Bloomington, Illinois, population 64,808, lies 125 miles southwest of Chicago and 155 miles northeast of St. Louis, where Interstate highways 39, 55 and 74 converge. One of the fastest-growing metropolitan areas in Illinois, it contains two universities and three hospitals, one of which is St. Joseph Medical Center.

Vaughn wakes in a room there, to pain. Ambiguous at first, the mere feeling that things with his body are not right, and he isn't where he's supposed to be.

He forces things into focus, looks around. Tries to think of the last thing he remembers, which is more pain and falling to the ground. Halts his hazy scan of the room on an unfamiliar face.

"Nice of you to wake up, Mike," the face tells him. "I've been babysitting your ass for two weeks."

He blinks, tries to remember, but nothing comes. "Do I know you?"

The face gives him a look that says yes, a little too emphatically. "Peter? From work? Man, you must have some kind of memory loss or something."

No, don't think so. He runs through the details of his life — name, address, occupation, family, friends — and decides they're all still intact. Intact, but perhaps no longer accurate.

"Peter" confirms this by pulling a standard CIA-issue imitation Cross pen from his shirt pocket and pulling it apart until a click and a beep tell him it is safe to talk.

"Gotta talk quick. They couldn't make this one as powerful, on account of all the hospital machines," Peter says. "You were shot, two weeks ago. Twice in the shoulder, massive blood loss, lucky to be alive, blah blah blah. They pulled you and brought you here. I don't know much beyond that, and you're Michael Henderson now. I'm Peter Hayes. We work together at Baxter Insurance. Any questions?"

Only a million. His mind is reeling from the assumptions in Peter's statement. Protection program. Michael Vaughn is dead. Family, friends, all think he's dead. Mom. Damn it, Mom, I'm sorry. No time for that. Focus on now. "I don't know anything about insurance."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there. I'll drive you home when they release you, and get you your packet. We can talk more then."

Your packet. Who else got a packet? Who else was made? Dixon. Jack. Fuck. "Do you know anything about any of the other agents on my case? Were they compromised? Did they get them out, too?"

Peter shakes his head. "Sorry, man. I have no idea."

Why don't you know? Shouldn't you know? And what the hell do you know? "Peter, where exactly are we?"

"Bloomington, Illinois." Another beep signals the end of safe conversation. "So I guess you can't remember how you got here, huh?"

Suppose the official version doesn't involve SD-6 Security Section. "No."

"Disgruntled client, man. We turned down his wife's surgery, high-risk and all. Which sucked, but we have rules, you know? I don't even think you handled the claim, but you were the first one he saw when he came in. Opened fire. It was some bad shit."

"Oh."

"Listen," Peter says. "I'm going to go grab some food and a coffee. You get some rest so you can heal and we can get you the hell out of here."

———

It takes a week for the pain to grow dull and his doctor to deem it time for him to go home.

Michelle, the nurse — young, pink scrubs and blue eyes, black hair in a French braid — bustles in with this news and his breakfast. She has been kind to him since he's been conscious, which he suspects is because he's been a model patient. Too busy worrying quietly about his uncertain future to raise a fuss. His reward has been extra Jello at dinner and her quick entrance on the rare occasions he hits the call button.

"Your boyfriend dropped off a change of clothes for you last night, but you were already asleep and I told him not to wake you." She points to a duffel bag on the chair beside his bed, then leans closer to him. "It's against hospital policy, but I let him stay way past visiting hours," she whispers conspiratorially. "He was just so dedicated it broke my heart. You two must make such a sweet couple."

He's still trying to come up with a way to correct her without blowing his cover when Peter walks in.

"You ready to go?"

"Let him finish his breakfast and get changed," Michelle says, shooing him from the room.

He gags down as much breakfast as he can, then struggles through a sweatshirt, sweatpants and the sling for his left arm. Not quite sure if it's still supposed to hurt this much, but given the choice between pain and not knowing, he'd rather go with the pain.

