I didn't know what to do. I mean, come on, men don't cry. It's like an unwritten creed of ours or somethin' (Yes, Kate, I do know what that word means.); we do not cry as long as we can help it.

Here we were, floating in the middle of the damned sea, lord knows how far from the Island, or some other land, and Michael was sittin' in front of me crying. And let me tell you, it wasn't silent, neither; the man sounded as if his heart was gone or somethin'.

It's what woke me up…his crying, I mean. So holding my shoulder, I sat up, biting back the pain that woke with the motion…and I looked at him.

He had his hands over his face…just...covering it. And damn me if it didn't make me hurt. Yeah, me, Sawyer – the enemy of all.

I ask him…if everything's alright. I gotta make him stop cryin' somehow, right? And…he uncovers his face, looks up, and tells me it's his fault. And here I was about to apologize – anything if he'd just stop crying.

He looks up and tells me it's his fault. And now I'm more at loss than before. I stare at him silently, boy am I confused as I ask him what. What does he mean?

After he gives his answer…that it's his fault that Walt was taken…I sit there, and I watch as his sorrow changes to determination…to find his son. As he looks away, as his tear streaked face turns from mine, it hits me.

Maybe some things fix themselves, and I don't have to do anything but listen.

Hey…now that's a nice thought.