The only truly cruel thing Sara remembered about her mother dying was that she had kissed her goodbye that morning, before going to school, and hadn't known that this was the last.

Well, not really kissed her goodbye so much as allowed herself to be dragged into a grudging embrace. Sara had just started going to high school, and her old proximity with her mother, dating back to only months before, had felt the precise color of a slap, shame-red.

The death of her mother had happened just like in a movie.

Really, all the while it was happening, Sara had felt not like herself, but like a teenage actress suddenly taking on a role she hadn't signed up for.

Her father's coworker and friend had come to her school in the middle of the day, to pick her up. He was wearing one of his usual expensive suits, but this one was black, not dark blue, not fancy grey.

"I haven't finished my classes," she said, like he didn't know that, when he'd just had the teacher bring her out, in the middle of History period.

Then, startlingly, he had put his hands on her shoulders, and Sara had felt this was the first time that Bruce looked at her like this, like an adult.

He had said it in one of those obvious, there's no other way for me to say it way.

"There's been a terrible accident. Your mother is dead."

Later, he would call the way that Sara had reacted "very mature".

All because Sara was nodding, was keeping calm, was not bursting into incontrollable sobs of grief.

But in truth, it had nothing to do with being mature, or keeping her emotions in check.

Sara hadn't simply believed Bruce, and when she had gone home, had found her nanny, tearing up in the kitchen, while her father was locked up in his study, "not to be disturbed" – even though every object in the house and the weight of silence seemed to scream the evidence of her mother's death, Sara still didn't believe it.

It felt, because her system hadn't been prepared for it, because she had cried an awkward, "Mom," when her mother planted a kiss on her cheekbone, and had not hugged her or tried to take in her smell deep in her lungs, the smell of home, of cocoa skin cream and peach shampoo, her mother could not really have died, and there would come a time in her life when Sara would see her again to properly say goodbye.

The day that Sara's normal life ended – as a doctor in the mental institution of Saint Abram's, as a free woman instead of a fugitive – was a little like that.

Too rushed for her to really believe it.

No warnings, no caution signals; nothing she did on her last day had the special quality of lasts.

She didn't talk to Michael Scofield, after what had happened; some three days had gone by, and Sara had been very careful, had never given him the chance to draw her into a broom closet again.

Really, she felt like she was being punished for her own tendency to view Michael differently from the other patients, for thinking there was even a parcel of sanity in his story.

Though checkups and therapy schedules were only scheduled once or twice a week, she usually managed to see a lot more of him. Walking past the common room, she'd find him playing chess with another inmate and ask what his next move was – and secretly, she'd feel the smile he gave her was full of contradictions, as if there was so much more to the chessboard and to his scheming mind than she could see.

But this week, she kept it to the strict minimum.

Which was maybe why it seemed to come so completely out of the blue, when her talkie came to life, as she was going through some paperwork in her office, and the voice of Brad Bellick, their head of security, said, "Sara, you need to come to the B Wing, asap."

He sounded a little ashamed, and the first thing she thought, ridiculously, was that she must be in trouble.

"Uh – okay." She tried to sound normal. "Is there a problem?"

"Well…"

Her stomach dropped, and she had to stop herself from laughing nervously, from doing anything to lessen the sudden reality behind his answer.

"Just come up to Pope's office. Better to talk face to face."

Sara made her way to Wing B, walking fast, but feeling like she was running, and as though all the eyes of the staff she walked past on her way there were following her.

Ridiculous.

She was becoming paranoid, just like Michael. Was it very rare for doctors to start reproducing their patients' manias?

Before she entered the office of Henry Pope, who was at the head of Saint Abrams', she waited a few seconds behind the door, because she wanted to look calm when she faced the room. She pressed a hand to her heart through her uniform, felt the rapid fluttering like the wings of an insect, and she pushed open the door, only to hear that two inmates had escaped earlier this morning.

"What?"

She looked at Bellick, who stared at his feet.

He was head of security, supposed to prevent such things from happening. It was already past noon. Whenever the inmates had escaped, security couldn't have caught on to it immediately.

In the room, aside from Bellick and Pope, there were security guards and Katie Holmes.

Pope rubbed his temples in a half-oblivious gesture. He opened his mouth, and it looked like he wanted to ask her to sit down, but there weren't enough chairs in the room, half of the people already standing.

