by Melinda Metz
"Look at those biceps. Whoo, baby," Maria joked as she passed him.
"Are you okay?" he asked Liz as she headed through the door. "You seem kind of… something."
"I just had a bad dream," Liz answered.
"Liz, you should tell us what it was about," Maria said over her shoulder. "It will help get it out of your system. I know, we can help you make up a new ending. That's how you're supposed to get rid of bad dreams-you make up new endings for them and poof, they're gone."
Liz slid onto the bench at their usual table. Alex and Maria sat across from her. "It was about Adam," she told them. "He said we were all in danger. He said there was something inside him, but before he could say what, his tongue fell out. Then his whole face started coming apart. A piece of his cheek plopped onto my arm. That's when I woke up."
She could almost feel the piece of flesh against her skin right now. Moist and meaty. She decided to leave her lunch in her backpack.
"So how would you want the dream to end?" Maria asked. "Actually, you can change more than the ending. You can change the whole thing. Like you can make Adam someone other than Adam."
"Wait. Are you sure it was a dream?" Alex interrupted. "I mean, do you think Adam could have used his dream-walking power to try and communicate with you?"
"I thought of that," Liz answered. "I'm not sure, but it felt like Adam, the real Adam. He wanted to tell me something. He wanted to give us all some kind of warning."
Alex's green eyes darkened. "Maybe that something inside him found a way to stop him before he could."
***
Isabel handed her dad's credit card to the Victoria's Secret saleslady. She already had on her new purchase-a silky, pale pink camisole edged with a thin row of delicate lace. Only the tiniest peek of it was visible under the V neck of her sweater. Just how she wanted it.
When she showed up at the museum, she didn't want to look like she was on some kind of manhunt. That kind of desperation was so not Isabel. No, she didn't want to look like she'd put any special thought into what she was wearing at all. What she did want was for Michael to catch a flash of the camisole and be… intrigued.
The saleslady handed the card back, Isabel signed the slip, and she was out of there. She strolled to the mall exit, not breaking a sweat, and then made her way across the parking lot and over to the bus stop. Usually she would have at least tried to con Max out of the Jeep keys, but he would have totally freaked if he knew she was planning to go out of the house. He thought she was spending the day in bed, recovering.
***
"Isabel, I thought you'd still be home in bed," Michael exclaimed. He ran over to the staircase and watched her climb up the last couple of steps. "Are you sure you're feeling okay? Maybe you should have skipped the meeting."
"What meeting?" she asked.
"Everyone's coming over after school to figure out the Adam deal," he explained. "They should be here in about an hour."
"Oh, right," she mumbled.
"Sit down, at least." He snatched up three of the beanbags and stacked them.
"Michael, I'm fine. Relax, okay?" She dropped to the floor, and he positioned himself across from her. "Actually, I hardly remember any of what even happened yesterday. Max had to explain everything to me when I woke up."
"Whoa. Well, that's good, I guess." He wondered if her mind had blocked out what she'd seen when she connected to Adam because it had been too disturbing for her to handle. He would never forget the expression of raw terror on her face when he burst into the room.
"So, where's Cameron?" Isabel asked.
Michael was glad he couldn't see the expression on his own face when he heard that question. He wished he could record an answer and play it for everyone who asked.
"She took off," he muttered. "Didn't think Roswell was safe for her anymore."
"What? She just took off? I thought you guys had a little something goin' on," Isabel said.
Michael raised an eyebrow at Isabel, then smiled. "Well, we don't have anything now."
Isabel started playing with the neck of her sweater, and he caught a glimpse of some kind of silky thing underneath. He realized his eyes had lingered there a little too long, and he forced them up to Isabel's face. She was staring at him, an unreadable expression in her eyes.
"What?" he asked.
She raised an eyebrow. "What, what?"
"You were staring at me," he answered.
"I like being able to look at you," she answered. "I thought I was going crazy when you were in the compound. I kept thinking I might never see you again." She paused and pulled in a shaky breath.
"I knew you guys would find a way to get me out of there," he answered.
"I could feel you all the time-you know, feel your feelings," she continued. "Whatever I was doing, it's like you were with me."
Including when I had my tongue in Cameron's mouth? he thought. An echo of that sensation hit him so hard, he could almost taste her again. He slapped the memory away.
Michael knew Isabel was waiting for some kind of response. This time he had no idea what to say, so he just nodded. Like a big jerk.
"So, you know Alex and I broke up, right?" she asked.
And Isabel takes the gloves off, he thought. "Yeah. I heard."
"Michael, I saw your dream," Isabel blurted out. "You had your arms around me. So now you can't… Why are you acting like you have no feelings at all for me?"
"What dream?" he asked, picking the easier of the two questions.
"The dream," Isabel repeated, as if that cleared everything up. "It was a little while before you got captured. Maria and I decided to go dream walking just for fun. She picked your dream orb, and we saw you holding me."
"Wait a second here," he said, a smile of recognition spreading across his face. "Isabel, I think you misinterpreted that hug. It was actually part of a nightmare. I dreamed that Max died and we were at his funeral. That's why I was hugging you."
