Reading Liz's journal, it really got me thinking about what might have happened if things had turned out just a little bit differently. There I was, a naked child on the side of a desert highway, eyes widened by the sight of oncoming headlamps. I knew nothing. Nothing of what we were, not that we were different, not that we were lost. I only knew that I was alone. Max and Isabel were lucky enough to be found by people who would want to care for them. They put me into foster care. I love Max and Isabel both, and I don't wish that they'd gotten my raw deal. But, I do wish that somehow they, the people that had each found us alone on that dark road, had decided that I was special too, that I belonged with a family. That I deserved the same chances as Isabel and Max did. That I deserved to be loved for more than a small monthly check.

Reading Liz's journal, I realized that the chances of someone loving me like that are slim. Maybe I'm not worthy of it? Maybe I have to prove myself worthy, maybe I'm missing something entirely obvious that makes people feel a certain way for another person. I'm "different" while Max is "special".

It's no one's fault, I know. The luck of the draw and nothing more or less. The bastard who calls himself my father lays drunk on the couch. 'Michael, get me another beer.' 'Michael, you piece of shit, you'd better earn your keep around here or I'll ship your worthless, sorry ass back where you came from..' If only he could. If only I knew where that was.

For the first time in my life, I feel like someday we might actually know something about ourselves. We're getting close. Well, maybe not close, but closer than we've ever gotten before. At least there are clues. They may mean absolutely nothing, but they're something. And when all you have is nothing, something is immense. The dome, the key, the fact that there could possibly be another out there somewhere. Another like us. Maybe they knew my family. My family that cared enough to hide me away safely in my pod until incubation. My family that loved me enough to care about my survival and endurance. They wanted me to live. Sometimes, I think this isn't living.

Max has Isabel. Max has the Evanses. Now, Max has Liz. What the hell do I have? I've got a fucked up foster dad, a stomach full of bitterness, and a space on Max's floor. Thank god for that damn space on the floor.

When we were little, I would have these nightmares, ugly dreams where I'd find myself suspended in a vacuum with no one around me. Entirely alone. It was horrible. I would wake up screaming in the middle of the night and no one would come to reassure me, I'd still be entirely alone in the dark, I would climb out my window and run across town for that rolled up, brown sleeping bag and that piece of floor. Max would let me in his window and Izzy would let me cry in her arms. He would point at the coiled bag and I'd lay it out, finally able to sleep in the peace of their home.

Home. I've looked it up in the dictionary and I can use it in the right context, but I have no idea what the word means. Maybe one day, I'll have what Max Evans has, too. Maybe one day, I'll be home.

THE END