Opening a hidden safe in his living room, Jim pulled out a hundred dollars in fives and tucked the cash into his wallet. He took a deep breath and walked out the door. She was a part of this now, whether or not she wanted to be. He only hoped he wasn't wrong about her, or else they were both dead.

Pam heard a knock at her door and sighed. She'd changed into pajamas already and wasn't really in the mood for company, but she answered it because it'd be impolite not to. She saw Jim through the peephole and gasped. What in the heck is HE doing here? she thought frantically, because she definitely hadn't given him her address. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Hi, Pam.”

She looked down shyly, wishing she were dressed a little nicer because he looked incredibly good. She knew she shouldn't care. It wasn't like they had a marriage assignment or anything. But she couldn't help it, she did. Still, she stood back and politely held the door open. “Hi, Jim. Won't you come in?” He nodded his thanks and stepped over the threshold. “Can I get you some milk? Tea? Water?” she offered, listing the entirety of the contents of her refrigerator. Not that he needed to know that.

Once the door was shut and locked, he wheeled to face her, ignoring the question. “Who taught you to cross your heart?” he asked without preamble.

Taken aback, she looked at him through narrowed eyes. She was going out of her way to be polite, but he wasn't being polite in return. That intense look was on his face again, the hard edge back in his voice. Like she'd done something wrong when he'd somehow found her phone number and her address and come over without calling first, catching her in her pajamas. She felt even more weirded out now than she had at work earlier that day, because he was being pretty rude. “What are you doing here?” she asked irritatedly, then clapped her hands over her mouth because that wasn't like her at all. Her eyes huge, she breathed instinctively, “I'm so sorry!” before he even had a chance to answer.

He sighed heavily and scrubbed his hand over his face, feeling like an ass. At the same time, he was heartened by her reaction. Anger was a real emotion, one of several that this society was trying its best to scrub out of people. “Don't be sorry. It's a fair question. You have every right to be upset with me.”

She gave him an odd look. That sentence didn’t make sense. “Every right?” she asked curiously. Because everybody knew that right was the opposite of left, or the opposite of wrong. Neither of those meanings made sense in the context.

He cringed inside, realizing he needed to be more careful with his words. He reminded himself what it had been like, back when he was younger and learning all of this for the first time. Before he'd begun to see the world for what it really was. “I mean,” he said gently, “it’s okay for you to be upset. You didn't give me your phone number or your address. If you weren’t wondering what I'm doing here, there’d be something wrong with you. I'm the one who should be sorry,” he told her earnestly.

She continued looking at him oddly. He said it was okay for her to be upset? What a weird thing to say. He couldn't possibly mean it. “Are you sorry?" she asked.

He considered it, tilting his head. "Nope."

She thought about that for a moment. Aside from her attire, she wasn’t exactly sorry he was here. But if their positions were reversed, and she'd shown up unannounced on his doorstep, she would have apologized no matter what she actually felt.

He was seriously weird.

She tilted her head, mirroring him, and pursed her lips. "You still haven't said what you're doing here," she said a little crankily, letting out a small amount of upsetness. Testing him.

She couldn't help wondering if he was testing her, because he smiled a little. "We need to talk. And I could go for some tea."

She started the kettle with an annoyed sigh, because apparently he'd left his manners at work that afternoon. Why should she put forth the effort to be courteous if he wasn't going to do the same? "How did you get my address?"

"I have my ways," he replied cryptically.

"How did you get my phone number?"

"Like I said."

He'd always been so helpful at work. But they weren't at work now, and apparently he was a completely different person than he'd seemed. She'd thought they were maybe getting to be almost friends. Her hands clenched into fists at the realization that she didn't know him at all. "You said we needed to talk. I'm trying to talk and you're being a jer-… you're not being helpful!" she rushed to cover, flushing bright red. "Why don't you make up your mind?" she finished crossly.

