Forty-eight hours. It's a limitation Ben Sullivan is used to working with; it's often said that if a homicide detective can't get a lead in a case in the first forty-eight hours, the chances of solving the case are cut in half. But Ben is one of the most senior detectives in Vancouver's homicide unit, and he deserves that position. He knows what forty-eight feels like, and he knows how to get results within them.

Of course, this test is different -- very different. He's mulling over what exactly he's going to put in his box at first, but it doesn't take him long to realize that it's finding a location for a safehouse that is going to be the harder part, likely. He's been here all of a week and a half, and most of it he's spent drunk, suffering through sobering up, or in the library -- or simply not present. Ben tries not to dwell on that, though -- even if he'd been here the whole time he's been here, he wouldn't have been pushing for anything that would make this any easier. Lasting trust and a source of income had been very low on the priority list; he hasn't made any real contacts that he could ask for a favor, and he certainly doesn't have the money to rent anything at this point.

Ben isn't particularly lucky. If he was lucky, things like this wouldn't happen to him in the first place. But things have a way of working out for him. That isn't on his mind when he hears, muffled but close-by, a muffled scream, choked tears, hushed pleas of a woman. Sound of a slap. Ben's nearly on autopilot when he rounds the corner of the alleyway, comes across the scene as he would have guessed: a woman with her back against the wall, a man with one arm braced across her throat to pin her there, his hand over her mouth. "What are you looking at, you f......" Ben can see the guy's mouth moving, can tell it's some vulgarity, insult, that he's spewing, but Ben doesn't hear it. Ben doesn't hear it.

But Sam does.

. . .

You know how sometimes, you can be driving somewhere -- and then it's ten minutes later, and you come back to yourself, and you're taking your exit, or you're at your destination, and you have no idea how you got there? No recollection whatsoever?

Yeah, it's like that.

. . .

Ben doesn't know what street he's on or who the pretty girl on his arm talking to him is or where he's going with her or why his face hurts like somebody punched him (okay, maybe that one he can figure out). The confusion, the suddenness of it, makes it hard for him to focus on what she's saying right away, but there's a break in her speech before too long, longer than just for her taking a breath, so he asks, "Sorry, I know you already told me, but I guess I was a little ..." Trails off, starts over. "What's your name again?"

The girl, this pretty, dark-haired thing, with the greenest eyes Ben's ever seen -- she stops them in their tracks, and she's smiling at him, something subtly teasing in it. "I guess I can forgive you, Sam. Since you saved my life and everything. It's Lucie. He must have really hit you hard if you've forgotten already..."

Lucie reaches up; her fingertips barely make contact with his skin. It does hurt, so when she tells him that she can put some ice on it once they get to her place, Ben doesn't argue. At least now he knows where they're going.

. . .

Once they get to her home, just on the fringe of Low Town where it bleeds into West End, Lucie sits Ben down in her shabby-but-clean kitchen, stands behind him, takes his head in her hands, tilting it back so she can see just how bad the consequences are of that punch he'd taken. Ben, though, while his eyes are first on hers, they wander -- and he notices the outline of what's probably the entrance to the attic.

"So do you--" And he flinches some, wincing; she's pretty, but she's not very good at first aid. "--do you keep anything up in the attic?"

Lucie stops in trying to clean the cut on Ben's cheek, looks upward too. "Attic? No, I didn't even know I had one." Ben nods a little, and then he pulls away from her hands, twists in his chair so he can look at her straight on. "I need a place," he starts, brows lifted a little, eyes a little wide. They're the bluest Lucie's ever seen. "A place I can keep some things safe. Could you do that for me?"

Lucie's vague look of confusion melts into a mix of relief and simple happiness. "Oh, Sam," and she catches him in a hug, a brief one; when she lets go, she has her hands on his shoulders. "Of course. I don't know how I could have repaid you. I can give you a spare key and everything. I'll keep it safe -- whatever you need from me." She smiles, and Ben smiles back.

. . .

After that, it doesn't take Ben long to decide what he needs to do. He cleans out the spiders from the attic, checks for any water damage, signs that the roof might leak (and happily, doesn't find any), and gets to stocking it. He finds a few heavy, clean blankets secondhand, along with a couple of dark blue towels. Those get folded up in one corner of the attic. The rest is in the shoebox, which he leaves next to the pile of blankets and towels:

- two extra clips for his handgun
- a small amount of money (enough for a ticket to at least a different city) folded up with two rubber bands around it
- four sets of passports and identification papers using different names (one from Vancouver, British Columbia, one from Fargo, North Dakota, one from Fairbanks, Alaska, one from Thunder Bay, Ontario) each set paperclipped individually
- waterproof lighter
- a pack of waterproof, strike anywhere matches
- two lightweight thirty-six hour three-wick candles in metal tins
- three twists of waxed cotton in a small ziplock bag
- a bottle of water
- a few long-shelf-life energy bars
- a small bottle of Jack Daniels
- a metal cup and spoon
- eight feet of coild up stainless steel utility wire
- a heavy duty sewing needle and fifty feet of spooled thread
- three safety pins
- four feet of aluminum foil folded up neatly
- a small mirror
- two razorblades
- utility knife
- a small LED flashlight
- a pencil, pen, and a pad of paper
- a pair of dark green cargo pants and a black tee, rolled up tightly and stored in a large garbage bag
- a pair of heavy duty leather work gloves
- a small first aid kit with gauze, a few adhesive bandages, medical tape, small scalpel, compression bandage, two butterfly bandages, small needle and thread, and a tourniquet.

The box is shut with duct tape wrapped around it (with the roll still attached), along with heavy nylon cord wrapped around it a few times before being tied.

. . .

"Harper, it's Ben. I'm finished." He gives her the address, directions to Lucie's house. "Just ask her to see what Sam's done with the place. She knows somebody's on the way to check it out."

. . .

i got a hand
so i got a fist
so i got a plan
it's the best that i can do

gotta keep thinking things hunters and kings
to block out the view
i gotta get a new bell to ring
a new song to sing
a steady hand to ring
a readiness of things to do
a new plan to bring to the people
people - i can trick them into thinking anything
'cause you know rust, it?s just right in the light:
it's gold, it's gold

i got water and holes in my hands
i?m a digger of holes in the land
it?s the easiest way

i got water and i got holes
sons and daughters of hungry ghosts

--?dear sons and daughters of hungry ghosts,? wolf parade