"Bones!" shouts Jim through the foyer window. He's been as good as bouncing off the walls for days, tearing through project after project with a frenetic energy, and at the sound of a car in the drive, has to step over the bowels of two computers in his haste to reach the door.

Flinging it open, he seizes Bones by the sleeve to haul him inside, hollering over his shoulder, "Spock! Bones!" Turning to beam at his friend, Jim adds, "They're looking at you for head of the trauma already, you don't want that, do you? Talk about shitty hours. Or do you want it? Because the other guy up for it, Richards or whatever, he's been at six hospitals in the last two years. Sounds shady to me. I could delete some of his references." Pausing for breath, Jim claps Bones on the shoulder.

"They're probably not even real, anyway."