He couldn't help thinking that she was adorable when she was angry. Also, she'd stopped herself from calling him a jerk, like it was a bad word or something.

It was very cute.

Still, he couldn't trust her, not yet. "I need to know where you learned to cross your heart."

"I need to know what freedumb means," she fired back.

He looked at her appraisingly. "You first."

"I don't know you well enough to talk about it," she said resolutely, opening the cabinet and pulling out a box of teabags.

He saw that, aside from the teabags, the cabinet was completely bare. That small box was the only thing inside. Concerned, he walked over and began pulling open the others, finding them empty except for a single box of cereal, a small sugar bowl, and a few dishes.

She gaped, frozen to the floor, just for a moment. But she didn't have many cabinets and he'd already opened them all. "What are you doing? Stop it!" She grabbed his arm as he pulled open her refrigerator door.

His stomach sank like a stone. The only things inside were half a jug of milk and a few bottles of water. He opened the freezer, finding only ice cubes. "Where's your food, Pam?" he asked quietly, seriously.

He was unbelievable. How dare he? "Get out," she said in a low voice, clenching her fists.

He could hear deadly anger simmering beneath the surface. He could see from her defensive posture that he'd wounded her pride. He really hadn't meant to. And now he really felt like an ass. "Pam," he began, his brow furrowed with concern. "I'm really sor-"

"No!" she screamed vehemently, more angry than she could recall feeling in a very long time. "Shut up! I don't want your apologies!"

"I can help. Let me help you," he said desperately.

"I don't want anything from you," she insisted furiously. "I want. You. Out!" She shoved him toward the door. It didn't have much power behind it. He didn't so much as stagger. “Get out!" she screamed again, hurting her throat.

"Please, let me--I'm sorry," he said, his voice breaking, desperate for her to believe him. That she had so little, yet would have shared it with him… it hurt. He took a step and wrapped his arms around her. She'd looked thin. She felt even thinner. "I'm so sorry," he murmured into her hair.

She sagged against him, exhausted. Hungry. "I hate you," she cried into his chest.

"You can hate me even better on a full stomach." He stroked her back soothingly. "You wanna hit up McDonald's?" He'd come over with the intention of giving her cash and driving to Casa Bella separately, paying separately. But she didn't need a twenty-dollar plate of pasta today. She needed to eat now, and she needed to buy groceries tonight so she could keep eating until payday.

She closed her eyes and sniffled, trying to remember the last time she'd had McDonald's. She couldn't even recall. She inhaled deeply, thinking about it, hunger warring with upsetness. And then she was distracted from both because he smelled good. Felt good. Warm and firm and solid. Her father aside, she'd never been this close to a guy before. She hadn't known it would feel so good to be hugged by one. Although the fact that he was hugging her after she'd yelled and tried to shove him out her front door was just… bizarre.  "Okay," she said in a small voice. "Only so I can hate you better, though. Not because I'm hungry." Which only made him laugh, so she continued accusingly, "You're so weird."

"Thank you," he replied cheerfully, letting her go. She looked up. He was smiling, which only confused her more. No matter how angry she got at him, no matter what she said, he didn't get mad back. She'd never met anyone so thoroughly confounding.

The teapot whistled shrilly, derailing her train of thought. She turned off the burner, grabbed her jacket and purse, and followed him outside. As she slid into the passenger seat, she couldn't help noticing that he had a really nice car. Especially compared to hers. It was sporty, it looked new, it even had that new car smell. She guessed being a salesman must pay pretty well. Better than being a receptionist. Because, even once she started getting regular paychecks, she'd never be able to afford something like this on top of rent, utilities, gas, food… Although really, even if she could afford a car like this, she'd rather do so many other things with that kind of money. Like move someplace nicer than this darn studio apartment, for starters.