"I asked you to come," he looked at Katie and Sara, "because the inmates are patients under your care. I've already spoken to Katie about Theodore Bagwell, and the threat he might represent outside."

Sara's heart pounded at Bagwell's name.

Suddenly, she knew exactly what he was going to say next, that he was going to tell her Michael was the second escaped inmate, and it was all happening as it was supposed to have happened, just weeks ago, when she had stumbled upon their escape attempt.

"We've already established he's one of our most dangerous patients. Regarding Michael Scofield, things are different, and I'd like your professional opinion as to whether he is likely to be a danger to himself or to others. I must notify the police about this," he explained, "and give them an honest answer as to what they should expect from the inmates."

"Naturally," Sara managed.

She brushed a lock of auburn hair away from her forehead. She really did wish she could sit down. Her knees felt wobbly as candy sticks, and perspiration started to form a thin film over her face and collar.

If this had happened a few weeks ago, she could have answered without the shadow of the doubt that Michael Scofield was no more likely to hurt an innocent person than a sane person was – less likely, for that matter. That he was one of those rare individuals who truly wouldn't hurt a fly.

But something stopped her.

His quickness and strength when he had grabbed her into the broom closet.

"Michael is not an aggressive patient," she said. After that first statement, the rest came more easily. "There's no history of violence before or since his arrival to Saint Abram's. There's no way to predict how a man will react when he feels cornered, but I don't think it's probable that he will be a threat to others."

"Good," Henry Pope gathered his hands above the surface of his desk. He looked upset about the matter, but Sara felt, not immoderately. "To tell you the truth, I'm more concerned about Bagwell. I suppose the police will go after him, as a priority. Now that the inmates are out of this institution, I'm afraid the matter's out of our hands. We can help with the investigation, cooperate. As to Michael Scofield, I agree with you that he's most certainly harmless, though there's no telling what he can do to himself. He committed no crime before he became an inmate here. The police will notify the population, of course, but they have no reason to arrest him. If they can take him back here peacefully, so much the better. As for Bagwell – well, I suppose it depends on whether he's committed any crime during his escape."

Pope sighed. "I don't need to tell you this will be a shameful day for us, if anyone were to get harmed by either of our escaped inmates."

"Sir," Sara said, "if you don't mind me asking, how –"

"The security department will make a report," Bellick interrupted. "Of course, that's nothing for the doctors to be concerned about."

Sara felt the slight and couldn't hold back a mild scoff. "I wouldn't say that, Brad, considering these are our patients wandering out –"

"It would seem that something went wrong with the cameras," Pope explained. "Bagwell, as you well know, was placed under strict surveillance after he assaulted you. The video shows him holding quiet in his room, from yesterday night to noon. But when someone came to bring him lunch, they found it empty, Bagwell gone. Scofield went missing right around eleven this morning. The most likely explanation is that he helped Bagwell, replaced the surveillance video with yesterday's tape, and they escaped together."

"Why though," Katie shook her head. "Bagwell and Scofield are never seen together. They didn't socialize, that we can tell, and I certainly can't see the pair becoming friends."

"It must fit into Michael's mania somehow," Sara said. She was trying to make sense of it as she went along, and ignoring her instinctive dislike for this idea. "Bagwell must have convinced him that he needs him. Katie, you've told me Bagwell could be manipulative."

"Oh, yes."

"Then Scofield would have fallen prey to his tricks."

A shudder crept down her skin. Part of her still couldn't adhere to the theory.

"Well," Henry Pope said, looking at Katie and Sara, "I would say the best you can do is go back to work and finish the day as usual. Take care of your other patients. It goes without saying that we'll keep you posted, if anything comes up."

Sara wanted to stay, to ask more questions; but she realized that Pope and Bellick weren't the ones who would be able to answer them.

Once she was back in her office, the words Michael had last spoken to her were all she could think about.

You aren't safe anymore, Doctor.

And he had asked her to look out for the man, one of the main actors in his conspiracy mania. The man in black with the sunglasses.

There were some ten minutes left before the end of Sara's lunch break. It seemed ridiculous that the whole meeting in Pope's office could have taken less than a quarter of an hour.

