Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

Rooch held his ground at the door. Doug pulled the revolver from his waistband, keeping it angled limply at the carpet.

Emma let out a strangled little gasp.

"Doug," Will said. "No need to -"

Tim's voice remained calm, his hands spread slightly before his chest, ready. "Never draw a weapon unless you're prepared to use it."

Doug's wide jaw bounced as he clicked his teeth. "What makes you think -"

Tim darted across the tight circle of chairs. The edge of his right hand struck the top of the rising barrel, fingers curling near the base of the hammer and locking the cylinder. He twisted down and away, his other hand striking Doug's hyperextended elbow, which broke with a single sharp pop.

Doug yowled, his torso diving to the floor. Tim stepped over the distorted arm before Doug hit carpet, straining the now-limp limb at the socket, the grotesque bend of the forearm permitting Tim to aim the double-clutched revolver directly at Rooch's head.

Doug's shoulder, smashed across his face, muffled his groans.

Rooch's forehead had compressed into a mass of wrinkles.

"Release," Tim said.

Doug writhed on the carpet. "I…can't."

Tim eased the arm back a few degrees, and the fingers popped open on their own. He snapped the gun wheel free and thumbed it into a spin, letting the bullets drop one by one into his palm. He pocketed the empty gun and said, without removing his eyes from Rooch's, "Dray, come on in."

Rooch moved out of her way, and she stepped through the door and over Doug's body.

"Leah, you're going to step back and sit on the bed now," Tim said. "Go on."

Wiping her nose, Leah moved over and sat.

Tim grasped Doug beneath the arms and hoisted him to his feet. "Rooch is going to drive you to the Brotman Medical Center to have your arm set."

Doug swayed a bit. "O-okay."

Tim gave him a little shove toward Rooch, who tucked his bull neck beneath Doug's functional arm and helped him out. Tim closed the door and stood for a moment, holding the knob. Finally he advanced on Will, who shrank back against the wall. Tim brought his face within inches of Will's and said, "I would advise strongly against your considering another stunt like that."

Bederman glared at Will, clearly too disgusted to speak.

Her makeup staining her bleak face, Emma headed out. Will cast a defeated, heartbroken glance at Leah. "That's fine. You want to ruin the rest of your life, you have my blessing. Go ahead."

He paused at the door. A slight movement turned his profile so it pointed at Leah, even if his eyes did not.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said, and then he walked out.

Reggie lingered alone in the parking lot as the others left, scratching his neck and walking in tight circles. Tim paused pulling out of his parking space, watching Reggie through the window. He killed the engine, glanced at Dray and Leah. "Hold on a sec."

He headed over to Reggie, but Bederman stepped out of his car and got there first. Tim lingered back a few steps.

"May I walk you to your room?" Bederman asked.

Reggie exhaled deeply, then nodded like a little kid.

They walked down the corridor together, Bederman tapping Reggie on the shoulder when he walked past his own door.

Reggie turned the key and shoved.

Blinking curiously, Bederman beheld the impressive condition of the room. "Okay, okay." He made a ticking noise with his tongue. "Are you happy living here?"

"Yeah. Thrilled."

They stood side by side, regarding the room like a swamp they were considering plunging into. Tim watched quietly, not wanting to interfere.

Reggie kicked the toe of his shoe into the ground. "It's like everything else. Just so fucking daunting." They stood outside the threshold, looking in. "I can't do it anymore. I can't go in there."

"Maybe fifteen minutes," Bederman said. "Maybe fifteen minutes cleaning up a day isn't daunting."

Reggie chewed his lip, mulling it over.

Bederman waited. And waited.

Finally Reggie said, "Maybe it's not."

Resting a hand on Reggie's back, Bederman strode with him into the mess.

Leah left another check-in message for TD and went straight back to Ginny's room. Tim walked around in the cold of the backyard, finally settling on top of the Costco picnic table.

He replayed the cell-phone message he'd received that morning: "I've been thinking about the drafting table, Timmy. I think your mother would want you to have it. Come on over tomorrow night – I'll be up late."

He saved the message, stuffed the phone into his pocket. Contemplating the palm fronds scattered at the base of the back fence, he realized he'd grown less meticulous in keeping up the house. Until last year he'd been just as uptight as his father, and though no one would now accuse him of slackness, he would occasionally let dirty dishes languish overnight. Maybe he'd recognized the futility of feigning control. Or maybe he was just worn out.

What would Monday hold? Once again keeping the world safe for sheet metal? TD's empire would continue to metastasize, and Leah could very well resume being a cog in it.

He heard the sliding door thunk closed and then the crunching-leaf sound of Dray's approach. Her boots struck the far bench, the tabletop, then she slid down behind him, legs outside his, gloved hands cinching around his waist. She set her chin on his shoulder.

"Growing up with my dad, I was never taught the moves. So I tried to…I guess fake it. I felt like the other parents really knew what they were doing. Part of me was always waiting for Ginny to catch on."

"You were a great father to Ginny."

"Maybe that's why I stay in touch with him. My dad. To remember what I never want to be."

"You still need that?"

When she was inclined, Dray could serve up a hell of a rhetorical. They watched a dead frond try to windsurf up the back fence. Determined bastard.

Dray said, "Will just called."

"He wants to swim by and bump the prey again? Forget it."

"We're not her parents, Timothy. At some point you've got to let her go."

"It's not that simple."

"Nothing's simple," she said.

The frond rattled against the wood like a dying manta ray. "I'm all over the map," he said. "I want to protect her, and I want her to protect herself. I want her to trust me, and I want to prove her trust right."

"None of it's gonna get us Ginny back."

He bent his head. Dray brushed his hair back from his forehead. Rainwater ran across his lips, some of it salty.

Will answered the door himself, the cavernous house behind him emanating the sound-swallowing hum of emptiness. He wore eyeglasses in thin gold frames, the arms pinching his graying hair at the temples and making it bow out in wisps.

"Thank you for coming."

Tim followed him across the tile, their footsteps echoing off the high wooden ceiling beams. They turned right and headed down a broad hall, passing a set of yellow – and – blue paintings composed of blown-up benday dots. Entering a vast office, Will crossed the hardwood floor and collapsed into a mesh chair behind a glass-topped desk the size of two doors laid end to end. A director's chair embroidered with WILL HENNING, EXECUTIVE PRODUCER sagged under a heap of scripts. Three sets of French doors spilled out onto the back lawn and a Bahamian-blue slab of an infinity pool.

Interspersed with movie posters, framed photos of Leah dotted the walls. Leah on the awkward brink of her teens, spouting water in a swimming pool. Leah blowing out ten candles mired in a daunting restaurant dessert, Wolfgang Puck beaming at her shoulder. Leah wearing a life buoy like a sash, perched on the arm of a kid encumbered with an ill-fitting sailor's cap and an oversize Adam's apple, the anchor-bedizened streamer overhead proclaiming, CALABASAS