Michelle and Peter both insist on the wheelchair, and he doesn't protest. Just sits, says goodbye to Michelle, and lets Peter roll him away.

"Best of luck, you two!" Michelle calls out behind them.

"What the hell was that about?" Peter asks.

"You don't want to know."

———

Peter's car is dull, black, mid-size and American. Vaughn knows the car, typical CIA; he's driven something similar for the last seven years and hated it. The car hits a pothole square a few minutes into the drive, jarring his shoulder, and he winces at the impact.

"Sorry, man," Peter says. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

It is the only semblance of a conversation they have during the drive, which is fine with Vaughn. He busies himself with staring out the window, studying the city. Autumn trees, red and orange and gold, which he had a glimpse of from his hospital room window. More vibrant now that he can see more, trees lining the streets and leaves piled along the curbs. They've left commerce, noticeably sparser and smaller than Los Angeles, he thinks, and turned onto a residential street.

Peter turns again, this street a mixture of small houses, duplexes and slightly larger apartment buildings. He parks on the street outside one, tan brick and three stories high.

Vaughn exits the car rather ungracefully, but he manages, before Peter walks around to the passenger side. A few steps toward the building, then Peter points to another dull black sedan parked a few cars up the street.

"That's your car. Key's on this ring, along with the one to your apartment, which is — " he flips through the keys until he reaches one, a piece of masking tape with a number scrawled in ballpoint pen stuck to the top " — number 207. Which means it's up the stairs. Sorry about that. You going to be able to make it up?"

"I'll manage."

The stairway is full of dried leaves and smells musty. He does manage to make it up; only needs to stop once, right hand wrapped around the handrail until the throbbing stops.

Peter slips the key into the lock, turns it, and there is a brief, scary moment when it seems it will not open. "Damn trick locks," he mumbles. "Had one like this in college." A thunk of something coming loose, and then Peter turns the knob, opens the door. "For future reference, you've got to turn it until it feels like it's going to break." He follows Vaughn inside and shuts the door behind them. "Welcome to your humble abode."

It is as sparse as his apartment in Los Angeles, but the sparseness here bothers him. Maybe that's because you might actually be spending time here. A spacious living room on his right, and everything inside looks new, a stark contrast to the musty hallway. Tan carpet, blue couch and chairs, television, DVD player. Kitchen, to the left, and a bedroom or bedrooms, he assumes, farther down the hallway that runs through the place.

"Two-bedroom, in case you're wondering," Peter says. "I think they set up one as an office. Computer, fax machine and whatnot. Pretty decent place, all and all. But I know you're interested in this — "

Vaughn follows him into the living room and watches as he pulls a manila envelope out from beneath the middle couch cushion. Vaughn sits in one of the chairs and takes the envelope. His hands are shaking, he realizes, as he rips open the top.

All the things inside that he expected in Sydney's packet. Birth certificate. Social Security card. Driver's license. Credit card. Instructions, pages and pages of them. Pages and pages of his history, as well.

"I know you said you don't know anything about insurance. Don't worry about that. Baxter is a front company for — "

"Don't." He waves his good hand, stop talking, damn it, and Peter seems surprised. "Don't talk about it here."

"You've got a bugkiller. Right there in the phone." Peter walks over to one of the end tables, picks up the phone base resting there and pops a piece of plastic off the bottom. Wires, transistors, and a red light beneath. "Light's on. Relax. You're good."

"I don't trust those things," Vaughn tells him. "I lost an agent because one failed."

This surprises Peter. "I'm sorry. He die?"

Vaughn shakes his head, slightly; any more, he's learned, and it hurts. "She. We got her out. She's in the protection program."

"You know the odds of that are like astronomical," Peter says, sitting on the couch.

"Yeah." One of 356 of that model. Four of 50,232 in Agency history. Throw in the NSA and the odds only get better. Or more absurd, if you're Sydney.

