He had thought of several ways to do it. The easy way would have been to have collared the sheriff, told him and left it to him to pave the way with Amy de Luca. A voice in his head told him, though, in a pert tone, that this wasn’t really the way she wanted him to do it. This was something he had to do and for some female reason this was important to her. He remembered the first time he had met Maria’s mother...at the Convention. She had seemed a dizzy lady, pinning so much hope on some freak-show mud-wrestling contest. Maria had reproved him for being rude to her mom…and he had sniped back..so what? He didn’t need to make a good impression. How different now!

In bleak moments when he funked the whole thing he wondered how Liz and Iz were faring. Isabel had not wanted him to complicate her meeting with the Evans. Their history was complicated but he knew that Isabel, so controlled with her emotions, really loved her adopted mother. Max had given her no blueprint about how to handle her situation and Michael knew, intuitively, that Isabel would use this moment, finally, to tell her mother the truth. That, for Isabel, this would be a great relief. And Liz would be there for her: Liz was universally admired, the friend of whom middle-class parents approve, not some white trash trailer park alien who gobbled food and wanted to cheat at Monopoly.

He had dropped off the girls together in front of the Evans’s sprawling suburban home that he had envied his fellow aliens for so many years. It had seemed another life to him, then, with the manicured gardens, paintwork on the windows which always seemed fresh and new, two cars in the double garage. It had been a far cry from the trailer camp with the trash in the bins which were never collected and the trash in the trailers, too. Hank. He could not think of that man objectively, ever. Hank kicked him into adolescence with curses and cuffs to his head. It was a wonder that he passed for human normal…that he wasn’t brain-damaged in some way…that Hank had not taken out his human heart and squeezed it to death before tossing it with the taco and instant soup packets..and the beer cans… into the garbage.

And then…then he met her. Small, slight, with a big mouth. He knew about the Teflon babe…Liz had told Max in a moment of fun and Max had passed that joke onto him. It was to make him feel better once when she cut him dead in the hallway. He hadn’t felt better. He’d felt guilt. He remembered the first time they really talked – in that motel room on 285S. She’d opened her heart a crack then…and he recognized the cynicism and wariness of a fellow traveler…no trust. But he also recognized at that moment that she was different to him because she refused to give up hope. She was also better at hiding things than he was. Maria de Luca played a fantasy world in her head where everything was better and everyone was a good guy. She played it so well that for most of the time she believed it, too. And everyone liked her, particularly the guys: she was cute and funny and her come-back lines were legendary. She was everyone’s good friend.. but solitary inside. He understood that. And he really could not stop himself the first time he kissed her. He did not even stop to think about it. And when he ravaged her that night at the Crashdown he knew he was lost. He fought it…god, how he fought it. He didn’t want Maria de Luca inside his head, worming her way into his heart. “It’s complicated,” he had told Max. “It’s more than that..”..more than pure lust. He had not wanted to examine it, then. Human feelings were negative things: that’s how Michael understood them. Hate. Anger. Cynicism. Lash out and protect yourself. It took Maria to show him that there was a better way. But he only understood it now.

He could not stop himself thinking. He was tempted so many times to take out that photograph and dream walk back into her life…to see what she was doing, saying. She would not welcome that. Not yet.

His heart lurched: he did not know if it was thinking again of his temptation with the dream-walk thing or the fact that Valenti had bowled out through the front door in his uniform, looking purposeful, and yanked open the door of his jeep. Official business.

He waited a few moments, until the tail-lights of the jeep disappeared round the corner and then he ambled across the road, pushed open the gate and walked to the front door. He rang the bell twice.

He knew Michaela was crying before she opened the door. Thank god there was no peephole, else she would have barricaded herself inside and called for the sheriff. Trouble was back. Michael Guerin was nothing but trouble.

She opened the door a fraction and the noise of Michaela’s full-throated wailing hit him like a wave. The baby was tossed half over Amy’s shoulder and she definitely looked harassed. As he expected, she did not look pleased to see him.

“Michael.” Not interrogative this time. Flat, resigned.

“Mrs. de Luca…sorry…Mrs. Valenti…I know this seems a bad time but I gotta see you. If you could just give me half-an-hour?”

The baby’s wailing refused to abate and Michael could see that she was going to close the door on him and be damned. He moved his foot a fraction, trying not to seem threatening, to block the door. She was too busy patting the baby to notice.