"You like music?" he asked from the driver's seat, breaking her reverie. On the surface it was an innocent question, just making friendly conversation, an effort to break the tension between them. He felt anything but casual about her answer, though. The music on the radio these days was awful. Sanitized lyrics, synthesized instruments, no heart. The only people who enjoyed it were uptight conformists like Dwight and Angela. In asking the question, he was chiefly trying to determine whether Pam fit that stereotype.

She shrugged apathetically."Not really." Although she'd heard lots of music at the diner, she couldn't remember a single song that had interested her.

Relieved, he grinned at her. “That's because you've never heard real music." He slid a homemade CD into the player, thinking this would be a good place to start. It wasn't strictly-speaking forbidden to listen to old music, it just wasn't on the radio and had become impossible to find via legal channels. Of course, most of the songs he enjoyed were forbidden. Not that there was a law against them, because so-called subversive songs weren't even acknowledged to exist. But he was always careful to play them quietly. Most of the time he used a discreet earbud, but he unplugged it now.

She glanced over, impressed in spite of herself. She'd never known anybody with a CD player in their car. She quirked her head as the song began. "What instrument is that?"

"There are two,” he explained. “Keyboard and guitar. Drums in a second here."

She nodded thoughtfully as the drums kicked in. She'd never heard of a gittar, whatever that was. She'd never heard any song like this before, actually.

"Now here comes the electric guitar," he warned her with a grin.

She was intrigued by the way the tune slid up and down, almost like it couldn't bear to be playing just one note at a time. It was unusual, kind of… off-balance. Yes, that was a good way to describe it. It wasn't bad, just… weird. Which seemed fitting, since so much about this day had become incredibly weird. "What's this song called?" she wanted to know once the lyrics started.

"Free Bird," he answered, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and mouthing silently along with the lyrics. Not that he had a favorite song, because there were just too many, but this was definitely in his top five.

She listened some more. The words were easy to understand, although they didn't all make sense. She guessed the way the singer said he was "free as a bird" probably had something to do with freedumb, rather than a literal zero-cost animal. "He's not singing about a pet store, is he?" she said with an impish grin.

That pulled a surprised laugh out of him. "He is not." He glanced over and briefly took in her expression. His breath caught in his throat, just for a moment. Because as much as she'd smiled at him at work, he'd never seen her look so delighted or playful.

"Listen up, Beesly," he said just before the last lyric faded away. "Best guitar solo in history right here."

Nobody had ever called her that before. She wasn't sure if she liked it, but she closed her eyes and focused as the solo started, letting the music wash over her. She bobbed her head gently. The melody sounded like it was flying away, going higher and higher, nothing like the passionless, repetitive songs she was used to. She clasped her hands under her chin, feeling the notes swirling inside her chest. She bobbed her head more intently as the song escalated, becoming frenetic. Then… crazed. The world faded away, leaving her alone with the music. She completely forgot that she was in a car. Completely forgot that she was sitting next to another person. Her shoulders began swaying with the beat. For the next few minutes, it was as though every problem she'd ever had ceased to exist. There was no poverty, no hunger, no loneliness… just her ears, her body, and the song.

As the last notes faded away, her eyes slowly fell open. She took a deep breath and looked around, letting her hands fall back into her lap. They were parked in the back of the McDonald's parking lot. She had no idea when the car had even stopped. She turned her head and flushed self-consciously, because Jim was staring at her with that intense look on his face. After a moment, he looked away. "Real music," he said softly, hitting Pause and muting the volume before the next song could start. He put the car in gear and pulled up to wait in line at the menu board. "What would you like?"

She cleared her throat, trying to clear the lingering tendrils of enchantment from her mind. "Oh um. I'm not picky. A hamburger sounds good." It sounded divine. She hadn't eaten a hot meal in days.

He closed his eyes and shook his head a little. "You like cheese? Fries? Coke?"

"Jim," she started to protest. "I don't--"

He cut her off. "Big Macs? Quarter pounders?"

Her mouth fell open. "That's way too expensive!" She hadn't even asked for a cheeseburger because it would cost an extra quarter.