"At any rate, Baxter is a front company for the Agency. You won't be doing any insurance work."

"I worked for the Agency."

"So did I. We still do. Just not as the people we were." It makes sense, now, to him. Peter's eyes, a little too blue. Hair a little too light. Altogether not quite natural upon close examination.

"You're in the protection program, too."

"Bingo. So when you've got questions, I might just have some answers."

"I've got one."

Peter leans back against the couch. "Shoot."

"My first name, they kept it the same. Do they do that often?"

"Yes, when your first name is Michael. It's pretty common, but I'm sure you knew that. By the way, you prefer Mike or Michael?"

"Either is fine." A lot of the people that mattered called you Vaughn, but that's not exactly an option anymore. "Pete or Peter?"

"Peter, definitely. Pete bugs me." He glances at his watch. "Look, I've got to get going. Look through your packet, and give me a call if you need anything. Come into work whenever you're ready. There's no rush."

He starts toward the door, but turns when he reaches it. "You've got to make the first year, Mike. Make the first year and it gets better."

———

Vaughn skims the pages from the envelope first, hungrily, wanting the basics as fast as he can get them. The details are mundane, for the most part, specifically designed to be unremarkable. Born in Chicago, but his parents moved around throughout his youth. So, he assumes, he'll never have to provide details on a specific place.

Michael Henderson's fictitious parents were killed in a car accident when he was 17, he reads, but their son persevered. Went to college at UCLA — the only thing from the package thus far, besides his name, that has meshed with his previous life. Guess college is tough to fake. His major — accounting — is far different, however.

Pages and pages of history, and he'll have to memorize them over the next few days. Pages and pages of the present, as well, he finds. He'll have lighter hair now, and hazel eyes. Which shouldn't scare you in the least, given that you've never worn contacts or dyed your hair.

Directions to Baxter Insurance, the hospital, the closest grocery store. Bank account numbers. Dates he can expect bills. Phone number for Peter, another for his landlord. When his car is due for an oil change. And, in bold red numbers, centered in the middle of the last page, his emergency contact number. He memorizes this one first, stares until the red numbers are still there when he closes his eyes. Repeats it under his breath, over and over again, until he's sure it's permanent. But he'll still give himself a day, check the red number on the paper in the morning and make sure it matches the one in his head. If it does, he'll burn the paper. The rest of the instructions will follow, too, as soon as they're locked into memory.

For now he stands, stiff, and walks over to the kitchen to inspect the contents of his refrigerator. Someone — Peter, perhaps — has stocked it with microwave meals and cold cuts. There's a loaf of bread on the counter, and he throws together a sandwich, one-handed. He eats it quickly, then searches the cabinets until he finds a glass. There was a six-pack of Coke in the fridge, but no bottled water, so he assumes tap is safe and pours a glass. A few sips from that and then he searches the rest of the cabinets, taking inventory and orienting himself.

He walks through the small eating area — filled with a little oak table and two chairs — toward the bathroom. Jade green tiling, green shower curtain and towels there. Among the contents of the medicine cabinet are two boxes of hair dye and a package of colored contact lenses. He decides he'll wait until tomorrow to attempt poking his eyes out, and walks back into the hallway.

The smaller bedroom is on the left — desk, filing cabinet, computer, printer, phone and fax machine. A bed and small dresser, as well. Office and guest bedroom. How thoughtful. Might even be useful, if you knew anyone that could serve as a guest. An empty bookshelf fills the last available space on the wall. This pleases him, and he decides he'll start to fill it soon.

For now, there is one room left, his bedroom, and he's ready for it — too many hours upright, now, after spending most of three weeks in a hospital bed. Oak furniture, double bed, and he slips beneath the blue quilted bedspread.

He lets the inevitable thoughts in, because they've been coming for awhile now. Thinks about Sydney, walking through her new apartment, discovering. You made her do this alone. You could have done this with her. Sydney, sleeping alone in her new bed the first night. How long did she sleep alone? Did she move on, like you couldn't? Is she glad you said no?