“Michael,“ she was definitely flustered, “Listen, this is not a good time. And really, I don’t know what’s left to be said. I told you before, Maria’s gone away…best that you just…”

Michael leaned an arm against the open door. He looked directly into the face of the woman opposite him. “I know about Maria, Mrs. Valenti. I know what you didn’t want to tell me…and that’s why I’m here. I wouldn’t come to bother you now if it wasn’t real important.”

She looked at him then. Really looked at him as if for the first time. He was trying to school his face into its usual impassivity but this time it just was not working. Just mentioning her name, and with his baby so close to him yet so far away he feared that he would make a total fool of himself.

Michaela saved him from making an ass of himself. The baby let out a scream, as if in pain. Michaela gained him entrance to the house, at least, and the rest would be up to him.

Mrs. Valenti relented. “O.K. Well, come in, come in. But I gotta sort out the baby first. Maybe it’s teeth or something. She’s been darn fractious now for the whole day. I’m kinda desperate.”

The baby continued to howl lustily against her neck as she gestured him in, closed the door and drew the locks and bolts speedily, borne of long practice. She led the way to the back of the house, shouting over her shoulder to him as she went.

“I just wanna feed the baby some warm milk with my herbal calming drops,“ she panted. “We just can’t talk till I’ve calmed her down. Sit on the couch, if you like, until I’m done.”

Michael didn’t like. He ignored the invitation and prowled behind her with his eyes fixed hypnotically on the curly gold head bobbing on her shoulders. His alien child. Suddenly he felt more of a man than he ever did during the fighting.

In the kitchen she was now fighting with the bottle warmer with one hand, then fumbling with baby bottles and dried milk.

“Here. Let me.” This offer seemed so natural to Michael and Amy de Luca could not suppress her surprise..and maybe fear. He lifted the baby from her shoulder to allow her freedom to move. He did it so quickly, and so instinctively that she had no time to protest, to grab the baby, to see him as a dangerous predator.

For a moment he held the baby in front of him, dangling, and then he cradled her, quite naturally, against his shoulder, and gingerly patted her back. The shouting died away in an instant. He felt the tiny form go limp, with a quiet gasp, before it moulded itself warmly into the curve of his neck. It brought back other feelings, of Maria breathing safely against his neck. He was home…

Amy could not miss the fleeting wave of pain which passed across his face before he dumped his huge frame on the small kitchen chair and he gently rocked back and forth.

“Well, my..who’d have thought it? What did you do, Michael?”

“Nothin’” he mumbled, trying to look casual about this moment. He could not afford to frighten Maria’s mother just yet. He aimed for a careless laugh. “Mrs. Valenti..I reckon you better get that milk on track before …before she sets off on another screaming fit.”

Amy came out of her abstracted state and fussed over the bottles. Michael wanted to protest when she carefully measured out her herbal calming drops into the milk preparation. *Michaela doesn’t need it,* he wanted to shout, *my baby doesn’t need your crap new age potions”. But he said nothing, did nothing, except rock the dozing infant on his shoulder. It felt good, in a peculiar way, to be here in this tiny modern kitchen with a woman who could be his mother, and his child exuding human breath against his skin. He could imagine Maria here, in her shorts and tank top, with feet curled up beneath her on the kitchen chair, regaling her mother with some fun incident from school that day. Had she ever talked about him? He wondered.

“I’ll do it, if you like.” He tried to pass off the idea nonchalantly, like it was an offer to help her. She was advancing towards him with the bottle.

She paused, and looked at him carefully, trying to identify some sinister motive.

“Gee, I’m sure you’ve never done this sort of thing before.”

*Let me,* an inner voice shouted at her. *Let me do this thing.*

Something in his expression persuaded her to give in to a natural reluctance. “Well, if you’re sure. Here, this is how you do it.“

She bent and cranked his arm then re-positioned Michaela and gave him advice about the tilt of the bottle, the danger of air and all the rest. Michael listened with half an ear, patiently, but thinking of nothing more than the blue-green eyes looking up at him and how they were like hers. What was there of him in this child? He could not help but wonder.

She was still quiet in his arms but took the bottle dutifully and guzzled energetically on the teat. Michael held her carefully, casting anxious glances at Maria’s mother for re-assurance that he had got it right.

Amy Valenti leaned against the kitchen counter with a relieved sigh and pushed back damp wisps of hair from her forehead. She was still good-looking for her age, with more animation in her face than her daughter. Every single feeling flickered across her face; Michael thought to himself that Maria…Maria had schooled herself with years of practice to hide those feelings; she really only showed them to him. And, before, in the old days, he had hated that. He had hated it when she had nakedly shown him pain in her face at some careless remark he had made, or worse, when he had spoken cruelly on purpose to repulse her.

