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We'd been recording for a couple weeks, and I'd been frantically avoiding going into public the entire time, scared sick I'd see someone who needed rescuing. I hadn't yet decided how I'd handle it if I did see someone, rescued them, and the ministry came to my door step again. We had done an overnight session (the acoustics are totally different at night than they are during the day - go figure) and I'd fallen into bed at 4:00 am, exhausted and sweaty (Brian and I had shot hoops while Howie had wrapped up his take just before leaving for the night). I was still in bed at 2:00 in the afternoon, when the visitor buzzer went off in the other room.

I groaned, then rolled over. The fellas have keys, I thought, pulling a pillow over my head. I didn't care about seeing anyone else.

But whoever was on the other end of the buzzer was persistent, and when I didn't answer the first buzz, they buzzed again. The third time, they held it down longer, and the fourth time they buzzed in short, annoying bursts.

"What the fuck," I moaned, rolling over and spotting the alarm clock. Granted, I'd slept plenty by this point, but I was still tired, and they were waking me up from a sound sleep. I'd been in the middle of a damn good dream, no less.

I crawled out of bed, distinctly aware of how messed up my hair was (I felt like I was in Flock of Seagulls or something), and stumbled through the apartment toward the door. I almost stepped on Jerome and ended up tripping over my own two feet trying to avoid crushing the iguana. He hissed and ran across the floor and under the table I kept my keys on.

The buzzer was still humming loudly. I wondered if there was a way to disconnect it.

"For the love of God," I said, pressing the TALK/LISTEN button and holding it down, leaning against the panel, my mouth against the grate the speaker was behind. "Stop that annoying noise now."

"Nick?" the speaker rattled a bit, like static. It was a woman.

My mind raced. Was I expecting a visit from a woman? "Um... what?" I asked.

"Nick, it's me," she said. And as soon as the words were out, the sleepy haze that had kept me from recognizing the voice to begin with lifted and I knew exactly who it was. Even without her telling me. "It's Amie."

"What do you want?" I asked. What the hell are you doing at my house? I added in my mind.

"I need to talk to you," she said in an urgent manner.

Talk to me, my ass, bitch. "Fine," I hit the button that allowed her into the building and waited.

It only took a minute. I was on the second floor of a relatively small building. She knocked and I shot a glance at Jerome, who was still hissing at me from beside my sneakers under the table. Last time he'd gotten into the hall by accident it had been disastrous. Let's just say the woman down the hall is not so fond of iguanas. She wasn't as easy to persuade to their coolness as Brian had been, either, especially not when she found them in her laundry basket, stealing her favorite blouse's buttons. I opened the door swiftly and waved Amie in.

She stepped inside and looked around. It wasn't until that moment that I realized I'd really let the place get shot to hell since Brian had been around cleaning it everyday. It looked like Oscar Madison's apartment, kind of. It had definitely lost the scent of Lysol that her permeated the air from when Brian had taken up chasing Jerome around with the wipes. The lemon-freshness had been replaced with a scent somewhat akin to dirty laundry and burnt toast. At least she won't wanna stay long, I consoled myself as I flushed. I wasn't usually the typical bachelor-pad type, but you'd never be able to tell by the state of the apartment.

"Charming," she said. "So, what exactly died in her?" her nose was crinkled and she looked at me with a disgusted look on her face.

"We're still researching that," I replied flatly.

Amie walked further into the apartment, looking around, either not noticing or not caring that I hadn't left the door area. I didn't want her getting too comfy-cozy, I had no intention of playing host. "Well?" I asked after a moment, hoping to prompt her to talk.

She turned to look at me again. "It's not exactly what I had imagined a multi-platinum popstar's home looking like," she answered. "It's more... 'white trash' than 'famous'."

I clenched my fist. I fucking hate the 'white trash' phrase. I thought bitterly. "I did not mean 'well, what do you think of my place'," I responded, my voice straining not to lash out at her, "I meant, 'well, what do you want'. But since we're on the brutal honesty topic... um, hello, you're a bitch."

Amie raised her eyebrow. "Hey, I'm just making observations here. C'mon, you gotta know this place is kind of ... slummy ... compared to what most celebrities have."

"It's not 'slummy'," I retorted, "It's normal. I have enough crazy shit in my life without a freakin' mansion with peacocks strutting all over the lawn, okay? Jesus..."

Amie laughed at this. The sound, similar to falling shards of class on a tile floor, surprised me because I hadn't expected it. I was genuinely pissed off, and she apparently found my reaction to her assessment funny. "Who said anything about peacocks?" she asked.

I shrugged, bitter. "Howie like showing off," I muttered.

Amie continued to laugh, "You actually know someone who has peacocks on the lawn?" she asked, "But what on earth could be the point of that?"

Again, I shrugged. "Probably because he's Howie and he's so ridiculously rich that he can afford to rent peacocks for his lawn," I said, my voice level, "I think that's the look he's going for."

Amie noticed now that I was not laughing with her, and the fit died way abruptly. She sat on a bar stool next to my kitchen counter, about ten feet away from me now, and ran her purple-polished nails across the bumpy counter top. I stayed by the door.

After what seemed a long, drawn out silence, I finally said, "What the hell do you want?"

Amie looked up at me, her hand dropped from the counter. "I thought we were friends?"

"We might've been," I said irritably, "If you hadn't been such a colossal bitch to my best friend for no apparent reason, or if you hadn't told the ministry to watch me or whatever."

"I didn't tell them to--"

"You realize they kidnap people?" I snapped, "No warning, no phone call, not even a fucking postcard! Just boom - kidnapped."

