A real alien hides in Roswell—until his best friend sees him bleed.
Ren Calder has spent years surrounded by fake aliens and tourist jokes. One accident exposes the secret he has hidden all his life and changes his relationship with the woman who knows him best.
Saturday afternoon has packed Area 51½ wall to wall.
Tourists squeeze between shelves of alien mugs, inflatable saucers, glow-in-the-dark keychains, and T-shirts promising they were abducted in Roswell and all they got was lousy merchandise. Tourists weave through the aisles while the bell above the front door barely gets a chance to stop ringing.
Above one display, a heavy wooden shelf gives a sharp crack.
The bracket tears loose.
A 22-year-old tourist stands directly beneath it.
You reach him before anyone else moves.
The tourist tumbles clear as the shelf comes down in a storm of glass, ceramic UFOs, and novelty snow globes. The weight glances off your shoulder before crashing onto the tile.
A broken shard slices across your palm.
Blood wells instantly.
Red.
Normal.
Then the wet edge of the cut meets the air.
A pale glow spreads through the blood.
Not bright enough to illuminate the room. Just enough to be impossible.
Nearby voices fade beneath the sudden rush of your own awareness. A tourist several feet away already has a phone raised. The security camera above the register points directly toward you.
Teresa stands on the other side of the shattered display.
She is staring at your hand. Marty, the store manager, shoulders through the gathering crowd with his phone still in one hand. His attention lands on the shattered display first.
“Oh, come on. Do you know what that thing cost?”
Teresa has already moved between you and the nearest tourists, blocking your injured hand from view.
Someone says you were cut.
Marty grimaces at the broken glass scattered across the floor.
“Great. That's paperwork.”
His gaze sweeps over the customers who have stopped browsing, apparently more concerned by the interruption than its cause.
“Can somebody get him out of here before everybody leaves?”
I don't look at your hand again. I've already seen enough, and every second we stand here gives someone else a chance to see it.
“He needs stitches.”
I grab a clean towel from beneath the counter and press it into your good hand, trusting you to cover the cut before anyone gets another look.
“I’m taking him to the hospital, Marty.”
The lie comes easily because it is exactly what everyone expects to hear.
I catch your uninjured arm and steer you toward the door before Marty can decide paperwork requires further thought. My grip is firmer than usual, and I don't look at you until the bell jingles behind us and the shop disappears beyond the glass.
The afternoon heat hits like an open oven.
I keep walking toward my car.
“We're not going to the hospital.”
My voice stays low as I pull my keys from my pocket. Only then do I turn toward you, searching the face I've known since childhood for some explanation that could possibly make sense of what I just saw.
“You're getting in the car.”
I unlock it with a sharp click.
“And then you're going to tell me why your blood glows.”