He lowered his head so that she would not have the chance to analyse his face and after a long pause, Amy asked him, with kindness in her voice, “Would you like a drink or something? Tea? Coffee?”

Without raising his head Michael nodded and said gratefully, “That sounds real good, Mrs. Valenti. I’d love some coffee.”

He heard rather than saw her busy herself with the coffee filter machine and the pungent smell of ground coffee filled the kitchen. It was then he realized that he had not eaten all day.

Michaela had nearly finished the bottle and Amy Valenti sailed towards him to reclaim the baby. He could not protest. He handed her back wordlessly and continued to sit there to watch them together.

The baby hung lifelessly over her shoulder as she burped and patted, murmuring inanities as she walked up and down in front of him. He tried to visualize Maria in the same situation, with him sitting there, bulky body crammed onto the small chair, waiting for a cup of coffee. It felt good; it felt human; it felt like destiny. He felt the usual wave of longing for Maria and wanted to cry out. But he didn’t.

Any was whispering to him as he sat, lost in thought. “I must just put the baby down, Michael, and then we’ll have the coffee.”

“Can I come with you?” He said it simply, without any artifice; he didn’t think that he sounded pleading about it. Just natural. He looked up at her and she caught her breath quickly. He knew.

“You haven’t come here to cause any trouble, have you, Michael?”

He knew what she was saying. He hadn’t come to take her baby..his baby… away, assert his prior claim, devastate her once again.

He shook his head and looked at her with honesty. “No.” was all he said. “But I have got something important to tell you. I think that it’ll make you happy.”

She looked dubious and he knew that she was thinking of all the times her daughter had told her that she was unhappy…because of him.

“It’s nothing bad, Mrs. Valenti. Honest. Just let me come with you to put Michaela down and then I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

She sighed, not completely convinced, then gestured that he should follow her. They climbed noiselessly up the carpeted stairs and into the bedroom.

Michael winced at the plastic alien nightlight, all violent green and glowing obscenely in the dark. Another kitsch offering from her shop. Michaela did not need this.

He said nothing, however, and stood, leaning against the doorframe, watching intently as his baby was undressed, washed and powdered. The whole process was irresistible and he found himself moving forward to look down on the tiny form in wonderment.

“She’s..she’s beautiful,” was all he said, bewildered at his own reaction. Gentleness was a foreign idea to him.

“Here.” Amy Valenti, on a sudden impulse, put the powdered infant into his arms as she cleared up the mess and left to dump the nappy. Michael stood there, in the darkness which was relieved only by the neon alien greenness of the night-light, and pressed his cheek to the infinite softness of his baby’s.

The flash. It came again, Unwarranted. Unheralded. Maria, in a strange apartment, was breastfeeding Michaela and crooning to her. Her voice, that beautiful voice, made his knees weak.

And then it was gone and when he moved the baby away to look at her, she smiled. Her tiny hand curled around his finger and she smiled a smile of infinite wisdom. He knew, from his alien child, that everything would be O.K. given time. In a rush of gratitude he brought the baby’s face to his and kissed her.

And that was how Amy Valenti found him.

She swept up to tear Michaela away…”Bedtime now.”

Michaela was laid in the cot and gurgled up at both of them. She seemed to smile her approval…at him..at her…together, leaning over the cot.

“You’ve certainly got the magic touch, Michael,“ Amy Valenti said, somewhat stiltedly.

Michael looked down at his girl-child, who was now closing her eyes, the gold-brown lashes (they were his!) fanning on her cheeks. He could not stop himself. He extended his hand to clasp hers. And Amy knew that she was not dreaming when the two hands glowed goldly in the dark.

When Michael turned to her she saw that his face was wet. He did not try to hide the pain now. He hoped that she would not see it but the alien greenness helped her to see what he wanted to hide.

“I know that she’s mine. I never would have gone. You have to know that. I love Maria…it just took me longer…to …kinda see it. Accept the truth. I am so sorry.”

He seemed to swallow up the room at that moment and Amy felt that she would faint.

