Dana has a cup of coffee precariously balanced on the edge of a desk she commandeered from his ever encroaching pile of paper work.  She's bent over a stack of yellowing manilla folders, each one with an X file number meticulously hand-typed on a label and affixed above a brief description.

After their encounter with Eugene Tooms, she still isn't sleeping through the night, finding herself checking and rechecking the vents and windowsills, trying to catch a whiff of bile on the air.  Her solution as always, is to throw herself into her work.

"Mulder, how far do these files go back, anyway?"