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against me. It's hard to get used to for some reason."
    Carrie nodded thoughtfully. "Why do you think that is?" "Am I going to get a bill for this?"
    Carrie was the director of psychiatry at a hospital in Flagstaff, a qualification that many people felt made her uniquely qualified to take on the task of being his significant other.
    "Pick up dinner and we'll call it even."
    "I don't know. Seems like it's about time the system worked for me instead of against me."
    "I don't think anyone could say you haven't paid your dues, Mark. You finally got the promotion you'd deserved."
    Beamon didn't respond. Maybe it was what he'd deserved--a punishment, though, not a reward. He'd had more than a few chances to ride into the sunset as the FBI's top investigator--some people might have even said the best they'd ever had. He was starting to think he should have just lived up to everyone's expectations and just self-destructed. But he'd convinced himself that it had been time to grow up.
    "I guess so," he said, reaching for the pocket of his jacket before remembering that he couldn't smoke in the restaurant. Probably for the best: Maybe he'd manage to come in under two packs today. Instead he just drummed his fingers on the table and waited for his beer to arrive. Carrie wouldn't say anything about that. Giving up his beloved bourbon for light beer was actually one of his successes. What she didn't know, though, was that lately he'd caught himself slowing down when he drove by liquor stores. "You know, Mark, I have this friend. She was a salesperson. Made lots of money, really good at her job. So good, in fact, that they gave her a big promotion and moved her upstairs into management. She absolutely hated it. Three months later she'd gone back to sales."
    "I can't go back, Carrie. And I'm a little young to retire." She examined his face carefully. "Mark, I've worked with some of the top surgeons in the country; I know college professors, researchers--you name it. And you're still the smartest guy I ever met. You can do this job if you buckle down. This is an issue of discipline, not ability." He pushed his plate away and dug a toothpick from his pocket. Not as satisfying as a cigarette, but it took the edge off. Carrie just stared at him.
    "What?"
    "I'm worried about you, Mark."
    "You've been worried about me since the day we met." "No, I used to worry that you'd get yourself shot, or fired, or arrested. Now I'm worried about you." She motioned toward his still-full plate. "You don't eat anymore." "The doctor said I had to lose weight."
    "Yeah, I know your doctor and I don't think he suggested substituting cigarettes and stress for two of the four food groups."
    He shrugged. Whatever the reason, he'd lost the weight--almost fifty pounds. That, along with the beard that he'd grown to even out his thinning hair and the glasses he now wore, made it hard to recognize himself in the mirror every morning.
    "I called you last Thursday at home at one P . M . and woke you up," she said.
    "I guess I'm still adjusting to my new life as a successful FBI executive."
    "Are you? I'm not sure. This new job--and the loss of your old job--is . . . I'm afraid it's beating you."
    "I think you're being a little melodramatic, Carrie. I've been almost killed more times than I care to remember, and I just narrowly avoided being thrown in jail for God knows how long. I don't think sitting behind my desk and getting a bad report card from some kid is going to kill me."
    "Isn't it?"
    "Quit answering me with questions."
    She nodded and fell silent for a few seconds. "You know one of the things I like best about you, Mark?"
    "I didn't know there was anything anymore."
    She kicked him under the table. "I've told you this before. What I like best about you is that, without fail, you always do what you think is right. A lot of times you're kind of misguided, but you're one of the only people I've ever met who really tries."
    He actually remembered the first time she'd