for the widower in paradise, for the motherless in ypsilanti

If she takes the time to think about it, which she might someday when she can form thoughts more structured than "Henry" and "sleep," Liz will realize she has spent almost 30 hours on planes in the last two days.  This coupled with a mercifully silent ride in one of the Bureau's cars to the helicopter lauchpad, to the base at the top of the mountain, have all brewed together into a cocktail guaranteed to knock out the most iron of constitutions.

Physical fortitude is not something Liz has ever been known for.  By the time she's deposited outside their front door (there's snow so it's winter...is it Christmas?  Did I miss Christmas? ...no, I definitely did not) all that's on her mind are the aforementioned singular nouns.  Lest her siblingchildren or the cat feel slighted, take heart.  She remembers Henry's name before she remembers her own.  

She came home without luggage; it seemed like just so much baggage to carry.  It's been months since a cigarette has touched her lips, but she'll slip quickly back into the habit as soon as she smells smoke - you're never a non-smoker, just an ex-smoker.  Her legs feel like lead and the steps to the front porch number in the thousands, but it's a clean, cool kind of tired, not the raging greasy exhaustion that had gripped her when she'd come out of the hospital.

Everything is just like it was.  Somehow she thought it would be different; like a library that was once a church.  The same sanctuary, just carried out in different shades of meaning.  Her fingers itch to run over those familiar surfaces, to touch everything in all of these worn rooms.  To the uniniated eye she must look like a wide-eyed seven year old, gawking with unabashed joy at something as silly and mundane as a living room.

She doesn't even make it to the bedroom.  Exactly nine seconds after sitting down on the couch, just to get her bearings, she's lost in white, dreamless sleep.