She is past the first year now, he thinks, settled into her new life. Would she even want to come back? Would she want to see you, if whoever's left on SD-6 managed a miracle?

The sheets are cold, his shoulder aches, and he's never felt farther from her.

———

The worst thing about the new apartment, he decided quickly, was the lack of things. No old newspapers piled on the end tables. No ice skates sitting haphazard in the corner of his bedroom. No dog bowl nosed into the middle of his kitchen floor by an overzealous Donovan (a thought that made him wonder, again, just what had happened to the poor dog). Bare necessities, only — a big, empty shell of an apartment, and he's tried to fill it over the last week.

Discovered he had a cable modem, went to amazon.com and ordered five favorites to start the bookshelf. Bought a new pair of ice skates, as well, and realized — after yet another physical therapy session — that it was going to be awhile before he would be able to use them. Paid for everything with his new credit card.

He's given himself a week — all he could handle before the old urge for productivity took over. Up with the alarm at 6 a.m. this morning, contacts in without much of a struggle, staring at the meager contents of his closet now. Something else he'll have to rectify with the new credit card; for now he decides on business casual. The sling is gone, and he's probably got enough mobility with his left arm now, but it is a perfect excuse to forego the tie, and he'll take it as long as it flies.

What's left in his coffee mug is bitter and lukewarm, but he downs it anyway. He does a final check of the contents of his wallet, struggles awkwardly into his coat, and takes a deep breath before he heads out the door.

Baxter Insurance is located in a small cluster of commerce five blocks away from his house, on the fringe of downtown Bloomington. An old brick building, separated from an equally old brick plaza by a small alley. Parking is a small concrete lot across the street, used mostly for customers of the plaza's tenants — Chinese buffet, video rental store, cell phone dealer and dollar store — and the new chain drugstore next to the lot.

Vaughn knows all of this already; he drove the city three days ago when the contents of his fridge began to run low. There's a Kroger down the street, he recalls, with an elderly cashier who looked at the sling and insisted on calling someone to help him.

He keeps his left hand anchored in his coat pocket as he walks across the street toward his new workplace. Pauses for a moment outside the door and tries to quell his nerves.

The door opens into a small reception area. An ancient couch and table against the wall beside him, a stack of magazines resting on the table. The top magazine is a 1994 People. A 50-something woman sits behind a desk on the far wall. Most of her hair is dark brown, but there's a good two inches of gray roots, and she looks committed.

She looks up as soon as he walks in. "It's good to finally meet you," she smiles, standing and walking around the desk. "I'm Helen Curtis."

"Michael Henderson." He holds out his hand, delivers it well; he's practiced it in the shower all week.

"Peter's in the back, through that door. Go on in. Right now the passcode is your birthday. You can talk to him about changing it to something more secure." Helen returns to her desk and her near-finished romance novel.

Vaughn panics for a moment, can't remember his birthday, but he finds it, somewhere amidst all the other new numbers in his mind. The door Helen pointed to leads to a short hallway — restrooms on the right and a conference room that looks like it hasn't been used in years on the left. Another door at the end of the hallway, and a small panel beside it. He punches the passcode in and the door opens to a startlingly modern room.

White walls, bright lighting. Three computer desks, newish computers on two of them. A much less ratty couch on one wall, a large table on another. Peter is seated at the table, next to a stack of file folders. He swings his chair around at Vaughn's entrance. He is wearing khakis and a sweater. No more ties. Score one for the new job.

"Mike! I was getting a little worried," he says. "You didn't call. I was thinking about stopping by if you didn't show up by the weekend."

"I figured you'd had enough of me over the last couple weeks."

"Don't ever worry about calling, man. How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"Good to hear it. You get a chance to see much of the city?"

"I drove around a couple days ago. And I did some searching on the Internet."

