Max was one of the most caring and understanding guys Isabel had ever seen, though she probably wouldn't tell him that. And Michael was one of the most thoughtless and self-absorbed people she knew, and she had told him that… more or less… upon occasion.

To a degree, Max and Michael were extremes when it came to relationship issues. Yet, neither one of them could maintain relationships with people they truly cared about without a lot of heartache involved.

Isabel walked back into the hospital and made her way to the ER waiting area. She halted at the door when she saw Max and Liz sitting together. She didn't want to intrude.

Max and Liz sat only inches apart, but they didn't touch. The silence and stillness that kept them apart might as well have been a steel barricade, Isabel thought. For the first time she understood the pain that her brother was going through. To be so dose… and yet… so apart.

Kyle sat on the side of the hospital bed in the hospital emergency room. His arm throbbed with pain as the doctor examined the long laceration on his forearm.

"We got really lucky here," Dr. Bohr said, gently prying at the flesh around the cut.

"How do you figure?" Kyle asked. He didn't feel especially lucky. He also didn't look at the wound, because the bloody mess reminded him too much of the ghost or hallucination he'd seen back at the work site.

"It's a big wound," Dr. Bohr said, "and deep, but you didn't nick any tendons. A few stitches… "

"Stitches?" Kyle asked, looking at the doctor.

The doctor was young, not yet thirty, and he wore a Remy Zero concert T-shirt under the pale blue scrubs. He peered at Kyle through rimless glasses and smiled a little. "Stitches," he repeated. "We can call them sutures, if you'd like."

"How about we call them Band-Aids?"

"I can't just tape this together/' the doctor said. "I'll have a nurse prep you, and we'll get that arm numbed.

Then I'll put in about… eight stitches will do it, I think."

"Sure," Kyle grumbled, taking his arm back from the doctor. Gently, he folded his arm across his chest, trapping the limb with his other arm across his wrist. He tried to remember the last time he'd gotten stitches.

"Want me to let your dad know you're okay?" Dr. Bohr asked.

"My dad?" Kyle asked. "Is he here?"

A confused expression settled on Dr. Bohr's face. "I thought that the gentleman who brought you in… "

"He's not my dad," Kyle said, surprised at the resentment that filled him. "He's my boss."

"Oh," Dr. Bohr said. "My mistake. I'll see you in a little while."

"Sure," Kyle said.

As Dr. Bohr passed through the curtained section that marked the entrance to the emergency room area, Quin-lann stuck his head inside. "Could you use some company, kid?"

"After as long as I've been here," Kyle said, "I'm surprised that you're still here."

Quinlann walked over to the bed and shrugged. "I brought you here. I wanted to make sure you made it home okay."

Kyle looked at his employer, getting a sinking feeling in his stomach. "You haven't been able to reach my dad, have you?"

Quinlann shook his head. "I left a message on the answering machine at your house."

Moving gingerly, still aware of the pain throbbing in his injured arm, Kyle lay back on the bed, settling in for the long haul. He tried not to let any of the unhappiness he felt at his dad's absence show.

Figures, Kyle thought sourly. Any other day of the week, Dad would be home with a can of beer in one hand and watching ESPN. Some of the resentment he was starting to feel about the elder Valenti's lack of interest in finding a job made his stomach roll. He felt his increased heartbeat thump at his temples.

"You okay?" Quinlann asked.

"Yeah," Kyle said. "Just the arm."

"Looks nasty."

"Doc says it's not as bad as it looks."

Quinlann nodded. "That's good. I don't want your dad upset with me."

"This isn't your fault."

"Did the doc say how long you're going to be dealing with a busted wing?" Quinlann asked.

"When I get out of here," Kyle said, "I'll be ready to get back to work."

Quinlann laughed and scratched his head. "You got sand, kid, I'll sure give you that. But once they get through working on that arm, you may be surprised at how much it hurts. I'll get someone to cover you for the next couple days."

"I don't want to take any days off," Kyle said. I can't afford to. The bills are piling up at the house and Dad isn't even looking at them anymore.

Kyle knew he shouldn't be mad at his dad. His dad had been through hell lately because of Max, Michael, Isabel, and Tess. The sheriff's job had disappeared because of his involvement with the Roswell aliens, and maybe his dad had lost some of his spirit when he'd discovered how evil Tess had been. Alex's parents still didn't know what had happened to him, and Kyle knew his dad had to sit on that knowledge too.

"You'll take a couple days off," Quinlann said. "At least. Then we'll see how it goes."

Kyle knew he should be thankful that he had such an understanding boss, but all he could think of was getting a short check. "If I can, I need to make up the time."

"What time?" Quinlann asked. "You were hurt on the job, kid. Me and the insurance will take care of you."

The information made Kyle feel a little better. He lay back on the pillows and tried to relax. He also tried not to think about where his dad was.

Just as the pain in his arm seemed to die down, he heard someone screaming from the area behind the curtain on his left.

13

Michael stared at the helmeted motorcycle rider. Judging from the riders size against the machine, the rider was a kid.

Valenti stepped forward and dropped the crowbar down against his leg so the tool wasn't so prominent. "Hey," he called, waving a hand. "This isn't what it looks like."

The motorcycle helmet shifted, going back and forth between Michael and Valenti a few times. Then the rider reached down and switched off the two-cycle engine. Reaching up, the rider took off the helmet and shook out her ponytail.

She gazed at Michael. Sunlight gave her chestnut hair a reddish gleam and made the spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks stand out. Her braces gleamed silver.

"If I didn't know you, Sheriff Valenti," the girl said, "I'd hightail it back home and call nine-one-one."

Valenti showed her an easy smile. "I'm glad that you didn't, Kelli."

"However," Kelli said, "I also know that you're not the sheriff of Roswell anymore. And I'm guessing that you used the crowbar to break into Mr. Wilkins's garage. So I want an explanation of what you and the hunk are doing here."

Valenti looked at Michael.

Hunk? Michael thought, feeling more than a little embarrassed. The girl was maybe twelve years old and acting way beyond her years.

"There's been an accident in town," Valenti said, looking back at the girl.

"Mr. Wilkins had a heart attack," Kelli said. "I saw it on the news just after lunch. The local news team interrupted the baseball game. Then they kept interrupting so much, I figured I'd go for a ride and catch the box scores later. The game was a blowout anyway." She paused. "That doesn't explain what you're doing down here."

Sharp kid, Michael couldn't help thinking. And obnoxious.

"I came down to check on Wilkins's house," Valenti said. "I know he used to keep cockatiels. It looks like Wilkins's stay in the hospital is going to be a while. I know that he doesn't have any family that he can call to take care of the birds."

Kelli pushed the motorcycle's kickstand down, then leaned the dirt bike over while she hopped off. "I can help," she offered, trudging toward them.

"Help?" Valenti repeated, and Michael could tell from Valenti's tone that that was the last thing he wanted.