Amie bit her lip and frowned. She adverted her eyes, "I'm sorry. Why did they do that?"

"It's a little late for 'sorry'," I muttered, shaking my head. "And why? Why did they kidnap me? Because I saved like 1,500 lives from a subway train collision, that's why. Yeah, apparently I'm not supposed to save lives."

Amie looked up at me, surprised. "You were saving people?" she asked, her voice sounded scandalized and shocked, similar to how it might've sounded if I'd just informed her that I'd held up a convenience store with a squirt gun or something. "Nick!"

"Well what the fuck else point does being a Time Watcher have if not to save people?" I demanded, my voice sharp. I stormed away from the door and moved into the living room, where I threw myself down on the couch, mad that she had gotten me mad.

Amie had winced at the harsh tone, but followed me into the living room. She sat on the edge of the cushion on the opposite end of the couch from me. "You're being very disrespectful and rude and --"

"I don't care," I interrupted. "I don't want to be respectful or polite or whatever else you were going to say." Amie set her jaw and stared at me, anger burning in the pupils of her eyes. "Why are we here, if not to save?" I demanded. "Give me one good answer."

Amie looked down at her hands, then whispered, "The same reason the peacocks are on your friend's lawn?" she looked up, a half smile threatening to spread.

"That's not funny," I snapped. Well, maybe a little, but like hell am I telling you that.

Amie nodded. "Sorry," she said. Then, "Can't we just exist to enjoy our lives without worrying about everyone else's time?" she asked.

"How can I enjoy mu life if I can't save the people I love?" I snapped.

"You love 1,500 people on a New York Subway Train?" she asked doubtfully, "Nick, most of New York is comprised of idiots. There's no way you love all of them."

"God damn it, it isn't funny!" I shouted. I stood up quickly and threw the TV remote that had been sitting on the arm of the sofa next to me at the wall, where it made a dent in the wall before it fell to the floor. "Do you want me to just let them all die? Like they don't matter? Like life is some stupid thing you can waste?" I was screaming the words, my voice venomous. I flung my arms out at my side, "Is that what life is to you people? A game? A funny little game where it doesn't matter if the worthless humans die, so long as you don't say the unspeakable way to die and you register like good little children at the ministry? Is that what it is? Do you want me to walk away when I can prevent babies from being killed?" Lila and her pudgy little infant had popped into my mind as I yelled, and I took a deep, shaking breath. "Am I supposed to watch them die?"

"It's what is supposed to happen," Amie answered, "It's the way history planned for them to die."

I snorted indignantly and my arms dropped back to my sides. "So you'd just let'em all die, regardless that you could do something to help?"

Amie frowned, "You make it sound really harsh and cruel."

"It is really harsh and cruel!" I answered.

"It's not like that, though," she responded, "That's just the way life is. Some people live and some people die and there's nothing we can do to change that. It's just how it is. But we're not supposed to tamper with it."

"What, then - morally, speaking - is the difference between letting them die when there's something I could do to stop it, and things like terrorism or the holocaust? How am I, someone who will look the other way, any different than a Hitler or a Bin Ladin?" I demanded of her.

Amie blinked in surprise, as though this question wasn't the crucible of what we were arguing about and it had come out of left field. She had a way of seeming perpetually caught off-guard. "Nick, don't be stupid," she said, "They choose to kill."

"And you choose, too," I said, feeling that sense of triumph that came with having successfully made a point. "Every time you turn and look away, you make a choice to kill."

"Nick," she was struggling with the point, and I knew I had her, whether she would admit it or not.

"Every time you make an excuse for why you can't help them, you're choosing. You choose not to save someone's life, you choose that they are dispensable, you choose for them to die."

Amie sighed and looked at her fingernails, defeated. "It's different, Nick," she said weakly.

"It is not different," I said evenly, my voice its normal volume now, the rage of the argument evaporating slowly. "It is very, very much the same. Exactly the same. And that's why I chose not to register."

Amie looked up, covered her mouth with one hand, and her eyes were wide. "What?" she asked, her voice muffled by her hand.

"When the Elders asked me to register, I refused, because I didn't want them to think that I agreed with the policies and views that they were sharing."

"Oh my God, Nick," Amie murmured.

"What? Do they have some kind of spell on you or something? Why can't you see how fucked up they are?" I asked.

Amie's mouth quivered ever so slightly, her nose flared just a little bit as she tried to keep her breaths measured and even so that she did not cry. Afraid, I thought, a wash of pity and understanding flooding over me. She's literally afraid to speak against them, to see it differently than they do.

"Amie," I said gently, "I'm sorry. But they're wrong."

She looked at my eyes and I saw that there was a tear threatening the corner of her eye. "They'll kill you if they need to, Nick," she whispered, "They won't hesitate."

"I don't care," I said, "I won't look the other way. I can't. I am what I am for a reason, and if I can save people, then I will. I don't care what the ministry says or does about it. I'd rather die than be a murderer."

Amie stared at me as I stood there before her, resolute, certain of my words, unwilling to back down. As far as I was concerned, it was true. I would die gladly. I was tired, exhausted, from all the living, and I only had months left with the guys before I'd start all over again anyway. Really, I had absolutely nothing to lose.

"Before you make such a decision," she said, taking a deep breath, "There's something I need to tell you. It's why I came today. I found out something else about the Looping."

"Nothing you say is going to make me change my mind, Amie," I said.

Her eyes connected solidly with mine, and she whispered, "It's also about Claire."

My heart stopped. "Claire? What about Claire?"