"Only the truth," Liz said with a shrug. Then she turned back toward the museum, tugging Adam by the hand. He fell into step with her, grinning like a child.

"You're amazing," he told Liz.

"I know." She grinned back at him. "It's a curse."

Max rubbed the silk of one of Isabel's blouses between his fingers, allowing a cluster of the beings to experience it. So soft. And made by worms. And-

Out of nowhere a tidal wave of fury hit Max. A massive group of beings swept the curious cluster away, and a series of demands were flung out.

Where was the second Stone? Where was the betrayer?

Max sank to his knees, the raw, pulsating anger incapacitating him. All he could do was allow it to wash over him, scalding. So hot, it turned the air to steam that singed Max's lungs.

The Stone! The Stone! The Stone!

The words were like red-hot brands on Max's skin.

You must find it! You must destroy the betrayer!

The wrath brought blisters up on his back, blisters on top of blisters. One of them burst open, and the coolness in that one small patch of skin brought tears of relief to Max's eyes.

You must destroy the betrayer! You must-

"Stop!" Max cried, not knowing whether he was using his voice or simply hurling the thought into the ocean of auras. "Stop! You're going to kill me."

The fury receded, just slightly. Max seized the opportunity and jammed the volume down on the consciousness, using all his will to keep his connection as low as possible.

He lowered his head and remained crouched on the floor of Isabel's room. You're all right, he told himself. He forced himself to study his arms. See? No brands. No bums. You're completely fine.

The sensation had been so powerful that even while staring at his unharmed skin, Max had a hard time accepting that he was even alive after what he'd experienced.

He slowly climbed to his feet. "Why am I in front of Izzy's closet?" he muttered.

Then he remembered. Some of the beings had wanted to experience the texture of silk. They'd have to wait. No way was he going to allow the volume of the consciousness back up.

He turned and headed to the door, then froze. That's not why he'd come in here. He bolted back to the closet. He'd come in here to see if any of Isabel's clothes were missing. He'd been afraid she and Michael had taken off, and he'd wanted to check it out.

Nothing should have been more important than that. And he'd been playing personal shopper to some of the beings. Max started whipping through the hangers in the closet. Why did Isabel have to have so damn many clothes? How was he supposed to know if anything was missing? She'd have to take a three-month supply for him to-

Max looked down at the floor, and his knees turned to oatmeal. She was gone. Her suitcase was gone, so she was gone.

He immediately turned toward Isabel's night table. The communication crystals were still there, right where he'd left them.

His entire body seemed to crumble, and Max lowered himself shakily onto the bed. His sister was gone, and she'd left behind the one thing that could save her.

Max doubled over. "Oh, God, Isabel. What did you do?"

"Turn it off!" Isabel begged, pointing at the television, where a particularly obnoxious episode of a daytime talk show was playing.

"Jerry's the man," Michael told her from his spot propped up on the motel's other twin bed.

"Turn it off!" Isabel shrieked. The sound of her own voice tore through her head, leaving her gray matter pulsing.

Michael leaped toward the television, but not before the Springer audience went into another round of "Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!" The words ripped into the delicate membranes of her inner ears, the pain so intense she could feel it through her entire body. "Too loud," she whispered.

A second later Michael had the sound off. But he couldn't turn off the sound of his breathing. The sound of her own breathing. The sound of the hideous curtains brushing against the dirty window. All of these sounds were amplified to the point that Isabel was sure would drive her insane. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would somehow make the sounds softer. A finger tapped her shoulder lightly. She opened her eyes halfway, and Michael held a sheet of the motel's bleached-out stationery in front of her face. He'd written a note in all caps.

He dropped the paper and sat down next to her on her bed. He held out his hands, all ten fingers up.

"One," he mouthed as he folded one of the fingers down.

The rasping sound of the skin of his finger brushing against the skin of his palm made Isabel's teeth feel electrified, but she kept her eyes on Michael's hands as he continued his countdown. When he had three fingers still up, the bout passed.

Isabel wrapped both her hands around one of his. "Thanks," she whispered.

"You want water? More blankets? Anything?" He sounded so eager to do something for her.

"Just sit here with me, okay?" Isabel asked, tightening her grip on his hand.

Michael nodded. He turned his head toward the TV, but not before Isabel caught the sheen of unshed tears coating his eyes.

Poor Michael. Poor her. Poor everybody.

Oh, stop it, she ordered herself. She turned her attention to the TV, too. Poor people on the show was more like it. They all needed someone to dress them in the morning. And the hair-forget about it. Everyone on the screen should shave their heads and try again.

"See, here's the deal," Michael said in a bad Texan accent, imitating one of Jerry's guests. "My girlfriend, she likes to dress like a man. Which is okay. Except that whenever she does, she keeps telling me that I'm fat, and it really, really hurts my feelings."

"That's way too tame for Jerry," Isabel told him. "It's more like, I can't go to bed with my girlfriend unless I dress like the Easter Bunny and my girlfriend dresses-" She paused and struggled to pull in a breath. "Dresses like a giant polka-dot egg."

Michael laughed. He was obviously relieved to see her talking again. "Why polka dot?" he asked.

"That's… that's the only part that…" Isabel had to stop for breath again. Suddenly she couldn't breathe and talk at the same time anymore. "… sounds strange to you?"

"Well, yeah," Michael said, struggling to keep a straight face. He used the edge of his flannel shirt to wipe the beads of sweat off her upper lip. "You sure you don't want some water?" he asked.

"That… sounds good," she answered. She wanted to give him something to do, but she wasn't sure she'd be able to get the water down. Her body was changing-drying up inside. Withering. She could feel it. And she wasn't sure that her esophagus would be able to handle bringing down the water. It might just… crumble.

Michael rushed back from the bathroom, holding a plastic cup almost overflowing with water. He sat down next to her again, slowly, careful not to jar her, then cradled her shoulders and brought the glass to her lips. She managed a tiny sip but shook her head when he wanted to give her more.

"Keep… holding me," she said. Michael set the glass on the night table and stretched out on his side next to her, arm still around her shoulders. "I think…" She drew in a wheezing breath. "… you should ask Maria to dress up… like an egg for you."

Michael used his sleeve to blot her forehead. "Okay, you're officially delirious," he told her. His voice was casual, but his gray eyes were serious and watchful.

Isabel tried to moisten her lips, but her tongue was too dry. Little pieces of skin were flaking off it. "She… loves you."