Ben Yero sat at the diner counter as the bell chimed on the door behind him. It was the first time he'd left the house in a week, only thing he'd been able to do was write his brother's obituary. He was empty with grief, and only fire remained.

"Mr. Yero? Call me Gideon."

Ben glared up at the mature, careworn man in a Glen plaid suit and round glasses, and he seethed, "Keep your vulturing claws off my brother."

"Mr. Yero, I am uninterested in profiting off of misfortune—"

"Bull. I know what you lawyers do after this kind of thing—"

"I believe the DEO lied to you, Mr. Yero."

The conspiracy caught him by surprise. "What kind of lawyer are you?"

"A good one." The attorney nodded at the waitress, who brought a matching coffee. "I read your brother's obituary. I assume you spoke with Director Moffat?"

"…He said there was an accident."

Gideon was steady. "Did you inquire as to the nature of the accident?"

"Yes, but…"

"Take your time."

"…The director said it was a national security risk to tell us anything more," he composed himself, "Only that there wasn't a body left."

The attorney nodded. "Your brother passed the same day a woman named Dr. Davis vanished. He knew her," he added quietly, "The DEO told us she drove off midday on an investigation and never returned. Dr. Davis, her car, and a train from the Brown line vanished the same day."

Gideon Davis looked Ben in the eye. "Our losses are connected, Ben."

In that moment, Ben was at the counter in Chicago, but in another, he was eleven years old in Lodi, Wisconsin, socking a seventh grader in the jaw, Lou bruised and sprawled on the pavement behind him, marveling up at Ben with boundless devotion.

And in the present, Ben's hand was under the counter in a tight fist. "The DEO lied."

"Mr. Yero… will you join the Davis family in pursuing legal action against the federal government?"