"That doesn't mean crap. I thought you were supposed to be a scientist or something. Don't you think you're making a huge assumption here?" Max demanded. He gave his hand another wrench, and this time Ray let it go.

Max crossed his arms, tucking his hand against his body. But he could still feel the tremors running through it.

"Maybe you're right," Ray said gently. He used his sleeve to rub a coffee stain off one of the little alien faces decorating the table. "But just in case you're not, I-"

Max felt like he was about to lose it. He could already feel a lump growing in his throat, and his eyes were getting so wet that another blink might bring tears.

He sprang out of his chair so quickly that it toppled. He caught it before it hit the ground and slammed it back in place. Then he took a long breath, pulling it deep into his lungs. "What do you want me to do today?" he asked. "I know you're not paying me to grow my hair."

Ray gave a small smile-whether because Max had used one of Ray's favorite expressions or because of his amazingly obvious subject change, Max wasn't sure. "Why don't you go into the storage area and see if you can find any more foo fighter stuff for the display?"

"On it." Max took three steps away from the table, then turned. "Ray, if you're right and I do have to connect to the consciousness, how much time do I have?"

"It's hard to say exactly," Ray admitted. "Maybe months. Maybe days."

"Is it closing time?" Maria DeLuca whined. "Please let it be closing time." She slid her left heel out of her new shoe and studied the massive blister growing there.

"Five minutes," her best friend, Liz Ortecho, told her. "I don't know why you wore those shoes to work, anyway."

"In these shoes I actually approach tallness," Maria explained. "You just don't know what it's like when you're my height. People act like I'm some kind of mutant-part girl, part puppy. Strangers pat me on the head."