Her innate generosity prompted her to reach forward to touch his arm, the one still glued to Michaela. “She’s gone, Michael. I never wanted you to know that. But it’s true.“

He slowly detached his hand from his daughter’s and stood straight. He turned slowly, held her arms in his hands and riveted his eyes on hers. “That’s why I’m here…Amy,” he said her name slowly; it rolled over his tongue as if he liked it. His face grimaced before he schooled his expression to look at her with great tenderness. “I’m here to tell you that Maria is not gone. She’s alive.”

He did not expect it. How could he? Amy Valenti gave a tortured cry and pitched forward…to faint into his arms.

*** **** **** ****

Isabel was sitting on the patio at the back of her house with vines hanging above her head. A night breeze stirred through them periodically so that they swayed back and forth, allowing her occasional glimpses of a thousand twinkles of a universe of stars. She looked up at them, mesmerized, eyes riveted on pinpricks of cold brilliance.

*I’ve been there,* she thought absently, *I’ve been there and I would never want to go back.* They could take away the stars and she, for one, would not care. Isabel had never been the type to have stars in her eyes.

Her mother had gone to make hot chocolate. Liz, exhausted, had long since been posted off to bed. She and her mother had been talking and Isabel had never had the chance before to really open up, let her feelings go like this. It was a relief; looking back now, she wondered if there would have been any difference if she had gone against Max that time, over the stove incident. She had so wanted to confess it all then. She just knew that her mother would not have rejected her but, quite the opposite, would have supported her. And that dreadful period when she thought that she was pregnant with Michael’s child: what she would have given to have spewed out all her fears to her mother, then. Max had not allowed it.

She did not miss the irony, now, that all the time Michael was fussing round her, Isabel, with glasses of milk, really being the only support for her, Maria was really pregnant with his child and had never said a word. He had not even had the decency to explain anything to Maria; he had just cast her off again, like it was some part of his game. The girl was a discarded pawn, tossed out of the chess game while he pursued his Ice Queen instead. And Isabel had done nothing, either…nothing for Maria, at any rate. None of her business and, in truth, she had never really liked the girl. They’d had a bad start…with the frightening routine to keep Maria’s mouth shut. And then the Ice Queen thing…she knew that Maria had dubbed her that and that it had flashed round school to amuse the guys.

Her feelings were a total mess at the moment. The big thing was that she hadn’t really told her mother anything that earth-shattering. 'Earth-shattering’ seemed a good word for it. After all, her mother had watched that home video of the bird thing so many times she was left in no doubt at all that Max had special powers. And healing a bird was one thing, but dousing an oil fire was quite another. And Isabel had tried to explain that she was mostly human and she had told everything…except what life was like up there. She did not want to think of that ever again: a world filled with creatures like Nasedo made the “Ice Queen” jibe a joke. Isabel knew she had feelings: they were jangling around between her head and her heart right now. Nasedo had none. She sighed and the noise echoed the stirring of the vines. And Alex. What did she really feel about Alex? When they had come back she had known what the boys had wanted, their true purpose. And she thought that she had, too. After all, Alex Whitman had been a pushover: a puppy who had trailed around after her, uncaring that every time she spurned him he was a laughing stock. But Alex was quite different now. Alex had barely noticed her existence. The tall lanky boy had become an intense driven man, reeking of Marlboroughs and totally obsessed with Maria. Isabel knew that he stood no chance now that Michael was back. It was a matter of time before he must face yet another rejection. But she also knew that whatever happened, it wouldn’t affect her much. He had barely looked her way; they had had nothing to say to each other..and neither had really tried.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her mother, who had quietly approached with two steaming mugs of chocolate.

“Should we go in, now, do you think? Aren’t you cold out here?” Mrs. Evans asked with some concern.

Isabel smiled with some cynicism. The Ice Queen never worried about the cold.

“No, I’m fine, mom. Honestly. I like it here. It’ s kinda peaceful and I’ve been squashed into cars for days now. The space is good.” Not up there: not that kind of space.

Mrs. Evans sat down in the wrought-iron patio chair and reached across to offer the mug of chocolate, then grabbed her daughter’s hand. “You could have told me so much earlier,“ she said, softly. “I could have helped you through all this. No mother would have let you suffer like that alone.”

Isabel looked at her. “I knew that, mom,“ she said, with a trembling mouth, “I knew that. But Max was different, ya know? And he was the one who kinda organized us..did the thinking for us…protected us. He wouldn’t let me.”

