"What are you grinning about?"

"Didn't know I was."

"Well you are, and I think it's about time you stopped. Getting caught by a storm out here isn't exactly something most folks want to do."

"Sure." Michael adjusted his laced fingers behind his head and tried not to look so cheerful. That morning he'd been glum and taciturn. Taciturn had been the word Junior

Doggett had used. The word wasn't one that Michael had ever used, or intended to use. Except maybe on a test in school now that he'd decided to carry on with getting an education.

The lightning sparked again, threading the sky with spidery shafts. The air mass over the desert floor shifted, dropping at least five degrees.

"Going to be cold tonight," Junior said.

"Maybe you shoulda brought your flannels," Flynn suggested. Where Junior was narrow-shouldered and short, Flynn Boyd was big and burly, outspoken and rude. Flynn was one of the reserve backs on the Roswell High football team.

Michael didn't hang with either one of the guys back in school, but the summer had conspired to bring them together. All of them had been hired by Kurt Bulmer, a local geologist, to help survey the tracts of land outside Roswell where they'd camped out less than an hour ago.

The loud detonation of thunder sounded almost overhead. The sudden gust of wind that followed the crash gave the impression a cannon had gone off nearby and dusted the campsite with blowback that carried a spray of sand. The dome tents quavered under the onslaught, then once more looked like gaily-colored toadstools bubbling up from the harsh, broken ground.

Michael couldn't help himself. He grinned. The others were freaking, and he felt more alive than ever.

I'm free, Michael thought contentedly. No arguments with Maria for the next couple of days. No questions about what I'm going to do with myself. No discussions of responsibility.