"So you got all the basics?" Peter asks. "It's pretty typical Midwest. Twin city with Normal, largest employer State Farm Insurance — which, obviously, is actually for-real, unlike us. Oh, and the only manufacturer of beer nuts in the world. Some claim to fame, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I assume you met Helen?" Vaughn nods. "She's great. Mandatory retired, FBI. She worked white collar crime, so she fakes the insurance stuff. We don't have a whole lot of clients. Why don't I give you the rest of the grand tour?"

"There's more?"

"Yeah. You haven't seen all the important stuff." He points to another door beside the table. "That leads to the alley. It's another double door, passcode-protected, like the one you came through. Ladder there — " He points to a metal ladder, hanging halfway down the wall next to the door. " — leads to the roof. It's bolted from the inside, so don't try any Batman entrances. Come on with me and I'll show you the basement."

Vaughn follows him to the last door in the room, next to the couch, down a narrow set of stairs. There is another door at the bottom of the stairs, and Peter opens it to a pseudo-living room.

"Fully functioning safehouse, down here. Building's old, so it's a little damp, but it works. We're in charge of operating it, keeping it stocked. We get people here once every couple months or so. Usually as a stop for somebody they're trying to move across the country quietly."

Back upstairs, he takes a seat on the couch — leather, and comfortable. Peter takes a desk chair. "I've been working at this machine, if you want to take the other one. Alt F6 in case of emergency. It'll torch your hard drive, so don't use it lightly."

"What exactly do we do here, besides running the safehouse?"

"They let us putz around with low-level intel, that sort of stuff. A lot of cybersnooping, wandering through bulletin boards for sports and porn, mostly. Not a bad job, all in all." He pauses. "What?"

"Nothing. I guess I just thought they stuck you at the post office in some little podunk town."

"I think that's people that testify against the mob, buddy. The government is too poor not to keep your ass working at something. What was your major in college, your real major?"

"Political science."

"I'm international politics. We're not exactly the most employable people, anymore. You can't run for office, because that would do real bad things to your cover real quick. So there's not much left besides working for the government. At least I think that's their thinking. One thing you figure out pretty quick about the protection program, and that's nobody knows shit about the program."

Maybe, just maybe... "Do you know anyone else in the program?"

"Nope. There was Bob, but he left six months ago. Got cleared to go back. And don't get your hopes up on that one. Bob, he was some kind of statistical anomaly. I was happy for him, though. He had a family, meant the kids got to see their grandparents again and whatnot."

"Isn't it dangerous, having multiple people in the program together at the same business? In the same city?"

"Yes and no. I think it lets them focus their resources better than if we're scattered all over the place. The other side of that is that they're more fucked if the location is compromised. Which reminds me. You find yourself in trouble, big trouble, you call your emergency contact first. Then you call me. Tell me you lost a hundred bucks on Saturday's game and get the hell out of town. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. If you think we've both been compromised, tell me you lost a thousand instead."

"Okay."

"Any more questions?"

"Yeah. What's the rule on — are we allowed to leave the city? Go to Chicago, or St. Louis?"

"I'm not sure if we're supposed to. You can tell they put some thought into Bloomington. Small enough that nobody looking for us is going to have operatives here, big enough for you to get lost in the shuffle. That said, I've done it." He laughs. "Any particular reason?"

"Pro sports, mostly."

"Good to hear. You a fan of any of the teams around here?"

"Not really. I've always wanted to go to a game at Wrigley Field, though."

"Next summer, you're on. We'll drive up, sit in the bleachers and drink beer." Peter pauses. "And I think that's enough for the first day for you. Unless you had more questions."

"Nope."

"Good. Then get out of here." Peter swings toward the monitor, then back around. "Wait. You play ball?"

"Yeah. Well, not lately."

"Of course. Once the shoulder gets better, I'll get you into my gym. Saturdays at noon. They're good guys — I think you'll like them."

"Great. Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow." And maybe, somehow, you're really going to get through this.