"And yet, not the question I was asking," he chided her gently.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Who doesn't like Big Macs?"

He nodded approvingly. "That's more like it." He ordered five, along with two large fries and two large cokes. Her eyes rounded as the employee rattled off the total. She'd never spent that much on a single meal in her entire life, but he handed over his card at the window like it was no big deal. She couldn't helping thinking how that could buy enough food to feed her for a week. And then he was handing her the greasy bag and her mouth was watering and all she could think about were french fries. She looked down, biting her lip, because he had a fancy car and she was sure it wouldn't be okay to eat in it. Her hand drifted to her stomach, rubbing involuntarily.

"Dig in," he said softly over the lump in his throat, because it was obvious she was ravenous but too polite to ask.

She gasped out a grateful thank you and opened the bag in a hurry. She took out one fry, pulled it in half, and set one piece gently on her tongue. Her eyes drifted shut as it melted, her head falling back against the headrest. Heaven.

"Wanna hear Free Bird again?" He was already reaching to skip back, knowing she'd say yes.

"Mm-hmm," she affirmed, nodding gently as she chewed.

He grinned lopsidedly, watching her from the corner of his eye. Eyes still closed, she ate steadily, half a fry at a time, her head bobbing to the beat, her shoulders swaying when the guitar solo kicked in. As he pulled into her driveway, having taken several detours on the way back to her apartment to give the song time to finish, he couldn't help thinking that this was beyond personal now.

After shutting and locking the front door behind them, she set the bag on her kitchen table and lifted out a sandwich. "My mom," she said unceremoniously before sinking her teeth into the burger. She sat back in her chair, eyes closing again on a blissful sigh. So freakin' good.

He sat down across from her and pulled out another, spilling his fries into the open box. He waited expectantly, but she didn't say anything else. "What about her?" he asked as she swallowed.

She opened her eyes and crossed her heart at him. "She used to do that when me and my sister were little."

Used to? He narrowed his eyes at her, pausing with the sandwich halfway to his mouth. "She doesn't do it anymore?"

She shook her head and held up a finger, mouth full again. "She died when I was six," she explained.

He looked down, brow furrowed. "I'm so sorry," he said solemnly. "Can I ask what happened?"

"I wish I could tell you, but… I don't know." She shrugged and took a sip of coke, trying not to think too hard about it, wanting to appear unaffected. "My dad would never talk about it. I… don't remember much about her." She took another bite and glanced down at the locket she wore, remembering how she hadn't been allowed to see her at the funeral. Nobody had, it was closed-casket. "So." She looked at him expectantly. "What's freedumb?"

He sighed, because her explanation left him with more questions than it answered. He still didn't really know how far he could trust her. Although honestly, he'd gone too far to turn back now. "Before I can tell you that, you have to promise me that this conversation stays in this kitchen."

"Done."

She said it quickly. A little too quickly. He wanted to make sure she understood what he was asking of her. "That means you can't tell your friends, your family, the police. You can't write it down in a diary. You can't talk about it at work, not even to me, no matter how sure you are that there are no cameras nearby. If anyone asks you about freedom, you'll need to lie."

"I understand," she said sincerely. "I can do that."

"Swear it," he insisted, crossing his heart. She did, reciprocating the gesture.

He put his head in his hands and sighed again. Not only was there the issue of trust, but he wasn't at all sure of the best way to define freedom to a person who wasn't already passingly familiar with the concept of liberty. That kind of ground-up training was not his area of expertise. Still, he thought hard about how to express it in a way she would understand. "Freedom is being able to do what you want," he began. "Whatever you want, whenever you want."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "So if I wanted to slap you, or… graffiti a car… or, I dunno, kill somebody. I could just do it?"

Okay, that was too broad of a definition. He shook his head with a rueful grimace. "No. There would still be laws against those things."

This isn't making sense yet, she thought, but she tried to help him along. "Do you have an example?"

