A weak California morning sunlight streamed through the CBI HQ windows. The team surrounded the couch on various desk chairs. Patrick Jane lay out on the couch, one arm behind his head, the other holding a mocha coffee. Teresa Lisbon held files in her lap and glanced between the papers and the glass windows of her private office where a dark skinned child could be seen. He was slouched in the chair, feet kicking air every so often when he swung them.

"He's lost everything, the poor kid is damaged. We can't just throw him in the system while we wait for him to speak to us," Agent Cho said, observing the child. "He can't even look us in the eye."

Rigsby nodded. "Won't say a word. We don't even know his name yet."

Patrick Jane sighed. "I know I can get something out of him. I just need more time with him."

Lisbon shuffled her files, clearly tense. "He might be the only witness to his parent's death. Who knows what he saw today before sunrise. We'll just have to wait for him to…"

"Heal?" Patrick sat up from his supine position. "Yeah, okay he's sent to a foster family. Then after a month of healing he can tell us what happened? Meanwhile the killer walks. There has to be a better way."

"Take him in then," Rigsby suggested, not looking up from his paperwork.

Lisbon and Cho spun in their chairs to look at him.

"What?" Rigsby said defensively. "If one of us fosters him for awhile then chances are greater we can get more out of him."

"That's not a bad idea." Lisbon agreed. "Patrick, you're the best one out of all of us. If anyone can help that kid and get information it's you."

Patrick sat up even straighter at this. "No, I'm not really willing to-"

"Not willing to do your job?" Lisbon countered.

"My job is taking in orphans?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Your job is following my instructions." She smiled.

Patrick was never a heartless or selfish man. He'd rather give 100,000 dollars to a struggling blackjack dealer whose mother needed a transplant then splurge on something for himself. The child could live with him for however long it would take.

"So this is it." Patrick set the kid's dingy Spiderman suitcase by the guest bed and black garbage sack filled with other possessions on the dresser gently, as if a bomb would go off if any too sudden movements were made.

The kid stood there silently, his dark brown eyes running over everything in the room except the other occupant.

Patrick swayed back and forth, hands in his pockets. "So…we found your birth certificate in your family's apartment today. Your name is Jordon. Jordon Garth Martin."

Patrick Jane surveyed the child's expression and picked up on subtle clues in his expressions. "Hmm…you probably like to be called by your initials don't you? J.G.M? Or maybe just J.G." This time Patrick got more of a response. "Okay, it's J.G then."

Slowly Patrick edged his way to the doorway. "I'll be downstairs making lunch." He was halfway in the hallway when he popped back in the room. "Rules! I forgot rules. There really isn't much you can't do here. Just don't leave the house without permission. Everywhere is pretty much free range for you to roam but stay out of the room at the end of the hallway. Don't break anything and don't leave the country….sorry, cop joke."

He thrummed his fingers on the door jam and J.G stayed planted in the same spot.

"I'll come get you when grilled cheese is done."