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Heat swept through my face, leaving a fiery embarrassment behind. "I said, get him out of here." People started shifting in their seats, turning to get a better look at what was going on.

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"Now, you just relax there, Zara. We have it under control. This loiterer," Sheriff Brigham paused to grin at Dewey, "ain't going to cause any problem in here."

"You picked him up for loitering?" For a moment, disbelief overtook my fear and humiliation.

Sheriff Brigham sat up straight and adjusted his gun belt, the way he did whenever he felt people were questioning his authority. "He was hiding in the alley across the street by the old movie theater. God knows what he would have done next, if Mrs. Sutton hadn't called and reported him." Mrs. Sutton ran the boutique next door to the diner. As the owner of a boutique in a former mining town, she always had time to mind everyone else's business as well as her own.

So, they'd arrested him for being an alien and then beat him up to further prove their point. This place was going to be flooded with Observers if the Council, their ruling body, or our government ever got wind of this. The Lockwood Treaty gave Observers diplomatic immunity, similar to that given to human foreign diplomats. Not that the sheriff would care, even if he knew. To him, Observers were less than human, nothing to be feared and certainly not worth respecting.

"Fine, whatever. Take him in, then." My heart still thumped in my chest like a rabbit trying to fight its way out of a cage. Behind me, I could hear chairs shifting on the floor and people whispering. I wasn't sure if people would greet this first alien in our little town with cameras or shotguns, I'd just rather it didn't happen anywhere near me.

"Get us some pie and coffee, Zara, and we'll be on our way." The sheriff's face grew darker red with every word, and I knew he wasn't going to back down.

I looked to Dewey for help. He'd remained silent during this entire conversation, and now that I was calling on him, he shifted in his seat uneasily and wouldn't meet my eyes. 11

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Damn it, Dewey, I thought.
He and I had gone out on one date, a couple years back. He'd cornered me in the front seat of his pickup. In response, I'd opened the door and helped him out to the parking lot with my foot. Later, he'd apologized profusely, and I'd promised never to tell anyone. But it seemed that gratitude would only get me so far. I was on my own for this one. I stepped forward, turned the coffee cups upright on the table, and sloshed coffee into them.

"Now, a couple slices of your sweet potato pie, and we'll be set here," Sheriff Brigham said. But he was frowning now, staring at the Observer across the table. I couldn't figure out why until I looked down and realized that, without thinking, I'd filled the coffee cup for the alien as well.

Too bad. I wasn't going to take it away. The fact that I'd reached that close to begin with was enough to send a shiver through me. As I watched, the Observer lifted his hands from beneath the table, the silver of his handcuffs glinting in the light, and wrapped them around the cup, like he was trying to warm them.

I automatically looked to his face again, my pulse still pounding in my ears, but he was no longer watching me. Instead, he was staring out through the big picture window into the dark parking lot. I followed his gaze, but all I could see were our reflections. My face, a pale globe in the night, with red hair spilling out of an already sloppy ponytail. His eyes–silver points of light as they reflected the florescent overheads in the diner–the dried blood on his cheek, and the gash below his eye, which seemed smaller somehow.

"Pie, Zara?" The sheriff broke into my trance, startling me into looking at him. Now, he was frowning at me, like I'd done something wrong. More likely, it was simply that he was mad that I'd cheated him out his entertainment.

An idea struck. I pulled myself together enough to give them 12

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a smile, a bright and overly sweet one. My little brother Scott could have told the sheriff that meant trouble.

"Sheriff, I'd love to help you out with that, but you know I can't serve food here with a health code violation like this. Human would be bad enough, but Observer blood? The CDC would be on me like a raccoon on spoiled meat." My mention of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention made Brigham go pale. In the heat of the chase, our good sheriff had apparently forgotten Observer blood was still classified as a no-no. Actually, Observer anything, in terms of bodily fluid, was still considered potentially hazardous, even though it'd been more than two years since the landing and the CDC's original campaign to warn the public. They said exposure to that kind of stuff could give us diseases the Observers were immune to but we weren't–kind of like the whole smallpox thing with the Indians. I'd read up on it, just like everything else I could find on the Observers, but never given it much thought, considering I'd planned to stay as far away from the Observers as possible. But this could work for me now. I turned on my heel and left, knowing the sheriff would be less likely to pull his tail between his legs with me standing there. A line had formed at the register, three or four customers eager to get out, whether to gain some distance from here or to spread the gossip, I didn't know.