So many examples. He sifted through the possibilities, considering the best one to go with. She'd just started a new job, so... "Okay. Job assignments. In a free society, you would have the freedom to pick whatever job you wanted."

She snorted skeptically, because there wasn't any such place. "Everyone has job assignments." That had been drilled into her from her very first history class in third grade, all the way up through government in her senior year.

"No," he contradicted her with conviction. "They don't, Pam. Job assignments only exist in America." And a few other places, like North Korea and some Eastern European countries. Not that he said so, thinking it would be better to avoid over-complicating things at this point.

She eyed him suspiciously. "How do you know?"

To his surprise, she wasn't flat out denying the possibility. Nor had she called him a liar, which had been his initial reaction to that information. "Videos. Books. Talking to people who've lived in other countries."

Her brow furrowed at the last. "What other countries?"

"Canada. England. Australia. Sweden… everywhere."

"Have you ever been to any of those places?" He had to shake his head, because he'd never traveled further than New York. "The government bases job assignments on the kinds of jobs we're suited for," she said.

He cringed internally, because that was practically a direct quote from the propaganda. "Why shouldn't you get to make that choice yourself?"

"Well, what if I picked wrong?" she wanted to know, closing the now-empty Big Mac box. "What if I got a job that I ended up totally hating? What if I was bad at it?" Her gaze fell to the bag in the center of the table but she didn't make a move toward it, not wanting to be greedy.

He pulled out a second box and handed it to her. "Then you'd have the freedom to find another job."

"Thanks." She accepted the box with a smile. It was quickly replaced by a thoughtful expression. "What if I couldn't find a job at all?"

Good question, he thought approvingly. "There are social safety nets for people who can't find work in free countries. Things like unemployment or welfare."

She rubbed her eyes tiredly, because she didn't recognize either of those words. "Sounds complicated," she conceded. She really wanted to learn this, but she couldn't help thinking he maybe should have started with a simpler example. "What else besides job assignments would be better with freedumb?"

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, thinking hard, because he really wasn't good at this. She'd been very receptive so far though, and she was asking good questions, so he took heart. "Okay. Cameras. No cameras everywhere you go. No cameras at work. You wouldn't have to be careful what you say in public. You could listen to a song like Free Bird without going to jail."

Her eyes widened. That was news. The part about the cameras sounded pretty good, because she'd never been a big fan of them, especially lately, but… "Listening to a song could get us thrown in jail?" she asked, flabbergasted. A work camp was one thing. Prison was something else entirely.

"Yes," he said simply.

She stood up and nervously shifted her weight from foot to foot, sandwich in hand. "You should have told me that before you played it," she scolded him. "I didn't know."

She wasn't wrong. He angled his head toward her, conceding the point. Still, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. He didn't think she really did, either. She'd practically danced to it. "You liked it, right?"

She stood still and thought about it for a minute. It was the first song she'd ever heard that she liked. It made her… feel. And suddenly, her thoughts took off like a shot. How could something so pure and amazing as listening to a good song be punishable? The thought that she lived in a society where she could be punished for that, when other people were living in societies where they could listen to whatever they wanted, was almost incomprehensible. It bothered her even more than the thought of having cameras inside her apartment. She considered that, like the electric gittar, there might be a whole bunch of other amazing instruments that she'd been deprived of hearing for her entire life, without even knowing it.

It just wasn't right.

Not that she had the power to do anything about it, because receptionists weren't in a position to affect politics any more than waitresses. But for the first time, she found herself wishing that weren't the case. She nodded at him decisively. "You know I did."

He saw something in her face, something new. Something determined. He filed it away and pressed the point home. "There is so much good music out there that the government doesn't want you to hear," he explained earnestly. "With freedom, you could listen to whatever you wanted, as loud as you wanted. With freedom, we would have good music on the radio, all the time… there would be good shows on television. Good movies in the theaters."

