“Michael” Isabel calls out as Michael hurriedly strides down Roswell’s main street. “What happened to you?” she says as soon as she sees dark circles under his eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says roughly. “I’m worried about you, Michael,” Isabel says softly. “Yeah, why?” he asks, almost flippantly. “Max says you were upset yesterday.”

“Did he tell you that he thought me being a killer was okay?” “He didn’t say that!” she responds in a frustrated-why-are-you-acting-this-way voice. Michael harrumphs.

“Look, you were just looking out for us. And Pierce, he was trying to hurt us,” Isabel tries to reason with him.

“And that makes it okay?” Michael yells out. “God, Michael! What do you want me to say? You’re an evil person because you happened to fry the person who wanted to cut us up in bits and pieces? Is that what you want?” Isabel loses her patience.

“I don’t know what I want,” Michael grates out. He starts strolling rapidly down the street. And finds himself in front of the Crashdown. Maria would be inside. Then he remembers she’d gone out of town with her mother. A mother-and-daughter-bonding-and-bash-the-males-who-had-dumped-them trip. Just before he quit his job as short order cook at the café and replaced with one at the library. He debates on whether to go in.

“Hi!” a shy voice greets him as he slides over to sit at a table. He nods his head at Liz. Liz looks over Michael to see if anyone else was joining him. “Don’t worry, Max isn’t coming,” he assures her.

“Oh,” Liz says in a small voice. She relaxes a little and concentrates on taking out her order pad. “What I can get for you?” she asks. “Coffee.” At that order, Liz raises her eyebrows. “What, I don’t look like the type who drinks coffee?” Michael teases her. Liz smiles. “No, I just never saw you drink it before. One order of coffee coming right up. And don’t worry, I’ll remember to bring the Tabasco.”

Michael fiddles around with the fork and spoon on the table as he waits for his order. “Here you go. Coffee, black. I don’t suppose you’d want cream and sugar to go with the Tabasco?” she quips. “No!” “Some cedar oil, then?” she tries to subtly reference Maria. “Not right now, no!” he responds to her.

“Okay.” She stops to stare at him. And sees the tiredness in his eyes. “Michael, do you … do you want to talk or something?” she says haltingly. “What about?” “Um, I know we’re not really that close or anything but if you need to talk to someone, I’m here,” Liz explains. “Thanks!” Michael downs his coffee and Tabasco quickly, throws some bills on the table and starts to leave.

“Michael!” He stops. “It will be okay,” she tells him. He gives her a little smile. Quickly, before she changed her mind, Liz gives him a hug. “Sorry, I …” Liz is flustered. “That was from um, Maria,” she finishes. “Tell ‘Maria’ thanks,” he says in a warm voice.

He dreads the walk home but there was really no other place to go. “Screw this!” he tells himself finally. “I’m not going to let some FBI mofo mess with me!” Almost in rebellion, he falls into bed and into sleep.

Michael dreams of the funhouse at the carnival. Mirrors distort his image and he wanders close to one mirror. “Trying to see if yourself in there?” Pierce laughs. A thousand Pierces surround Michael. “Or do you just want to see the part that kills?” “Get a life, would you?” he yells at Pierce. “I had one. A pretty good one. But you took it away from me, remember?” the ghost tells him. “Perhaps I can have yours instead?”

Images in the mirrors shift. Pierce disappears, to be replaced by a thousand Michaels. One Michael image, dressed in a blue suit, smirks as he exits through a vanishing door. The mirrors start to converge, closing in on Michael. They push in on him, boxing him in quickly. He attempts to push the mirrors away but all he grasps is slippery glass. The mirrors convey his worried, almost-frantic expression almost a thousand-fold. The converging mirrors pin his body and push his face into the glass. He struggles unsuccessfully to free himself. Air is getting harder to breathe as his lungs are caught in a vise-like grip. No air fills his lungs as he tries to take rapid breaths. “How does it feel, having the life squeezed out of you?” a voice mocks him from overhead. Dark blot forms within Michael’s line of sight. Darkness overtakes him as he expels a last breath.