She had packed a sandwich from the bakery across the street, but didn't feel the least hungry for it. Instead, she opened her drawers and fished through her files until she could find Michael's.

"This is ridiculous," she said to herself. "You're ridiculous."

And yet, she didn't stop until she found Michael's drawings. Neat, incredibly true to life sketches of who he called the man in black.

Some sketches framed only his face, others showed him standing or getting out of his car. The man looked tall, with closely cropped hair, a slightly receding hairline.

Finally, she shoved the file back inside her drawer, resenting her momentary weakness.

Michael had run away from this place to chase the ghosts of his own mind. It was only right that as his doctor, as a sane woman, she would refuse to follow into his tracks.

Sara started early in the morning and finished her work days early as a result. Around four p.m. that day, she had already seen her last patient and finished all the paperwork she'd been putting off during the week.

It was stupid, probably, but Sara found herself reluctant to go home, as if afraid of the thoughts that would come teeming into her mind once she was alone, with no more distractions.

It was bright daylight when she drove home, and she felt some of the stress of the day wash away from her, as she left behind the gloom of the asylum.

Home was a small apartment on the sixth floor of a building whose elevator was always out of order. When she got home, Sara took off her white coat where the badge that read 'Doctor Tancredi' was pinned around the collar, and she stuffed it out of sight inside her closet. Then, she removed the elastic that had kept her hair in a tight ponytail, stripping layer after layer of her professional persona.

Usually, Sara liked to read when she got home, stretched out on her bed, because a couch was one of the small comforts her apartment didn't have.

But on a day like this one, Sara could only think of one thing to do, so as to really get today's events out of her system.

Her mother used to say, "There's nothing that a long bubble bath can cure." When Sara got home from school upset, her mom always sent her to the bathtub, and though she went reluctantly, almost insulted that her troubles wouldn't be taken as something serious enough that they would need more than a hot bath to fix them, she would always feel better when she got out, softened and damp, the smell of vanilla shower cream like a protective halo around her.

So without wasting time, Sara peeled off her clothes and started the hot water pouring into her small tub. Far less comfortable and spacious than the one she had enjoyed in her parents' home, but it still did the trick. Really; one of Sara's reasons for picking this apartment despite the cracking paint on the ceiling and the malfunctioning elevator was that it came with a tub.

But Sara only had time to dip herself into the hot water and plunge her head under with a blissful sigh before there came the sound of distinct knocking at her door.

"You've got to be kidding," she said.

The door of her bathroom was half open so she could hear the rapping was unmistakably for her, not a neighbor.

It was too late to be the mailman.

But sometimes Mrs. Dunn who lived next door came to see her when Sara got home from work, to ask her to take out her trash if she was going away for a few days.

Sara wrapped herself inside a bathrobe, gave her wet hair a quick squeeze and jumped to her feet.

Her bath would still be here in five minutes.

"Yes?" She cracked open the door and immediately wished she'd put on some real clothes.

The person at the door was not her elderly neighbor.

It was a man, tall, with blue eyes and black hair. There was a smile on his lips that didn't reach to his eyes.

Suddenly, Sara's heart started pounding, and she thought she must look stupid, terrified.

This is the man from Michael's drawings.

But that was impossible. Sara's mind dismissed recognition immediately. Not just because it would mean the conspiracy Michael had talked about was all true, that he wasn't crazy; but because it would mean Sara was herself in great danger, and her brain refused to accept that information.

Terror was like a block of ice inside her mouth, stopping her from speaking.

"Hello," the man spoke with a tone visibly meant to make her feel easy. "I'm sorry to disturb you like this. Miss Tancredi, is it?"

"Y-yes."

"My name is Paul Kellerman. I work with the police. I have a few questions to ask you about your patient – Michael Scofield. I'm sure you agree it's in his best interest that we catch him, soon, before he's had time to put himself in danger."

Sara's first thought was how quick this was happening. Then, she thought that Michael was not a criminal and she couldn't see why the police department would make it a priority to catch him.

Of course, it must be true, and this man must be a well-intended policeman.

Because he couldn't be the man from Michael's conspiracy.

But deep in her bones, Sara knew he was, and she stared at him like he was a character from a storybook come to life, the black wolf in Little Red Riding Hood.

Then Paul Kellerman flashed her a smile that looked very genuine. He might as well have been trying to sell her bibles on a Sunday morning.