She leaned against the counter, nodding, understanding. But he was really on a roll now, thoughts tumbling out of his mouth as quickly as they occurred to him. "You could say what you wanted on the phone without being recorded, you could text anything you wanted to say." He glanced at the sandwich in her hand. "You could go out to dinner with anyone you liked, anywhere you liked, anytime. You could date someone you were interested in, break up if things weren't working out. Instead of having a husband assigned to you, you could choose who you wanted to marry."

"Got it,” she nodded emphatically. Moreover, she clearly saw why saying freedumb in front of the cameras was a bad idea. "Thanks. I'll be careful not to say it anymore." She finished her last bite with a grateful sigh. "Thanks for dinner, too. I haven't had McDonald's in forever."

"Anytime," he replied, meaning it. He was grateful that she seemed to be picking this up so quickly. Not everything, not even close, but she was actually coming along quicker than he had the first time he'd been introduced to these concepts.

"So…" She sat back down and folded her hands on the table. "You've actually met people who lived in other countries and had freedumb?" He nodded. "Why would they come here?"

"To help. They want us to have it, too."

"And that's what you do?" she asked shrewdly.

Damn, she was quick. Too quick. He forcibly shuttered his expression, because there were things he needed to know before that conversation could go any further. Moreover, he needed to talk to David first. "Tell me more about your mom."

Fortunately, she seemed to accept that he'd said as much as he would or could on the topic. She looked down at her locket, holding the heart in her hand for a moment. "Like I said, I don't remember much." She lifted it over her head, opened it, then handed it to him. "This is all I have of her."

He looked at the photos inside. One was Pam's mom, the other was her holding a baby. Pam, presumably. He turned it over and froze, finding the letters FF engraved on the back in a familiar, distinctive font. He fought mightily to maintain his composure, because what the fuck was she doing with this? "What was her name?"

"Fiona Beesly."

He pointed at the back of the locket. "Why does this say FF?"

"Oh, her maiden name was Fox."

Fiona Fox.

Freedom First.

Fucking FUCK.

He lifted his eyes to hers in shock. "You weren't born in Scranton, were you." He wasn't really asking because, unless this was the coincidence of all coincidences, he knew exactly who her mother was and exactly where she was from.

She looked at him in confusion. "No, we moved here after she died. Why?"

"From where?"

"Buffalo, New York. Why?" she asked more insistently, because that intense look was back on his face. And because he didn't look surprised, like he'd known what her answer would be before she gave it.

He swallowed hard. "Do you trust me?"

She looked at him oddly and considered the question. Although he was weird, although he was so different from the way he'd acted at work, although he'd found her phone number and address and come over unannounced… she felt like she did. Like she had to. She couldn't not trust him after the way he'd trusted her, after everything he'd told her about freedumb and people from other countries, after he'd played that incredible song for her. Although she wasn't thrilled he'd put her at risk by doing that without her knowledge, he'd been risking the same himself.

She looked him in the eye and nodded once. He nodded back, then eyed the locket in his hands. "I need to borrow this." It wasn't a question. "Just for tonight."

"NO!" she objected, wresting it away. "Are you insane?" She slipped it over her head and snapped the heart closed, holding it between trembling fingers. Trust wasn't relevant, not when it came to something this precious.

"I know it sounds a little crazy," he acknowledged. Okay, extremely crazy he conceded silently. "But I'm not."

"It's all I have of her," she reminded him sternly.

He nodded, not unsympathetically. "I know. I don't wanna keep it. I swear you'll have it back tomorrow." He crossed his heart instinctively as he said the words.

She bit her lip, wondering if she weren't a little crazy herself, because she maybe actually believed him. "Why, Jim?" she challenged him. "Tell me why."

Because with it, he could convince David to let him recruit her. Because without it, there was a good chance she'd be sent back to her old job, simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time… because of him. Because he knew what had happened to her mother and desperately wanted to tell her. Because he, too, knew the pain that came from losing a family member to untimely death, and she deserved to know the truth. Most of all, because he needed her in his life and this was the only way he could think to guarantee it.