When I finished ringing up their bills and avoiding all their questions, I looked up and found Brigham gone. Unfortunately, he'd left Dewey and the Observer behind.

I stalked out from behind the counter. "Where's Sheriff Brigham? Why are you still here?" Anger brought me closer to their table than I'd been before.

Dewey looked miserable, like he was on the verge of tears. He kept rubbing his right fist with a napkin in his left hand. "I don't know. He told me to wait here. He said he got a call out to the Baker place, but I didn't even hear it on the radio." 13

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I tried hard not to roll my eyes and failed. Yeah, the Baker place had its troubles–Mr. Baker beating Mrs. Baker most of the time–but I had a feeling Sheriff Brigham was instead on the other side of town, paying a late night visit to Doc Heresford. Now, I could have been kind and told Dewey that he probably wasn't in any danger unless he'd broken open his own skin while punching the Observer. But no. He was still here and the alien with him. I leaned forward, laying my hand flat on the table, my fear forgotten in my desperate need to get them both out of here. Besides, nothing had happened. And like that idiot girl in a horror movie who finds an innocent explanation for the ominous sound she's been hearing, with every second that went by I became more confident that nothing would happen. But I still wanted that alien out of here.

"Now listen, Dewey, you and I are friends, right?" I asked in a soft voice.

He nodded, his left hand scrubbing his right even harder.

"I didn't want to say anything in front of Sheriff Brigham, but I think maybe you should head on over to Doc Heresford's place, get him to check you out. After you drop...him off, of course." Dewey's eyes went wide with fear, revealing the whites, and I almost felt bad for him. Almost. "You think I should? You think I might have..." he lowered his voice, "caught something?" No. But it sure would be an interesting conversation when he bumped into Brigham over there instead of at the Baker place ten miles away. "I think it's better to be safe than sorry," I said. Then I straightened up and turned to go.

A hand closed around my wrist, stopping me mid-step. I swiveled around, mouth open to ask Dewey what the hell he was doing, when I realized it was the Observer holding me in place. Dewey looked on, frozen in surprise, his napkin still pressed to his skin.

My chest seized up, and the world dropped away. All I could 14

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see was the Observer's face and his hand on my arm. I tried to scream, but I had no air. My knees began to give out, but he would not release me.

"Go now. Go through the back door and to your vehicle," the Observer said. His voice was taut with an urgency that would have chilled me if every goosebump I owned wasn't already standing at attention.

"Help." I tried to shout, but I couldn't get enough air in my lungs. His grip tightened on me, his hand warm and firm, not the cool, slightly reptilian texture I'd always imagined for no other reason than it was creepy, just like them.

"Leave now," he insisted. The pressure in my chest increased like someone was standing on my lungs. I fumbled into my jeans pocket with my free hand, searching for my inhaler, all the while trying to pull free from the Observer. But I couldn't concentrate on getting away until I could breathe again. Of course, it didn't occur to me then that I wouldn't be able to breathe normally until I got away.

"Let go of her, you....you fobber," Dewey said in a shaking voice. Fobber was a slur that had cropped up almost immediately after the landing. Obber was short for Observer. You can guess what the
F
stood for.

"I don't...know what...you're talking about," I said to the Observer between gasps for air. "Now let ...me go."

"If you don't leave, you will die," the Observer said. Things went downhill from there. Dewey managed to drop his napkin, get his gun from the holster, and point it at the Observer. The Observer pulled on my arm, bringing me only inches from his face. Behind me, the few customers that remained were moving to get a better look and whispering with that little edge of excitement that terror brings.