"Oh," Isabel said. Her face reddened as she looked at the ground.
"It's not that-" Michael struggled to find the right words. "It's just that you're my Izzy lizard," he said, using the pet name he'd come up with for her when she was a little girl.
"And that's it?" she asked. "You've never thought of me any other way?"
"Okay, yeah, I have," he answered. He was a guy. He'd thought about a lot of things with a lot of girls.
But it was different with Isabel. He didn't think about her in that fast, speculative, pretty much automatic way he thought about a cute girl in the park or whatever.
"I've definitely thought about you as something different from a big brother," she confessed. "We come from the same place. We understand each other in ways that no human could understand us. That means something."
It meant a lot. Isabel would never betray him. It would be like betraying herself. Maybe she was right. Maybe they were capable of something more.
Michael's eyes locked with Isabel's, and when she leaned toward him and found his lips with her own, he didn't pull away. They kissed-a deep, full kiss.
But there was nothing there-no chemistry whatsoever. It was like kissing his little sister.
Michael started to pull back, but Isabel laced her hands behind his neck, keeping their lips pressed together.
Suddenly an ice pick of pain stabbed into Michael's brain. He tried to jerk away, but Isabel's hands were now pressing firmly on his back.
Michael made one last attempt to get free before his vision dimmed. His world went black.
*** 6 ***
Cameron did a quick study of the people scattered around the tiny bus station. Yeah, there were a few good faces. She should have no problem scoring a ticket.
She headed up to the window, scanned the departure times and the rates, and picked a town that was twelve bucks away. Twelve bucks was an amount that a kind stranger would be willing to give to a girl in need.
"One for Hobbs," she told the ticket guy. She reached into her pocket and allowed
a slight frown to cross her face. Nothing major. She checked the other pocket. She felt her stomach cramp, as if she'd actually expected to find something there and was sort of sickened when she didn't.
I should be one of those method actors, she thought. The ones who totally live the parts they play.
"Something wrong?" the ticket guy asked.
"My wallet's gone," she answered, the tiniest quaver infecting her voice. "I know I had it at breakfast." She checked her pockets again. "Is the three-fifteen the only bus to Hobbs?"
"Only one today," he answered.
"I really have to get home today. If I called my dad, could he use his credit card to pay for the ticket?" Cameron asked. "I could call collect."
"That would be fine," the guy answered. Not a trace of suspicion on his face.
Damn, I'm good, she thought as he slid the phone toward her. She punched in the numbers for a collect call, then the numbers for a pay phone in front of a deserted gas station she'd stumbled across three towns ago. She'd been using it as hers ever since. If she happened to get picked up by the cops, she liked being able to give them a number where she was sure it would ring and very sure no one would answer.
Cameron held the receiver tight to her ear. She knew that made her look really tense. She gave the ticket guy an apologetic smile. "Just let me let it ring a few more times," she whispered. He nodded, giving her a sympathetic smile back.
Milk it just a little longer, she coached herself. She counted five more rings, then reluctantly hung up. "I guess he's not home. He works out of the house, so he should be there, but-"
Cameron shot a glance at the clock, then she leaned toward the ticket guy. "Um, is the bus station open all night?" she asked, keeping her voice soft, but not so soft the audience behind her in the waiting area couldn't hear.
"Only until six," he answered.
"Oh. Okay." Cameron felt her pockets one more time, then turned and headed to the door. She'd figured out that's how it worked best. No begging. No sob stories. She let the little fishes come to her.
"Excuse me, miss?" a voice called just as Cameron's fingers snagged the door handle. She turned around, a who-me expression on her face.
A middle-aged woman gestured her over. "Why don't you let me loan you money for the ticket?"
"Are you sure?" Cameron asked, widening her brown eyes as if she just could not believe this was happening.
The maternal-looking woman opened her purse, counted out the bills, and pressed them into Cameron's hand.
"Oh, thank you so much," Cameron said graciously. "Please, write down your address so I can send you the money when I get home."
The woman dug out a scrap of paper and a pen and wrote down her address. Cameron made a big show of carefully placing it in her pocket. Then she did everything short of grabbing the woman and kissing her. Why not? She deserved to feel good for her twelve bucks.
And maybe someday Cameron would send her the money back. Cameron had a list of all the people she'd promised to mail money to. If she ever got settled someplace and got a job, she would pay it all back.
With one last smile over her shoulder at the woman, Cameron rushed up to the ticket window. She bought her ticket and headed straight to the bus. It was more than half empty, so she had no problem finding a seat to herself.
In less than ten minutes they should be moving out. She couldn't wait. With the exception of Michael, Roswell had nothing but bad memories. She focused her gaze on the back of the seat in front of her, trying to imagine that the bus was already on the road. Someone had graffitied a heart and dagger on the thick plastic. Cameron reached out and traced the design with her finger.
The memory of Michael's mouth tracing the hummingbird on her shoulder hit her so hard, she almost gasped. She could practically feel the warmth of his lips.
She dropped her head back on the torn seat cushion and gave a muffled groan. In some ways it was one of her worst Roswell memories because it was always going to be linked to the memory of the shattered look on Michael's face when he realized she'd betrayed him.
