly locked it, vaguely hoping the borders had all taken keys with them. They'd gotten used to her being home most weeknights.

They walked along in silence, but she could hear some of the leaves on the ground crunching beneath her feet. It was a strange night. Some moments it seemed still; some moments a cold breeze picked up out of nowhere, whipping at her light jacket.

They didn't discuss where they were going. They turned onto Main Street, automatically heading for Bailey's Tavern. She felt herself tense as they neared the bar. She hadn't fully considered the many other friends she might run into when she agreed to go with Kenchy. If he noticed, he didn't let on. He continued to stare straight ahead at his destination. Once they were right outside, he held the door open, with exaggerated pomp. She almost laughed, but couldn't quite bring herself to make a sound.

Inside, the bar was fairly quiet. There were a few regulars sitting at the bar, but thankfully, none of her friends. Kenchy led the way to one of the tables. She had half hoped they might sit at the bar as usual, but of course, the booth was more private. He offered to hang her coat on one of the hooks on the wall. Happy to sink into the bench, she accepted. She drummed her fingernails on the table as she waited.

“Hey, Emily.” It was Mary. The one person it would be difficult to avoid at Bailey's. She quickly made herself look up. “Hi,” she forced out.

“I heard. Eric talked to Gray,” said Mary, her eyes serious. She put a hand on Emily's arm. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” said Emily, not wanting to literally shake her friend off, but still not able to explain.

Mary sensed her tone, however, and quickly withdrew her hand. “Can I get anything for you?” she asked in what she clearly meant as a casual tone.

“Yeah,” said Emily, resting her chin on the heel of her hand. “I'll have...Well, what are you serving this week?”

“I've got beer, vodka...Oh, I got some real whisky a couple days ago-”

“Whisky- it's been forever,” said Kenchy, stepping around her to sit down across from Emily. “If you wouldn't mind.”

“Sure,” said Mary, eyeing each of them before retreating to the bar.

“What if I'd wanted wine?” asked Emily.

“I just thought it'd be appropriate.”

“I thought we were just here for a drink. This isn't going to be all-” she started.

“We are. But you aren't going to ignore it completely, are you now?” he asked.

“Thought maybe you'd want something to acknowledge the night,” said Mary, sliding shot glasses across the table.

“You guys, this isn't supposed to be a wake,” Emily protested.

“You can do whatever you want with it. But in case you want to give him one toast...” Mary placed the bottle of whisky on the table between them.

“Why would I want to do that?” she asked.

“I don't know. He was your father,” Kenchy said.

“Not for years, he hasn't been,” she shot back.

“I just thought...Whatever he may have been, he wasn't nothing to you,” he said hesitantly.

“Yes, he was,” she said, gritting her teeth.

“Fine, we don't have to. Whatever you want. Mary, do you have any wine?” asked Kenchy.

“No, I'll take the whisky,” she said, reaching for the bottle. “We can do a couple of shots, between friends. How about you? Want to join us?” She looked up at Mary.

“I don't usually-” Mary began, but at her friend's look, she relented. Emily moved over on the bench, and Mary sat beside her. Kenchy arranged the shot glasses, pouring a generous amount into each.

“Cheers,” he said, raising his in the air momentarily before dropping the liquid into his mouth. Emily followed suit.

“Cheers,” said Mary, but she didn't raise her own glass. There was a crashing sound from behind the bar. She winced. “I've gotta get that,” she said, giving Emily an apologetic grimace before dashing behind the bar. Emily shrugged.

Kenchy poured another shot for her, and one for himself. She was reminded forcefully of the many nights they'd spent in the same way two winters ago, and suddenly wondered if she shouldn't have come out at all.

“I'm going to put some music on, okay?” she said. He nodded. She stood and went over to the jukebox. She gripped the metal edges, resting her hands on the cool glass covering the music selections. Everything that had happened, all the death and destruction that had occurred around and even inside this very building, and it was still standing. Sturdy, beat up, but still cranking out music. It had gotten them through times when the computers, phones, and even the refrigerators didn't work. It had been there through the ages- her young, fancy-free days, testing her limits with apple wine coolers. The days she'd dreamed of the future, toasting with champagne, and the day she dreamt of a future in a parallel universe that no longer existed. The day everyone started inside and spilled into the streets, cheering at the good news the war was finally over. Grabbing people around them, kissing, hugging, shaking hands.

