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"What will you do now?"
She watches as he tilts back his head, his throat working as he swallows. "I don't know."
Walter chuckles as he hands her the half-empty bottle of bourbon. "You mean you're not planning to catch up with a certain old friend?"
She casts him a sharp glance, knowing he's just as shell-shocked by the events of the last forty-eight hours as she is. "It's been six years, Walter. I can hardly land on Michael's doorstep and expect to pick up where we left off."
"Sure you can." They're sitting on the floor of the Perch, their backs against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of them. It's tradition, he'd told her, not that she'd needed much urging to flout the rules of etiquette. "You know where he is." His faded blue eyes are shrewd. "I know you know he's not with anyone else."
She takes a swig from the bottle, the neat alcohol burning her throat, making her eyes water. "I never expected him to wait for me." She looks at him. "I never expected to walk out of here alive."
"Well, better get used to the idea." He reaches across to screw the cap back onto the bottle in her hand, then liberates the bottle instead. "The new Operations is arriving from Center in two hours," he reminds her as he takes another long swig, "and our cabooses will be out the front door."
She takes a deep breath, staring down at her hands, lying in her lap. They're pale and thin, just like the rest of her, just like Walter. "What about you?" she asks, suddenly panicked by the thought of not seeing him every day. "What will you do?"
He grins. "Don't you worry about me." He raises the bottle to her. "I've got plans like you wouldn't believe."
She feels herself smile. "I bet you do."
"He's still waiting on you, Sugar," he says gently, and her eyes blur again. It's been so long since she left these walls that the thought of the world above them seems almost unreal.
"What if it doesn't work?"
He raises his eyebrows. "What if it does?"
Five days later, in a small town on the Belgium border, she steps off a train and into Michael's waiting arms, and his fiercely whispered prayer of thanksgiving is as warm as the sun on her face.