He couldn't tell her any of that. Although he felt sure by now that she was trustworthy, that she was smart as hell, that she would make an incredible ally, he had to convince David of that first. To do otherwise by giving her too much information too soon could very well put her in incredible danger.

He exhaled heavily and leaned across the table. "I hope you understand that I wouldn't ask this if it wasn't absolutely necessary. But I can't tell you why. Not yet."

She shrank back. He felt her closing off, saw the No in her eyes. He reached out before she gave it voice, taking her hands in his. "I get it, it's a huge leap of faith, Pam. I know it's not fair of me to ask. I know I'm being… cryptic. I'm sorry to have to ask, but I just… I need you to trust me.” He squeezed her hands, imploring her with his eyes. “Please."

She looked at him hard, brow furrowed. After a long moment, she disengaged her hands from his. In a tremulous voice, she said, "You'd better bring it back. In one piece. Or else." She lifted the locket over her head with trembling hands and handed it to him, not a little reluctantly.

He felt a rush of relief. "Thank you. I'll keep it safe." He settled the chain around his neck and tucked the heart beneath his collar.

"If you don't, I'll slap you, graffiti your car, and kill you," she said crossly. "And not necessarily in that order."

"You'd better kill me first," he advised with an engaging grin. "Because all bets are off if I see you graffiti my car." His words elicited the smile he'd hoped for, and an eyeroll that he found incredibly endearing. "I gotta get going." He stood up, not looking forward to the long night ahead. "Believe me, I'll explain everything as soon as I can." In a hurry, he pulled out his wallet and removed the stack of fives. He slid them across the table, wishing he'd thought to bring more. 

"What is this?" She reared back as if he'd slapped her. "I'm not gonna tell anyone what we talked about. Do you think that's something you can… buy?"

Honestly shocked, his mouth fell open. "That's not--" He pressed his lips together, guessing he deserved that for not making his intentions clearer. Not that he was above bribery when necessary, but this was so not about that. Not at all. "So you can eat between now and payday," he said hoarsely. He turned to go, pained, brow furrowed.

Her eyes widened because, as much as he'd seemed entertained by her anger earlier, she could tell she'd really hurt him this time. "Wait! I'm sorry." She leapt up and stepped around the table, needing to make this right before he left. She wound her arms around his waist and patted his back reassuringly. "I'm really sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean it." Relieved, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, readily accepting her apology. "I was getting pretty sick of corn flakes," she confessed. "Thank you." She couldn't help wondering how on earth he had so much money at his disposal, but she could save that question for another time. And she couldn't help marveling how, even when he was so obviously hurt, he didn't lash out at her. He had a practically otherworldly amount of patience. It was so weird.

"You're welcome," he said softly. He really wished he'd brought more, because she was far too thin. It would take more than a couple of Big Macs and a grocery run to remedy that. "Will you be home after work tomorrow?" She nodded against his chest. "I'll drop your locket off. Five thirty?"

She nodded again, then released him with a final pat and stepped back. "Would you wanna stay for dinner?" she asked impulsively. He was paying for the food so, sure, that was a reason. But she also wanted to spend more time with him. She had so many more questions for him now than she'd had after work. And she couldn't help thinking that as much as she'd liked him at work, she was far more intrigued by him here. He was weird, nosy, and mysterious. But he was also incredibly generous, patient, and comforting.

He grinned at the invitation, looking forward to the prospect of spending yet another evening with her. "Absolutely I would."

"What do you like?" For once, the sky was almost literally the limit, so she was overwhelmed with possibilities.

He shrugged nonchalantly, because he could eat anything. "What's your specialty?"

And she had to laugh at that because, for all that she used to work in a restaurant, she wasn't a particularly good cook. "Ramen. Frozen pizza. Grilled cheese."

"I love grilled cheese."

She looked at him skeptically. "You're not just saying that?"

