an alien, he'd probably end up dead. Or in a cage somewhere being studied by a team of scientists.
The little alien-face wind chime on the front door jangled. Michael didn't bother turning around. He knew the customer would find him soon enough. Michael geared up to answer the four billion questions about the Roswell Incident every tourist seemed to have.
He should just record a little speech: 'Welcome to Space Supplies. Let me give you a short history of the Roswell Incident! We're all right proud of it around here. See, back in the forties a spaceship crashed right outside town. Well, actually more like seventy-five miles out of town, but we don't like to tell folks that because it might limit the amount of money we could suck out of tourists' pockets. Anyhoo, there are citizens, a few still living in town today, who claim to have seen the ship and the bodies of several alien beings. Why aren't the ship and those little alien bodies in our own UFO museum? Well, I'll tell you. The government covered the whole thing up. They told everyone all they had seen was a weather balloon. And-'
'I have a question for you,' a voice said from behind Michael.
Yeah, big surprise, Michael thought. He turned around to find Mr. Cuddihy standing behind him. Michael suppressed a groan. Why couldn't he have one of those apathetic social workers? The kind that wouldn't even notice if you missed an appointment?
'You want to know if I think that alien autopsy tape is a phony?' Michael asked.
Mr. Cuddihy shook his head. 'At our appointment-you know, the one you blew off-I wanted to ask you how things were going with the Hughes family.'
Michael shrugged. 'Okay, I guess.' His foster father was a jerk, always playing little power games, but Michael could handle it. None of the foster parents he'd had over the years had been perfect.
'Mr. Hughes mentioned something about a truck the last time we spoke,' Mr. Cuddihy commented.
Michael didn't answer. What was he supposed to say? He knew exactly what truck Mr. Cuddihy was talking about. The old hunk of junk Mr. Hughes kept up on blocks in the backyard. At least he used to-until Michael decided to liberate it.
Michael and Max had sent the truck to the bottom of Lake Lee. Sheriff Valenti had gotten way too close to figuring out Max was an alien. So Michael had come up with a plan to make Valenti think the alien he was looking for was dead-drowned in the bottom of the lake. Unfortunately for Mr. Hughes, the plan involved his truck.
'Mr. Hughes said this truck mysteriously disappeared a few weeks ago,' Mr. Cuddihy continued.
'He should talk to Mrs. Hughes,' Michael answered. 'She hates the thing. She calls it the world's ugliest lawn ornament. She keeps threatening to glue little plaster elves and stuff to it to pretty it up or something.'
It was true. Taking the truck was like doing a favor for Mrs. Hughes. And she was much cooler than her husband.
Mr. Cuddihy laughed. 'So you don't know anything about the truck?'
Michael shrugged again. 'I don't know how anyone managed to get the thing out of the yard. The engine won't even turn over.' Of course, if you happened to have powers like he and Max, you could easily shove the truck through space just by concentrating. But he didn't share that fact with the social worker.
'Okay, I told Mr. Hughes I'd mention it, and I did,' Mr. Cuddihy said. 'But I really came by to see how things were going for you at home. I'm not sure that the Hugheses are a great match for you. I was thinking maybe I'd move you to a new spot.'
Translation: The Hughes family didn't want Michael living with them anymore.
Michael felt himself stiffen, all his muscles tightening up. What do you care? he thought. It was just a place to crash.
'So when should I be packed?' he asked.
'Hey, you're getting ahead of me,' Mr. Cuddihy protested. 'If you think things are working out with the Hugheses, maybe I could set up a few group counseling sessions, and-'
'No, you're right. We aren't the best matchup or whatever.' Michael raked his black hair out of his eyes. 'Is that all? Because my boss has a ton of stuff for me to do.'
'That's all,' Mr. Cuddihy answered. 'I'll get back to you with details in a couple of days. We can set up another appointment then-and I expect you to show up.'
'Yeah, I will. Definitely.' Just get out of here already, Michael thought. Mr. Cuddihy was decent enough, but Michael would be very glad when he never had to see the guy again. As soon as he hit his eighteenth birthday it would be good-bye, Mr. Cuddihy. And good-bye, foster families.
Not that he knew exactly when his eighteenth birthday really was. He'd broken out of his incubation pod sometime in the winter. He knew that. But he'd already looked like a human who was around seven years old. So did that mean he broke out of the pod on his seventh birthday, or on his
There was no use thinking about it, really. All he cared about was the date social services had assigned him for his birthday. Less than six months away. That's the day he would finally get his freedom.
'I'll call you soon.' Mr. Cuddihy headed out the door.
Yeah, he'd call, and the whole foster family garbage would start again. All the little getting-to-know-you talks. All the rules-of-this-house crap. Michael sighed and started stickering the water bottles again. At least he wouldn't have to see Mr. Hughes's superior little smirk anymore. And he was finally getting near the end of the whole fake family thing. That's what he hated the most. If foster families were just like motels or something, it would be okay. But there was always this idea that you were supposed to care about them. And that they were supposed to care about you. As if that ever really happened.
Well, maybe it did happen sometimes. He'd seen a few kids down at social services who seemed close with their foster families. But they were mostly little kids. Cute little kids.
When Michael was a little kid, he wasn't cute. He was weird. He was 'seven years old,' but he didn't know how to talk or use a fork or use a toilet or anything. He learned fast, but he still wasn't exactly the kind of kid that adults looked at and went 'awww' over.
The alien wind chime jangled again, and Max walked in. Michael checked his watch. Quitting time.
'I'm out of here, okay?' he called.
'See you tomorrow,' Kristen called back from her office.
Michael grabbed his jacket. 'Let's go.'
'Hey, I wanted to do a little shopping first,' Max protested. 'Do you have any of those maps of where the aliens live?'
Michael snorted. 'A lady actually asked me that once,' he said as they headed outside and over to Max's Jeep.
Max swung himself into the driver's seat. 'Okay, where to tonight?' He pulled out of the parking lot and headed out of town.
Michael took his map out of his pocket. He studied all the little shaded sections, all the places he and Max had searched for their parents' spaceship over the years. He figured the government-or Project Clean Slate-had moved the ship to a storage facility somewhere near the crash site. He didn't think they would have risked transporting it too far. Michael planned to keep looking until he found it.
But what was he going to do when he'd shaded in the whole state on his map? Would he just give up the search? How could he? The ship was his only way back to his planet, his real home. No, there was no way he was giving up. If he shaded in the whole state, he'd just start over and check every inch of the desert again and again and again.
'I heard there are some caves about fifteen miles southwest of the crash site,' Michael said. 'I want to see if we can find any of them. Maybe there's one big enough to hide the ship. They're supposed to be hard to see. The mouths are just cracks in the desert floor-like our cave.'
Michael, Max, and Isabel didn't know much about their past. But they had figured out that their parents were on board the ship that crashed in the desert in 1947. The markings on their incubation pods matched markings on debris found near the site. They didn't know how their pods got from the ship to the cave where they broke free. Maybe one of their parents managed to save them before they died.
Michael liked that idea, although he would never admit it. He liked the idea of someone caring enough about what happened to him to make sure he was safe.
'So, what did you do all night while I was working for a living?' Michael asked.