"May I come in?"

Sara's heartbeat raced wildly. She tried to think very fast.

After years of criticizing the girls in horror movies when she happened to catch one on TV, she found she had no idea what a smart girl would do to survive at such a time.

Lock yourself in. Call the police.

"Of course," she said. Luckily, this man didn't know her, and he wouldn't hear how unusually strained her voice was. "Let me just – give me five minutes to get dressed."

A flash of understanding came over his features.

Sara swallowed through her knotted throat.

"Of course," he said.

But when she tried to close the door, he pushed his foot in, and it flew open as he thrust his body against it.

The strength of the blow propelled her backward.

She didn't fall but remained reeling for a second, her fear-widened eyes staring unavoidably at the intruder, who closed the door gently behind him.

"You'll excuse me, Sara. I'm afraid I'm going to have to be – insistent. I can't have you calling the police. But rest assured, I'm a reasonable man. We're going to sit here, you're going to answer my questions, then I'll get out of here and you'll never see me again."

A smile cracked open his lips. This time, it did reach his eyes, and Sara felt her whole soul shiver from dread.

"You wouldn't want to become an inmate in the asylum you work in, would you? I'm sure you'll see the safest way is to forget about this conversation. Please –"

It looked like he was about to invite her to sit down in her own home when he noticed the absence of chairs or sofas.

His smile widened.

His eyes went from Sara's wet hair to the ajar bathroom door.

"Well," he said. "I suppose we can remain standing."

Sara took a few steps back. Hopefully, the man would think she was just acting out of fear. If she could just make it to the kitchen and grab a knife or something –

But she noticed the bulge of a gun hooked at his hip.

He followed her eyes and shook his head. "Like I said, Sara. I think you'll find the safe choice here is to do as I tell you."

"I don't know where Michael is," she said, truthfully. "He suffered from acute paranoia. He would have never told me he planned to escape or where he was going to run. To him, I was part of the institution. And anyway, he didn't trust anyone."

Kellerman considered this. "Maybe," he said. "Then why don't you tell me what happened between you and Michael, when he first tried to escape with Bagwell?"

It felt like iced water was drenching her from the roots of her hair to her toes.

"He saved your life, no?"

Sara didn't consider lying. "Yes."

"Why didn't you report him?"

"I didn't want to get him into trouble."

"Why? Were you having an affair?"

"No."

The outrage in her voice seemed to amuse him. "I'm not here to pass judgment. But I believe you, Sara. So, you weren't sleeping with him. But there was some degree of trust between you?"

Sara's back hit the wall. She hadn't realized she'd been stepping away from the man and that he'd been steadily stepping closer, but to find herself literally cornered made the situation even more unpalatable.

"I didn't believe him, if that's what you're asking."

"But you knew he had tried to escape. That he was likely to try again. And still, you didn't report him."

"I –"

"So don't you think it's possible he saw you as an ally?" He cocked his head slightly. "A friend?"

Sara didn't know what to say. Right now, she wished she had never heard of Michael Scofield, that she had taken a job in a regular hospital, that none of this had ever happened.

"Michael is romantic like that," Kellerman said. "Yes, saving you, playing the hero."

Then his fingers were on her throat.

He smiled like he could feel Sara's pulse racketing.

His hand was gentle, only touching; not even a light squeeze.

"Do you think he'll play hero again? If your life were in danger – do you think he'd come running?"

But Sara didn't get a chance to answer.

Suddenly, blaring sirens started to sing and Sara recognized the sound of a fire alarm. Kellerman looked away for a half second.

Sara didn't think, would have never been able to move if she had actually thought this through.

In one brisk move, she thrust herself forward, ducked under his arm, and ran for freedom.

End Notes: So, a lot of you might have forgotten this story existed. To be fair, that's exactly what I did. I was really into it when I wrote the first two chapters and then, for I think must amount to years, I forgot about it. I spotted it this morning in an old file and got back in ;-). Please share your thoughts in the comment section! Remember I'm always open to suggestions (some of my favorite stories actually came from you).

PS: cards on the table, I know that asylums don't work the way I'm describing here. The changes I added are purely for the sake of fiction and drama. I wanted a middle-ground between the old asylums in horror films and the modern world Prison Break takes place in.