There's blood on my shirt. Is it Alex's? Is it Michael's? I don't know. I don't know. I know They're coming. I can hear the sirens. Wailing. They're going to get here before the Sheriff's deputies and the fire department. They're going to come and take me away.

I hid a picture underneath a tree in the backyard. Shoved it under the dirt. If the fire doesn't spread...maybe...maybe I'll have that one thing left? I wish I could run. My legs are numb. My entire body is numb.

Oh. God. Help. Me.

They're here.

May 16, 2002. 4:52 a.m.

I hope they kill me soon. Because I would rather die then spend one day in this place. I would rather join the people I love. The people they destroyed.

Kill me, you S.O.B's. Kill me.

May 16, 2002. 3:23 p.m.

I don't know how long I've been at Eagle Rock. Days? Hours? They haven't touched me. I'm still wearing the clothes from that day. From the day my friends and family were butchered. From the day our house went up in flames around me. I can still smell the smoke. Its the strongest smell in this stark, white, room. The clinical voices told me that Mom and Dad probably died instantly, that they didn't feel any pain. I don't know why. I don't know why They bothered. I can't even be thankful. Because the others are dead. And I know there was pain. Bullets. Poison gas.

Did Maria get away? Kyle? Tess? Is she down the hall, in a room just like this? They won't tell me. They won't tell me anything I really need to know.

And They don't care if I scream.

Max and Liz screamed. Michael screamed. And Alex...oh, God, Alex... no...no, I can't think about them. I can't. I'll go crazy if I do. Or am I crazy all ready? A hysterical lunatic curled up in the corner...not much fun for Their cameras and Their men with clipboards.

I can't move. I don't want to. All I want to do...is die.

At least, then, I won't be alone.

May 16, 2002. 5:34 p.m.

They sent in one man in a sterile spacesuit. He brought me Michael's rings. MICHAEL'S RINGS. Of course, he didn't tell me what They'd done to his body. He didn't tell me about the dissection and the inspection of everything inside Michael that didn't really make him who he was. Should I feel lucky that there was nothing left of my other brother's body for Them to take? That Max and Liz were vaporized together, soulmates to the very last?

No. I don't feel lucky. Because I see it. I see it every time I close my eyes. The CrashDown burning...bodies everywhere. And then, the house. Death. Murder. Screaming. I don't have a voice left. I screamed my last, hoarse, "fuck you" when I clutched the rings tight and hid my face from Them.

Why can't they just cut me open and end it? What is stopping them? Have they had enough bloodshed? Enough evidence to prove that aliens exist and that they're so damn humane in comparison to us?

I wish I had a little more voice left. To tell them to "go to Hell."

May 16, 2002. 9:02 p.m.

I don't have to scream anymore.

His hands are so warm and so soft. He lets me curl up against his chest and he wipes away the tears. I can't even tell if the quiet, heaving, sobs are mine or his, but it doesn't matter. His lap, and the bJune 2000.the only things that feel real right now. That and the warm milk he made me drink after he brought me inside. He put both honey and Tabasco in it, laughed softly and said the spice would probably do my throat one better than the sweet.

I know he only laughed then to keep from crying.

For the first few minutes, I didn't even believe he came. And, then, I was furious. Insanely furious. I hated him for being alive when the rest of them weren't. I beat at him...his face...his arms. And he let me. He let me do it, didn't say a word. He just lifted me up and carried me out. Past all those doors. Past the guards. Past the security bars and codes. Past all the things that Nasedo and Michael and Tess had once gotten around two years ago. Past the things none of us got around this time.

Agent Pierce's replacement reached out...I don't even remember the face. He reached out and was rewarded with a growl. A "Keep your damn hands off of my wife!" "My wife"? I'm too tired to ask. He's too tired to explain. So, we just sit. On an ugly plaid couch. In a dim, dusty, living room.

Valenti came for me. He rescued me.

He married me?

"Shhh, 'Bel," he says, lips close to my hair. "Its all right, Sweetheart. As long as I'm alive, you're safe."

Safe.

Maybe in the morning I'll remember what that word means.

May 17th, 2002. 5:35 a.m.

I'm wearing a pair of Kyle's sweatpants and an old t-shirt. Both smell like springtime detergent and cologne. Not a trace of smoke and that room are left. I scrubbed it all away as best I could. I know it will never completely wash out of my pores.

As I sit at the kitchen table and stare at the two pieces of paper in front me, he's silent. He pours me a glass of orange juice and slides it across to me, along with a bottle of Tabasco sauce, and his sober, blue eyes are ready for my questions.

A marriage license with both our names on it. I know mine was forged, but I don't really care. And a binding agreement with the military and the FBI...for a permanent "city arrest." Jim and Isabel Valenti can never leave Roswell, New Mexico. If they do, they will be hunted down and executed for high treason against the United States of America. High treason? How totally lame. But the government has never really surprised me. Here, too, my signature is forged.

And I can only think of one question. One question in the middle of a thousand questions.

"Why would you do this for me, Sheriff?"

He swallows. I watch his Adam's apple shift and I can count the creases in his neck and on his face. He's my father's age. He has a child of his own. And now I'm his responsibility, too. He's taken on the burden of an alien wife. Why?

"Its all I can do," he drawls, sounding like a cross between a Southern gentleman and a cowboy. It's comforting...I like his voice. Even when he's full of sadness. "I wish I could do more...I wish I had done more. Maybe if I'd done a better job...you kids would all still be al--"

"Stop!" I cut him off before he can finish the word, choking back the day I will never forget. I shake my head at him, knowing he can see the agony in my eyes. He's always been able to see into us. He's always wanted to help. And now he has. In a very permanent way. "Sheriff Valenti...none of us...none of us thought they would still be after us. You couldn't have known...you couldn't have done anything." I stare into the depths of the orange juice. "And you didn't have to do...this."

"You're wrong." He hunches forward in his chair and the color of his eyes is as bright as the sky in one of my old visions. "I did have to do this, 'Bel. For both of us. It was the only recourse. I know you've got your identity and your background to hide...and I've got mine that I can't hide. I've got to protect the citizens of Roswell-no matter what kind of DNA sits in their veins. I've got to uphold the law any way I can."

'Bel. I like that. I think I could get used to it.

I know I'll have to.

Tears slip down my cheeks and I can't stop them this time. And in the middle of the rain, I manage to get out the words. The words I know I'll be saying forever.

"Thank you."