Hard bench... weird sleeping position... cold...

He opened his eyes.

Alone.

Alone!

"Diane!"

"She went out to get something to eat, Sam."

Now that he wasn't in full-panic mode, Dr. Beckett had an easier time of pushing through the noise in his host's head and getting out. He drew himself up on the bench, grimacing as his body crackled and complained.

"Al?"

"No, it's Richard Nixon."

Sam finally straightened himself out, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing at his face for a second, then looking around. It was nighttime dark out the window and sleeping dim in the room. A room in a police station. "Richard Nixon is dead."

Al nodded, pecking at the handlink. "You're lucky you're not shaking hands with him right now." He glanced at Sam. "And you have no idea how angry the guy back in the waiting room is that you aren't, either."

Sam shivered a little, remembering exactly what it felt like to have that gun pointed at him. "He really wanted to die."

Al let the handlink drop to his side, watching Sam carefully for a moment. Then, "Are you feeling okay?"

Sam considered, then nodded noncommittally. "I guess so. I'm a little tired, but..." He caught his friend's worried gaze. "Who am I?"

Al tossed a point over to the far wall where a small mirror was affixed. Sam walked over to it as Al spoke.

"Like I said, You're Harold James Denby... you go by Harry. All we've got is that you're a law enforcement agent of some sort."

Sam looked at yet another reflection that wasn't his, almost unable to meet his own eyes. This man wasn't just in pain, he was pain, a whole lifetime of it etched into his face like the mark of a knifeblade between his brows. In another time, another place, he would be handsome, striking, even. Instead he was pale, drawn, sallow. But his eyes...