Mrs. Evans sighed. “Well, can’t change anything now. You’re back and that’s the main thing. You and Max. You changed my life. We tried so long for children and when you came…perfect children in every way I thanked God.” She broke off for a moment, trying to regain her composure, “I thanked God and promised him that I would do everything…anything…to justify his gift to me. And I really did try…” She looked at Isabel, then, with her blonde hair pulled up into a clip and eyes that showed her sincerity.

“I know you did, mom,“ Isabel whispered, “I knew it…that we would never have to be afraid of you..or dad. ..but Max…well, he wanted to be cautious.”

Mrs. Evans smiled thinly. “My cautious son. I can believe that.”

She looked again at Isabel for a long time before she spoke. “I’m not gonna tell your dad. When he comes back from the golf trip. What do you think?”

Isabel looked up at the stars, still shining coldly through the trellis of vine leaves. “I think we must,” she said simply. “I don’t want secrets between any of us. And I’ve been living this lie for so long. I don’t want to co-opt you into lying to him because of us. How can we possibly explain the fact we disappeared for a whole year?”

Mrs. Evans put a hand to her mouth and the nervous giggle forced its way through her fingers.

“Abduction?” she said. They laughed hysterically together in a release of tension, both knowing that it wasn’t really all that funny.

**** **** **** ****

Michael had finally got his cup of coffee and it tasted good. Somehow he was cramped again on the kitchen chair and Maria’s mother was seated opposite him.

She was pale but composed, drinking the coffee as energetically as he was.

She had come round, cried hysterically against his shoulder and then remembered the coffee.

Now she was behaving rationally. “You know, Michael, if you hadn’t come back, we might never have known.“ That was an idea which seemed to obsess her. How wrong, she felt, that a mother put flowers on a grave for a daughter who was not beneath the ground, but fighting life alone somewhere else.

Michael had heard that before…he conjured his mind to remember…he thought that it had been Liz. Did it matter?

“Why my daughter? Why?” Tears were springing to Amy Valenti’s eyes again. “She was a no-body. Why not Alex, or Liz…they’re both clever, from good families. Why not them? Or was it because my daughter is a nobody? Could afford to be dispensed with? Go unnoticed?” That idea obsessed her, too.

He had never asked himself that question and it worried him now. Why Maria? What made her different? Then it came to him, like a flash. In a way, it was a flash because he knew instantly that Maria had known why she was chosen. And that’s why she had sent him back to Roswell. Michaela.

Maria had known that Michaela would be next. One day..next week,..next month or year, his child would have been taken and pinned out on some metal trolley to suffer unspeakable things. And that’s why she had wanted to go back and finish this herself. And that’s why she had sent HIM back to Roswell.

Amy’s hands were fluttering on the kitchen table and he reached to still them with his own. He looked at her with a tremendous sense of guilt. “I think I know,“ he said slowly. “I think that it was because of me..” He found it difficult to say this to her in case she found another reason to dislike him, even hate him. Hadn’t he caused them both enough suffering already?

“Don’t say that. Don’t say that she was a nobody. She’s unique, your daughter. She made me a human being…she’s capable of giving so much…like you…and that’s why they took her.”

He was being too deep for Amy and he hadn’t helped her to understand at all.

“Maria and I…Maria and I..” he looked down at his hands, still clasping hers, and he gripped them more tightly, “We had a special relationship that the others didn’t have. Never meant to hurt Maria. It was only once..but that was enough. I think that’s why they took her. She was closer to me…us…than the others had been. She was NOT a nobody…she was more special.”

The import of what he was trying to say was dimly registering with Maria’s mother. Her eyes widened in horror at the possibilities. “Michael! You’re not saying…you’re not suggesting that they experimented on her?”

It was an idea which had only now occurred to him and it was a painful realization. Why had she lost her memory? What had they done to her after they had dragged her from that Jetta and set the thing on fire with some nameless girl to burn to death in the wreck? Those people were capable of anything. Maria had been worried that she knew pain but did not feel it. Was that contradiction important? Michael had a million questions with no answers.

“I don’t know,“ he sighed, wary of voicing too many suspicions. Amy Valenti had had too many shocks for one day. “But I do know one thing. I do know that Maria wanted to go back to finish this thing and make life safe for Michaela.”

Amy was not that stupid that she did not understand what he was trying to suggest. “My God!” she gasped. “The baby. You mean…?” she looked at Michael with horror on her face.

He sipped the coffee slowly, deliberately, while his mind raced how to play this idea down to avoid causing her further alarm. “Maria never said anything to me.” He thought that he had better make that fact clear. “She never said anything but I figure she sent me back to you..to Roswell..to kinda look after you and Michaela. I didn’t want to come, ya know? I wanted to go with her.”

