Madeline stepped through the doors of the Geneva hospital, hopeful. It had been three months since Operations had been shot, and his doctors reports had been progressivly encouraging. She had considered bringing him cut flowers or balloons, but discarded the idea. He wasn't a flower and balloon kind of guy. Instead, she carried a plant, an orchid, a brassovola. She had grown it from a seedling in the growing niche in her office, and it was her favorite, pure white blooms like cut silk. She tapped the door to his room lightly.

"Come in."

She pushed the door open and was flooded with sunlight. Planters full of greenery lined the windowsill. A jar of daisies sat on the bedside table. In a far corner, a table full of African violets lazed under two mylar balloons. "Oh, my, you certainly are popular!"

"The nurses bring the flowers in from their gardens. I think they think it'll help my mood. Birkoff sent the balloons." He shook his head. "Not a day goes by that he doesn't e-mail me." He patted the laptop on the tray table.

"He's been worried about you. So has Michael."

"I got Michael's card."

She smiled brightly, eyes lighting up. "Walter has three new prototypes he's developed. He says you'll love the new comm units he's working on."

"He wrote me about them. He's kept me up to spped on things. Although you might want to tell him that when writing a get well letter, one normally doesn't refer to the recipient as a 'hard-headed son of a bitch'."

She laughed. "I'm sure he just wanted you to know that it was from him."

"I could tell that from the spelling. No one spells quite like Walter."

"He's missed fighting with you." She placed the orchid on the tray table. "Everyone's missed you."

Operations snorted and rolled his eyes. "Please. They told me there was no brain damage, Madeline. Don't even try to convince me of that one." He ran one figner over a wide, white petal. "This is one of yours."

"'Lady of the Night'. Brassovola nodosa. Just so you'll know I'm thinking of you." She smiled the smile that always made him think of Nat King Cole crooning "Mona Lisa". She sat in the bedside chair and removed her jacket. "You're looking well." It was true, he was sitting up, his color almost normal. "I spoke to your doctor this morning, and he said you'll be able to come home soon."

Operations's smile vanished, and he fixed his gaze on a spot on the far wall just to Madeline's right. "I've been doing a lot of thinking . . ."

"Of course, you won't be able to handle a full work load for several weeks, but just having you back in Section--"

"Madeline. I'm not going back." His gaze remained fixed.

She stopped, taken aback for a second. "Your doctor said--"

"When I leave here, I'm not going back to Section. I'm going home."

Her smile remained frozen, but her eyes were anxious. "Of course, you'll go home to your apartment--"

"No." His voice was firm. "I'm going home."

"You're just tired." She smoothed his blanket, then fluffed his pillow. "Rest, and we'll talk later."

"No." He grabbed her wrists and held them. After a moment she sank back into the chair. Her eyes moistened.

"You know you can't--"

"I can't do that job any more. I was shot down like some kind of low-life Mafia don by one of my own people. I sent good men and women into degrading, inhuman situations and expected them to perform like machines. I sent them off to die for reasons they didn't know about, and some I even killed myself for reasons I barely understand. " He twisted a bit of the sheet around in his fingers, then flattened it with his palm. "I can't do that job any more."

Madeline looked down at her own hands. When she looked up, her eyes were dry and her resolve was in place. "You know that won't be allowed." Her tone was the same as she used when informing captured targets of their fates. "You will either get on the place back to Section One, or you won't get on any plane at all."

"I don't care. Kill me. But when I leave here, my intention will be to see my family. My mother. My brother. Then I'm going to see where my wife is buried, and I'm going to apologize for letting--what happened--happen. And I'm going to find my son. I'm going to hold him in my arms and do my damnedest to make up for ruining his life!" Tears sat in the corners of his eyes. He brushed them away angrily. "That is what I am going to do."

"That will not be allowed." Her voice was calm and clear. Her soul was back in its inner, protected, chamber, and the only part of herself left was formed of pure, cold reason.

"I don't care what's allowed! I didn't survive for this! I didn't go through hell and back to put others through the same! Don't you get it? I survived for her!" One arm swept the tray table clean. Laptop, letters, and orchid flew across the room. Madeline watched, impassive, as the pseudobulb and bloom rolled over and over until it all lay in one crumpled mass. "This is not who I am!"

Madeline rose, gathered her jacket and purse. "I'll ask your physician to advise us when you are ready to be discharged."

"Madeline, I--"

The door swung closed on his words.

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