It had also witnessed secrets she didn't even know. The meeting that must have taken place before the group of men rode through the night in their unsuccessful attempt to kill Phil Constantino. The time someone had gone crazy, broken the sign above the bathroom, and been escorted to the med centre by Jimmy. Rumours, of course, had flown as Bill hadn't come to work for a month after that. The scar that ran down the side of Mary's neck. The day she knew she'd lost Jake Green forever. She was glad she hadn't been there for that, but news spread through town quickly enough.

All that they'd done, all that had been done to them, and the jukebox still held the same songs it always had. Minus a few damaged records, of course. She pressed her palms into the glass, and it didn't give way under her. She traced a finger over some of the old familiar titles. The song that had played the one and only time she had beaten Stanley's then-current record on the mechanical bull. The song she'd danced to the night the refugees walked into town. The one that played the day the A.S.A. Troops left Jericho the first time and she and the rangers had held an impromptu, drunken wake for Bonnie and their old lives. The song she and Chris had once argued about as they'd walked to school.

She made her selection, and went back to her seat as the opening cords sounded of U2's One sounded.

“Well, that's a chipper musical selection,” said Kenchy, pouring more whisky into both of their shot glasses.

She sighed. “My brother hated this song.” She threw back her next shot, barely noticing the sharp tingle in the back of her mouth.

“Really?” said Kenchy. “The song that saved the band?”

She smiled down at the table. “He was a Metallica fan,” she said, with a shrug. She couldn't remember what reasons he'd given that day, only that he'd been furious that she hadn't agreed with him. He had become even more furious that she had giggled at him. “He didn't have much patience for people who didn't share his taste.”

“I understand. My sister was Abba-obsessed,” said Kenchy with a grimace.

“Yeah?” she asked, glad of the change in topic.

“When she was in high school. She used to come home, shut her door, and play Abba records. I couldn't stand it. Used to dream about hiding all her records, but she'd threaten to knock me senseless if I came in her room.” He shook his head. “She could, too. She was a bit scary, actually.”

“Probably the same way Chris felt about me,” she said with a chuckle. “We tortured each other.”

Kenchy nodded. “Us too.” They sat still, glasses in hand. “Though, she'd scare away anyone else who tried to torture me,” he said. “The other boys on our block- they'd run away if she came out of the building. She babysat some of them, so I guess she put the fear of parental lectures and unpleasant chores into them.” His facial features softened a moment. “Well, to older sisters, then!”

Wordlessly, she gave him a nod and clinked her glass with his.

Mary was back, sitting once again on Emily's side of the table. Though she'd left some space on the bench, Emily really wished she'd have left her a two foot bubble of personal space as almost everyone else had today. She knew Mary was trying, laughing as she traded jokes with Kenchy and explained that the 'kid' she was training to wipe the tables had tripped over a box and broken one of the empty bottles he'd been carrying. It was strange though. She hadn't piled into a booth at Bailey's for a long time. Squishing in while toasting the future with her girlfriends was part of the old world.

She shifted in her seat, accidently kicking Kenchy under the table. 'Sorry' she mouthed, yanking her leg back under her bench, but he pretended not to notice.

“Excuse me ladies, nature calls,” he muttered a moment later. Nodding to each of the women seated across from him, he stood and ducked out of the room.

Mary got up and sat down across from Emily, where Kenchy had been sitting. She picked up the glass she'd forgotten earlier, considering it for a moment before glancing over at Emily. “You know I don't drink on the job, but I can make an exception for special occasions.”

“I know,” returned Emily with a smirk. She suddenly visualized Stanley and Mimi's wedding. Though there had been very few guests, it had been safe to say Mary was the most enthusiastic dancer in the room. She studied her friend. Mary was still holding the glass in midair, halfway to her mouth.

“You know, one of the worst nights of my life was my mom's wake,” said Mary, still holding the glass.