Amy knew her daughter well and she could not suppress a wan smile. “How like Maria. She acts tough..always did…but underneath…” She pulled away one hand from Michael’s and flapped it busily around her face. “ When her dad left,“ the hand was flapping around her mouth now,“ I went to pieces. I just went to pieces. Maria was seven. I wouldn’t have got through it…pulled my life together…without her. All my life I’ve leaned on my daughter…kinda emotionally.” She broke off and went to get the coffee pot for Michael but he waved the offer away. He knew she was playing for time, to tell him something which was very difficult for her.

She sat down and dumped the coffee pot between them on the table. “Kids all have therapy now,“ she said, diving off down another track, “Ya know? When families split up the kids are put in therapy to get through it. I couldn’t have afforded it for either of us. Maria never asked for help. I watched her grow a wall around herself and I really admired the way she coped…for both of us…for me, too, and I have a problem coming to terms with that.”

“You’re doing fine, now, Mrs. Valenti “ he had reverted to the formal address now but he spoke to her slowly and gently. “And you did a fine job with Maria…she’s a wonderful person.“ Amy knew that he was was speaking from the heart on that one.

“She is, isn’t she?” she whispered in wonderment. “She is, too. I’m so proud of her.“

Michael didn’t really want to start talking of Maria now…or his feelings. He pushed a tired hand across his face, then through his hair. The movement was instantly interpreted by Maria’s mother.

“You must be exhausted,“ she said. “Where are you staying?” With a shock Michael realized that he had not even thought of that. It was after midnight and he had been a driven man all day in every sense of the word. The small practical thing of motel bookings had been the last idea on his mind.

“Haven’t thought,” he said awkwardly, resting his head in both hands,not wanting to look at her in case she thought that this was another example of his flakiness, trailer trash rubbish prowling round the streets all night, doing nothing but cause trouble.

Maria’s mother had better instincts than he gave her credit for, however. “I can understand that,“ she said gently. She pushed herself to her feet.

“I reckon we should both get some sleep, though,“ she said, as she flexed tired muscles and stretched taut nerves for some kind of emotional release.

“You’d have to sleep in Michaela’s room,“ she said with maternal concern, “She sleeps through usually but…wakes early…does that bother you?“

Michael could not have imagined anything better. Last night he had been torn away from Maria, like having a limb torn away without anaesthetic. Now this night she was offering him the balm of sleeping next to his child. She read the mix of feelings on his face.

“Come,” she said softly, “The bed’s made up but I’ll give you another duvet. I’ll explain it all to Jim in the morning and then..then we can work something out. Maybe you could stay in Maria’s apartment if you’re not comfortable here.“

He did not want to think of tomorrow just yet. He didn’t want to think anymore. He followed her up the stairs wordlessly and when she left him he doused the plastic alien and stood there, stripping off his clothes wearily in the darkness, listening carefully to the shuffles from the cot.

He stood for a moment over the prostrate form in the cot and leaned slowly forward to touch the silky head of his infant. There was no sound, no movement; she was utterly at peace.

And somehow, in some indefinable way, he felt the same. Maybe Michaela had transferred this tranquility to him or maybe..maybe he was just learning the way himself. He lowered himself heavily to the bed and it felt good to relax against the softness of clean sheets, feel the warmth of duvets lightly surrounding him. He was too tired to analyse it but somehow, for the very first time, he felt completely clean… more than a physical thing…here, in this place. He closed his eyes and there it was…the smell of cedar oil. He remembered nothing else.

Jim Valenti came in from the late shift around two o’clock. He did what he always did. He fetched a glass of milk from the fridge and noted the cold coffee with two mugs still standing on the kitchen table. He did not question them. Then he climbed the stairs heavily, labouring up them one by one.

He did what he always did. He pushed open the door at the top of the steps and checked on Michaela. No alien greenness tonight but in the light from the hallway he could see Michael’s huge bulk sprawled across the bed and even in the gloom he saw the huge slash of the terrible scar down his chest. The boy was sleeping peacefully. He walked in and checked on the baby, as he always did, then moved across to stare down at Michael. Somehow he was not surprised.

*You’ve had a helluva life, son,* he thought quietly to himself. *I don’t know why you’re back; no, maybe I do know really. You were always trouble. But I always said I’d be there for ya. And I’ve never been known to break a promise.*