"Dewey...put that...gun away. I...don't want...to get shot." I finally managed to free my inhaler and bring it to my mouth. I 15

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almost bumped the Observer's face with it as I set it between my teeth and inhaled two quick puffs. He watched with a slight frown creasing his brow. The cut below his eye was now gone, only a faint pinkness and dried flakes of blood indicated where it once had been.

As soon as the medicinal mist floated past my tongue, the pressure in my chest eased. I knew it was as much psychological as anything, Doc Heresford had told me that, but as long as it worked, I didn't care how.

"Let go of me," I managed to say in a sufficiently loud voice. I was shaking from head to toe, but I didn't want to scream. Dewey might jump at the noise and kill us both.

The Observer blinked, and the silver in his eyes retreated, leaving the brown unobstructed for a second. I was fascinated, drawn like a snake to a charmer, despite myself and the situation.

"Please go. Now," he said. Then he released me suddenly, almost toppling me onto the table.

I threw myself backward, stumbling into some chairs. Scrambling to my feet, I ignored the shouts and gasps from all those watching and ran to the counter to call the sheriff. Potential infection or not, Sheriff Brigham better damned well get back over here and clean up the mess he made by bringing an... That's when I heard the first and only scream. I turned my head in time to see Dewey's mouth hanging open, and the Observer, hands free from the cuffs, flying through the air toward me. I didn't have time to scream before he thudded into me, driving me to the ground, and tearing the phone off the counter. And then the world around me exploded with a bright flash of light and the sound of shattering glass.

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Chapter 2

The Observer's weight covered me, pressing my face into the faded linoleum floor. His arm protected my eyes from all but the brightest flashes of light. Even still, I struggled beneath him to get free. With him on top of me and the greasy smoke seeping into my nose, my already laboring lungs were forced to work harder, reminding me of the suffocation I suffered nightly.

"Get off of me," I said. My voice was no louder than a whisper. It was all I could manage between coughing fits. But after a long moment, the weight on me shifted, then disappeared. I immediately shoved away, scooting far from him, cutting my hands and knees on the shards of glass and dinner plates littering the floor. I sat there for a second, cradling my now stinging hands, trying to catch my breath.

He reached for me, but I moved farther back. "Stay away," I said, still choking on the smoke.

He paused, then he slowly moved his hand toward me, palm flat and facing up, offering something. I squinted through the haze to see what it was. Small, white...my inhaler. My hand immediately went to my jeans pocket only to find it empty. I snatched it from his hand and promptly used it. I was only supposed to use it in emergencies, but I think this qualified. After a wary glance in his direction, I got to my feet. Other than the minor cuts on my hands and knees and a few bruises from hitting the floor, I seemed to be unharmed. But I couldn't say the same for the diner.

My eyes watering and stinging from the acrid air, I looked out upon total and utter ruin. Through the smoke, I could barely make out where the front wall of the diner had been. Window blinds now dangled by one end in the far corner, and flames 17

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gnawed on part of the eastern wall. The front booths were tossed and tumbled like mobile homes after a tornado, and the tables and chairs had been blown backward into the counter. Behind me, sparks still danced where glass from the front windows had speared the lemonade machine and the soda fountain.

"Damnit," I whispered. Six years of my life, of my plans, gone in just seconds. Some days I'd hated that diner with a passion, but I'd worked it as hard as I could, knowing that success would mean a good selling price and freedom. But now... Frustration swelled inside me as I pictured the half-finished course schedule for Richards Community College sitting on my dining room table at home, just waiting for my return. I'd been debating between taking another psychology class or finishing off my gen eds. Now it didn't matter.

Couldn't anything ever go my way? I wiped at the tears starting down my cheeks. It was just part-time at a community college, and it had taken me six years to get to this point. To find the right people to cover while I was gone, to rearrange everything so I'd have time to do the homework...to work up the courage to go back to school after so long. Now I'd probably have to wait six more years. Time enough to restore the building, to hire new people to replace the ones who would quit, to build the business again. At the thought of starting over, despair crushed in on me. I wanted to run home and hide, curl into a ball and let the world pass me by.