Maybe someday, when she was, like, forty, scientists would figure out a way to do memory surgery, where they just burned out any piece of brain that held a bad memory. She'd be the first in line. Maybe they could even let her keep the hummingbird memory and destroy the shattered look memory.
She snorted. Even if the technology did get developed, it's not like it would work for her. If all her bad memories were lasered out of her brain, she wouldn't have enough gray matter left to operate a can opener, which meant the image of Michael's disappointed face would be etched in her head for the rest of her life.
The driver climbed on the bus and started collecting the tickets.
The conversation with Michael began replaying in her head. She didn't want it to, but she couldn't stop it. She listened to herself explaining why she'd given Valenti Max's and Isabel's names. Why hadn't she apologized?
Too late now, she thought. She pulled her ticket out of her pocket. Besides, an apology wouldn't make him stop hating her.
The driver reached for Cameron's ticket. She didn't let it go. "I forgot something," she blurted out. She bolted out of her seat, stumbled down the narrow aisle, flew down the steps, and hit the parking lot running.
It was a couple of miles to the museum, and there was probably a bus that went there, but Cameron didn't want to waste time trying to find it. She wanted to get to Michael, spit out her apology, then exchange her ticket and finally get out of this town.
A few blocks later she reached the main street. She hung a left and kept running. It was a straight shot to the museum now. She pushed herself hard, almost glad when her lungs started to burn. It distracted her a little from what she was about to do.
When she reached the museum, she darted around to the side door and pushed through without breaking her stride. She raced to the staircase and went straight up.
She found Michael lying on the living-room floor. Her heart constricted at the sight of him.
He's asleep, she thought. But there was something about the slackness of his mouth and the absolute stillness of his body that told her she was wrong.
Cameron stared at him for a long moment, unable to move. She realized that Michael's eyes weren't completely closed. She could see a sliver of white beneath the lids. She moved her gaze down to his chest. Was he even breathing? She couldn't tell.
She slowly approached him and poked his shoulder with her toe. "Michael! Wake up!" she shouted, her voice coming out weirdly high and breathy.
He didn't even twitch.
"Michael!" she shrieked. She jammed her toe into his shoulder. His body slid a few inches but remained still.
She knelt down, drew in a shaky breath, and lightly pressed her fingertips against the base of his neck.
She didn't feel a pulse.
Maybe it was just too weak to feel. She lowered her head and pressed her ear against his chest.
She didn't hear a heartbeat.
She squeezed her eyes shut and listened harder. She heard a pounding sound, and for one exhilarating second she was sure he was alive. Then she realized the sound was coming from the stairs. She shoved herself to her feet just as Max appeared, with Liz right behind him.
"I think Michael's dead," Cameron cried.
Max shoved his way past her and took Michael's head in his hands. He closed his eyes and started taking deep, even breaths.
Cameron turned to Liz. "Can they bring back the dead?" she asked urgently. "Is that one of their powers?"
Liz shook her head, her eyes on Max and Michael. Cameron locked her teeth together. She was afraid if she tried to ask another question, even say another word, she might start screaming and never stop. Her jaw muscles began to ache as she stood there, waiting, watching.
Michael's left foot gave a jerk, then his eyelids snapped open. He stared up into Max's face. "Prince Charming, I've been waiting for you for so long," he muttered.
A hoarse laugh burst from
Cameron's mouth, and the tension in her muscles eased up.
Max didn't answer Michael. He jumped up, strode down the hall to the bedroom, and flung open the door. "Adam's gone," he announced as he hurried back over to Michael.
"Where's Isabel?" Michael demanded, shoving himself to his feet.
"She stayed home sick," Max reminded him.
"No. She was here. We were kissing. That's the last thing I remember," Michael shot back.
Max and Liz ran toward the kitchen. Michael rushed to the bathroom. Cameron stayed where she was. Kissing, she thought. Michael and Isabel were kissing.
"Adam must have knocked you out and taken Izzy with him," Max said when he, Liz, and Michael had returned to the living room.
"Why are you so sure it was Adam?" Cameron asked.
"Michael's brain stem had been pulverized from the inside," Max explained. "Only another one of us could have done that."
"With the sleeping pills I gave him, I can't believe he even managed to roll over." Michael pulled a medicine bottle out of his pocket and checked the dosage instructions.
"Maybe he didn't do it," Cameron said. "Maybe Isabel did. Do you think she could have carried Adam out of here on her own?"
Michael whipped his head toward her, and Cameron felt scalded by his gaze. "Isabel would not do this," he said, his voice low and deadly. "Everyone is not like you."
It was as if the floor had been yanked out from under her feet. "How can you even compare-" she began. Then she stopped herself. She couldn't have this conversation. Not right now, at least. Not in front of Max and Liz.
"Cameron may be right," Max said.
"I don't believe you," Michael exploded. "How can you say that about your own sister?"
"No, listen." Max shot a glance at Liz, and she gave him a quick nod. "Yesterday Isabel used her powers to slam me up against a wall. She apologized, said she was freaked about what happened with Adam, but…"