"Nah, it's the best. If you fry up some bacon first, you can use the bacon grease instead of buttering the bread. And then you have bacon grilled cheese."

"Sounds good," she nodded appreciatively. "I'll try it." She thanked him for the recipe as he headed out, then shoved the leftover burgers into the refrigerator. Quickly, she changed into jeans, eagerly embarking on the biggest grocery trip of her adult life.

As she walked up and down the aisles, she reached for her locket absently, repeatedly. Every time, she felt a brief moment of terror, thinking it had fallen off before she remembered. She reminded herself that she trusted Jim, that she wouldn't be grocery shopping right now without his help, and that she wouldn't still be so deliciously stuffed from dinner if he hadn't visited her this afternoon.

Still, it had been over a decade since she'd taken it off for more than a shower or bath. She missed its reassuring presence.

--

Jim absently rubbed the locket as he drove down the highway. He'd taken it off and dropped it into his pocket out of an abundance of caution. After texting David's cell phone in code, he'd been advised to make the trip in code. He'd be fairly late getting home, and on a work night no less. But he'd only been given one day to "take care of it," so this couldn't wait.

Fortunately, and a little unexpectedly, David didn't take much convincing at all. Jim said he was absolutely sure Pam was trustworthy. He relayed what he'd learned about the identity of her mother and showed him the locket. They compared the photos of her to photos of Fiona Fox in a Freedom First history book, and there could be no doubt that it was the same woman. He'd actually seen a look of surprise on David's face, which was fairly shocking in itself because nothing surprised David. He maintained an extensive library in a secret room in his home, and managed to locate a copy of Fiona's will, as well as a number of photos. Jim made copies of everything. David told him that Pam and her sister would have been reclaimed by FF and raised as members from childhood, per Fiona's wishes. However, Pam's father must have gotten them out of town too quickly, too stealthily, because they'd been unable to locate the girls, and that was that. Until now. He left with David's full support to recruit her.

He breathed a heavy sigh of relief once he was back on the road, mentally preparing for a massive information dump tomorrow evening. He'd only onboarded one ally so far, Phyllis, but he hadn't had to start from quite the same level. She'd been older to begin with, and fairly subversive already. He'd originally approached her on David's recommendation, actually. This was the first time he'd done the recommending, and Pam was entirely green. However, he had to admit she was a quick study. He also had the advantage of information. He could pull out his FF history book and she could read her mother's story, so she'd have more to go on than his word.

Something else David had mentioned was that Pam couldn't wear the locket anymore. If she were ever picked up by the police, even for an unrelated offense like speeding, she'd be interrogated if they noticed the distinctive engraving on the back... likely killed. Not that Jim didn't already know that. He'd concluded as much after seeing it for the first time. It was vitally important to convince her of that as quickly as possible, but he knew it would be an incredibly hard sell.

He wasn't sure how much she'd be ready for on her first day. He couldn't even say for certain whether she'd be willing to commit at all, because ultimately that was up to her. And it was an incredibly big decision to make. Still, he had a good feeling that learning what her mother had done would give her a push in that direction. Fiona had practically been a celebrity prior to her untimely death. You'd be hard-pressed to find an ally in the northeast who didn't know her name.

By the time he arrived at home, it was after midnight. He took advantage of the cover of darkness to stash everything he thought he'd need in the secret compartment below his trunk. He stuffed a backpack with a number of books and slid the copies he'd made on top. Fondly remembering the way she'd been so moved by Free Bird, he added a CD player and a homemade CD. Bringing some more music into the picture certainly couldn't hurt.

He fell into bed soon after, beyond exhausted. He thanked his lucky stars that David hadn't asked again whether this was personal. He simply wasn't sure he could have pulled off that lie to his face. It definitely wouldn't have been easy after the evening he'd had. He drifted off to sleep with a smile on his lips, the locket around his neck, the heart clasped loosely between his fingers.