“Yeah?” asked Emily, distractedly staring at the thin pink line running down Mary's neck, barely visible in this light.

“I didn't want to go, but when my dad asked, I couldn't say no. Not that time,” she slowly set the glass down. “I hated him a little for making me feel guilty. He said goodbye to her, at the hospital, and I wouldn't go with him. So then I got to stand around like an idiot while all these people tried to tell me they were sorry. No one really knew what to say; they knew I hadn't spoken to her in person in years.”

“What do you say to someone who didn't get Florence Henderson, huh?” asked Emily.

“Nothing. They weren't the ones I wanted to hear from. But I obviously hadn't wanted to hear from her either. It was my own fault. That's what I told myself, that night.”

She glanced down at her shot glass again. “I was so mad that I missed her.”

Emily cleared her throat before saying quietly, “I can relate.”

“I tried to play a song, but your machine just ate the quarter,” said Kenchy loudly, standing over them.

“Did you put it in after you picked the song?” Mary asked.

“I did it just the way you told me last time. I think it's just a piece of temperamental crap that hates me.”

“Ugh, it was fine a minute ago.” Mary stood up quickly, and Kenchy followed her across the room, complaining that the records never played for him. “You'd better not have wrecked my jukebox,” Emily could hear her saying.

She looked down once more at the table, concentrating on a waxy blue streak running along the edge of the table. She wondered if the accident prone new hire had noticed it when he'd wiped the tables last. She experimentally scratched it with her nail. It was crayon, it seemed. She smirked.

Jonah had to go and get himself killed. She might have been able to go on, without ever hearing about him again, or knowing how his death would affect her, but he just couldn't go quietly. They'd be discussing his death like a front page story, just as it was to her, but even though she was as removed as they were, her name would be attached. It wasn't fair.

She rolled the glass between her fingers, dwelling on the very thing she'd been trying to avoid all evening, hating Jonah for making her think about him. This wasn't really any different than last night, or the night before, or any of the other nights she hadn't known Jonah had been killed. There would be no real difference in her life, but it was an ending, nonetheless.

She realized that she couldn't hear her friends arguing anymore, as the opening bars of another song started. She groaned as she recognized them instantly.

Kenchy came over, grinning from ear to ear. “Thought this one suited you.”

“Did she not tell you, I banned that song?” she asked, looking accusingly over at Mary.

Mary shrugged. “I thought the time was up on that.”

Mary's father had been a huge Simon and Garfunkel fan, and everyone and their brother had tried to dedicate For Emily, Whenever I may Find Her to the girl with the titular name whenever they'd been out for drinks. She remembered begging the bartender to stop Stanley, Jake, Roger, and even Heather from playing it. After a lot of good natured teasing, most of them had tired of it themselves.

“I guess,” she said, scowling at the both of them.

“You know, I haven't heard this song in a long time,” said Mary, hugging her arms to her. “My dad-”

“Loved it, I know,” said Emily.

Seeing the way her friends both stood, smiles on their faces, swaying gently to the music (at least in Mary's case), annoyed her. Annoyed her, but brought her an inexplicable feeling of calm. She slid the bottle of whisky towards herself and started pouring into the two empty shot glasses. “Look, sit down, you guys. Here, Mary.” She slid Mary's still untouched whisky towards her. Her friends both sat on the bench opposite her, taking the glasses in front of them. “I still don't want to make this into a wake, or anything, but I'm going to do a toast, okay?”

Taking a deep breath, she held up her glass. “To- to the people who came before us. Went before us. May we hold onto whatever it is they gave us, and may they rest in peace.”

“Rest in peace,” echoed Kenchy as the three of them clinked their glasses in the centre of the table. There was silence as they each threw back a shot of whisky, then the sounds of three glasses hitting the table.

“I'm going to pick the next song,” she said, standing quickly and crossing the room.

She glanced over her shoulder again. Kenchy was leaning his head in his arms, thinking she wasn't watching him. Trying to hide the toll the hours he always kept at the clinic took. Mary was bringing something to another customer, unconsciously moving to the beat of the music.

She looked down at the jukebox again; her old familiar favourites, all arranged in rows. They'd be there tomorrow night too. That was enough for now.