“You know,” Michael begins slowly, “when I suggested lunch, I meant someplace like the diner… you know, with food.” Brian finishes his second bottle of beer before unsteadily setting it back down on the table. “Fuck, have you eaten anything today?” Michael asks, noticing how low his friend’s tolerance is. Propping his elbows on the table, Brian rests his chin against his fists. He closes his eyes, rubbing his lips against his knuckles. “Brian?!” Exasperated, Michael leans against his chair. “You’re fuckin’ impossible.” A smile slowly creeps across Brian’s face, “Thanks, Mickey.” Ted and Emmett suddenly appear and sit down beside their friends. Frowning, Ted asks, “I thought we were meeting for lunch. Why are we at Woody’s?” Brian returns the frown, “Don’t you people have jobs?” Emmett smiles, “How are you feeling, Brian?” He scowls, turning towards the bartender and gestures towards his empty bottle of beer. Ted shakes his head, “It’s a little early to be drinking, don’t you think?” “Nobody asked you, Theodore.” Brian snuffs. A new bottle of beer is placed in front of him. “I heard your place was broken into,” Emmett states, “Was anything taken?” Brian frowns; he was surprised by how fast news had traveled. Michael answers for him, “No, Ma says that they were looking for something.” Ted, “You mean like where Justin and Molly might be?” Emmett leans forward, “It’s our own Liberty Ave mystery, isn’t it?” Tapping his chin, he is thoughtful, “I wonder where they are.” Looking at Brian, he asks, “Do you think they’re still in Pittsburgh?” “I doubt it,” Ted chimes in, “I mean, every member of the Taylor family that lived in this state was murdered. It would be suicide to stay in Pennsylvania.” Emmett nods his head in agreement, “You’re right. But Abigail Taylor wasn’t in Pennsylvania.” “It was close enough,” Ted replies with a shrug, “Besides, it was the Taylor cabin. That was bound to be a target.” “How would you know?” Michael asks, signaling for a drink. “Any idiot would know that if they just took the time to think, Michael,” Ted dismisses, “I mean, if someone wanted every body from a specific family to be murdered, then obviously they would hit the family cabin.” Shaking his head, he signals for a drink as well. Emmett shakes his head, “Poor Sunshine. Can you imagine?” Brian slowly puts down his beer. Looking over at his friends, he slowly announces, “I’d like to thank each and every one of you for your compassionate company… I feel fantastic now, thanks.” He staggers out of his chair. “Where are you going?” Michael asks, jumping to his feet. Ignoring him, Brian continues to stumble out of Woody’s and onto the sidewalk. Michael chases after him, calling, “Wait, I’ll drive you home!” Brian stops, sighing loudly. He wanted to lie down in his own bed and wake up from this nightmare. Reaching his best friend, Michael touches his shoulder, “I know you’re worried, Brian. We’re all worried about him.” Brian leans against the wall, closing his eyes, “It isn’t fair, Mickey.” Michael waits, knowing there was more. “He’s gone through enough shit in his life… he didn’t deserve this. No one deserves this: especially Justin.” Michael nods, gently guiding Brian back to his car, “Justin’s strong. He’s a survivor, we know that.” Entering the car, Brian leans against the seat, his eyes still closed, “It just isn’t fair.” He knew how immature that sounded, but he didn’t care. Because it wasn’t fair. The drive back to the loft is in silence, and when they finally enter the apartment, Brian walks over to his bed and drops flat onto his stomach. Michael sighs, “Let me get you some water, Bri,” he calls, heading to the kitchen. Noticing the blinking red light on the answering machine, he comments, “You have a voicemail. Brian, did you hear me?” Brian muffles something that might be ‘fuck off,’ but Michael isn’t sure, so he plays the message out loud for his friend to hear. It’s the theft protection department that Brian heard earlier that morning with Debbie. “I heard it already,” he mumbles our from under the pillow. “Did you call them back?” Michael asks with concern. “Later,” Brian mutters, not wanting to deal with a credit card company: that was the least of his concerns. “Brian,” Michael lectures, “If someone has your card and is using it, you need to do something about it!” “Later, Mickey,” Brian repeats. His head hurt. “What if someone is trying to steal your identity?” Michael demands in a huff. Groaning, Brian rolls over, “Jesus Fuckin’ Christ, Michael. You watch too much TV.” Michael hands him the phone, “Call them.” Opening his eyes, he stares at the insolent brown ones above him. Finally conceding, Brian points at him and says, “You fuckin’ dial then.” “Fine.” Returning to the answering machine, he copies down the 800 number and begins dialing before handing it to Brian. Yawning, Brian pulls out his wallet, tossing the credit cards onto the bed and picking up the one from the company. Satisfied, Michael returns to the kitchen to get Brian some water. “Account number?” The operator asks. Annoyed, Brian read the number off; he felt this was a complete waste of valuable sleeping or drinking time. “Mr. Kinney, we have a purchase that took place earlier at 1:25 this morning your time.” “My time? What the fuck does that mean? I was home at that time.” His mind returns to the break in… did someone write down his account numbers? “The purchase was outside of the country.” The operator explains. “Where?” “Poitiers, France.” “France?” Brian sits up, “What the fuck did they buy?” “It doesn't say, however the location was at a place called Café Sixties.” “What the fuck is that?” Brian asks. “Sounds like a café. Would you like to report this?” Brian is about to say yes when it dawns on him. “Wait, who else has access to this credit card?” “Let me check, Mr. Kinney,” the operator replies. Brian’s heart quickens. Maybe he was grasping at straws, but could it be? It had to be him. “Mr. Kinney?” “Yes?” “I’m looking at your file now. The only other registered user for your card is a Justin Taylor.”