A half-hour later, Lance unlocked the door of his Craftsman-style bungalow. It had been on the market five years ago as a "handyman special," and it had taken nearly all of those five years to restore the place back to its original glory. He breathed in the comforting scents of aged hardwood, pine cleaner, lemon wood wax, hard work and home. Just beyond the switch-back staircase, were two bedrooms separated by a full bath. The guest one in front, the master behind. On the left side of the house were the living room, dining room cum office, and kitchen with the laundry room doubling as the mud room. Upstairs was a vast wasteland of attic space that was next on his list of projects, right behind finishing the master bath.

As was his habit, Lance emptied out his pockets onto the table just inside the door: keys, wallet, badge, spare change, pocket knife, and Ethan's and Bruenner's business cards. His gun and spare clip went into the drawer. He flipped on a couple of lights on his way back to the working bathroom, his mind still on the events of the evening. It had surprised him to run into Ethan like he had, but it had been good to catch up with his old student. It was just a shame the evening had to get shot to hell, literally. And that had him thinking about Bruenner.

Hot and cold running water had to be one of mankind's greatest innovations, he mused as he turned on the bath tap. He knew from experience that a long, hot shower was the only way to get rid of the cat dander. If he waited until morning, he'd be itchy and grouchy: two dwarves he could do without. He reached for the shampoo bottle and began working his collar-length hair into a good lather, lost in thought.

He was almost positive Bruenner was what was commonly called a pre-Immortal, meaning an Immortal who hadn't suffered a violent death effectively triggering their innate ability to heal and survive damn near anything. Lance had met a few pre-Immortals in his lifetime, but mostly in passing. As the Fates would have it, he and Bruenner were now partners for however long it took to find Sarah and bring Johnson's killer to light. He didn't necessarily want to use the word "justice" since in all reality, the guy had done the world a favor. He scrubbed at his scalp, thinking about the dilemma: to tell her, or not to tell her, such was the question.

If he didn't tell her, there was every possibility she would go through life, find a chap, settle down, and die of old age. The reverse of that coin was that if she didn't know, died violently, and woke up in a morgue somewhere, she had every right to know something like that might happen. He doubted he could find a medical ID bracelet designed for pre-Immortals: make sure I don't wake up first. Of course, there was yet another coin in that pocket. He could always tell her, and there was every possibility she'd think he was cracked, go off to lead a normal life and die of old age. Again, the flip-side was if she did die violently, she would already know what to expect. He supposed the true question wasn't so much whether or not to tell her, but whether or not it was his responsibility.

It was the old paradox of telling someone how, when and where they would die. Would they then try everything to avoid it, only to end up dead or would they accept their fate, and enjoy the time given to them? Each person was different and he supposed that was what was so tricky about the "free will" argument. Deciding he'd done enough waxing philosophical, he concentrated on the shower. It had taken the better part of an hour, four goes with the shampoo bottle, and another three with the soap before he finally felt free of any lingering cat. Feeling much better for it, Lance wandered off to bed.