But Izzy was seven years old at the time. And Adam had to be sixteen or seventeen. Michael felt hot anger begin to boil inside him. Adam was one of them, which meant he could absorb information much faster than humans did. If someone gave him some books or a computer, he'd soak up knowledge by the second. Instead he was still getting all hyped over a game of crazy eights.

"So who taught you how to play this game?" Michael asked. He didn't plan on giving Adam any info, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to try and get some.

"Dad," Adam answered. He snapped down the two of diamonds and laughed when Michael had to add two more cards to his hand.

"And who would that be?" Michael asked.

"Mr. Valenti," Adam returned.

Dad? Adam called the man who kept him prisoner underground Dad. And Michael thought he'd had it bad doing the foster-home boogie all his life. There were worse things, much worse things.

"Did, uh, Dad"-the name tasted like acid on Michael's tongue-"teach you how to play the other game, too?"

"Uh-uh. I always knew how to play it," Adam answered as he added another card to the pile.

"And what about… Daddy Valenti. Can he play it, too?" Michael thought it was a good idea to get Adam thinking about the way he and Valenti were different. Because at some point-some point soon-Michael was going to have to tell Adam the truth about the sheriff. It would be a lot easier to get Adam out of here if he actually wanted to leave, and Michael didn't think that would happen until Adam knew that the sheriff didn't deserve one scrap of loyalty… or love. How twisted was it that Valenti had manipulated Adam into loving him? Because Adam did. Michael could hear it in Adam's voice when he said Valenti's name.

Adam laughed. "No. It's not a game for daddies," he answered, in an everybody-knows-that tone.

Duh. Michael should have known Valenti would have come up with a reason why he could never play the game with Adam. The images that Adam would get from Valenti would make it very clear that Dad was, well, not a very nice guy.

"It's your turn," Adam reminded him.

"Oh, right. Now let me see." Michael pulled one card out of his hand, then replaced it. He bit his lip in an exaggerated way as he selected another card, then put it back.

Adam laughed like this was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. This guy had to get out more.

Michael added a card to the pile, then he caught a flash of movement off to his right. He glanced over and saw Valenti and two guards walking a girl down the row of cells. "Who's she?" he asked Adam.

Adam turned, and his mouth dropped open a little. "I don't know," he whispered.

He sounded kind of awestruck. Judging by Adam's behavior, Michael thought it was probably the first female that Adam had ever seen-at least, the first one close to his age. Adam had some great surprises waiting for him if they ever managed to make it aboveground.

Although the girl who had just walked in would stand out even up there, where there was a lot more competition. She was tall and lean, with red hair that was even shorter than his. But the hair didn't make her look at all boyish.

What could she possibly be doing down here? Whatever it was, she didn't look pleased about it. One of the guards pulled open the door of the cell across from Michael's and thrust the girl inside with a rough push. The girl didn't turn around. She just stood there, her back straight, her head up, refusing to look at any of them.

Michael wouldn't wish for anyone to be pushed into that stuffy cell. But if someone had to be there, he was glad it was someone who looked like her.

Cameron Winger kept her back turned so she didn't have to see the door close behind her, locking her inside the glass cell. She wished the sheriff had told her more about what was going to happen to her. Tests, that's all he said. A series of tests beginning tomorrow. Tests. That could mean almost anything. It could mean sitting at a desk, filling in a million of those little bubbles. Or it could mean-Cameron didn't want to think about what else it could mean. It was pointless. Because whatever it meant, she would have to go through with it. The sheriff would see to that.

Cameron was good at evaluating people, and she'd already figured out Sheriff Valenti wasn't a guy who could be made to feel pity. Or much of anything else. She doubted he could squeeze out an emotion if his life depended on it, and that meant once he decided to do something, he did it. If Cameron changed her mind about the tests, she had the feeling she could cry an ocean of tears, then scream her lungs out, then throw a total kicking, screaming, mouth-foaming fit without Valenti even raising an eyebrow. Or getting close to letting her go.

Cameron spun around and found the two guards and the sheriff staring at her. She had the wild impulse to shove her face against the glass and make fish faces at them. That's exactly what her cell was like-a big aquarium. Except instead of a fish, she was more like one of those lobsters in a restaurant tank, the ones with their claws taped closed who were only a big boiling pot of water away from being dinner.

She returned the sheriff's gaze steadily, trying not to feel like a lobster. He finally turned and strode away.

Cameron wondered what the two guys in the cell across from hers had done to get themselves in here. The one with the silky light brown hair looked like he should still be getting tucked in by Mom, even though she figured he was around her age.

The other guy, the one with the spiked hair, now, he looked dangerous. In all kinds of ways. He had gray eyes like the sheriff's. But this guy's eyes were burning with emotion. He looked like the tortured soul type, which, unfortunately, she had always been attracted to.

She formed her hand into a lobster claw and clicked it at him. The lopsided grin that broke across his face made her feel alive-for the moment.

Max took a deep breath, then turned the key and swung open the door to Ray's apartment. He caught a whiff of something that smelled like baking powder. He knew the scent was part of a message from the collective consciousness, so he ignored it. He had been trying to talk to Ray through the consciousness, but he couldn't figure out how. All he'd gotten was a wave of images, odors, sounds, and sensations, all with pieces of information attached to them. Usually Max would have loved learning so much about his home planet and his people. But it was harder to get excited with Ray… gone. And Michael captured.

Max stepped into the apartment and shut the door behind him. He headed down the hall to Ray's bedroom. A smile tugged at his lips as he passed the living room with the beanbag chairs that were Ray's version of wall-to-wall carpeting. Ray was such a goofball.

A hard lump formed in Max's throat at the thought. It was so hard to accept that he'd never hear Ray's corny jokes again. Or see his Elvis impersonation. And Max was still trying to deal with the fact that no matter how bad things got, Ray would never be able to come to the rescue. "I'm going to miss you," he whispered. "And not just because you kept saving our butts."

This isn't the time for a touching soap-opera moment, he told himself. He needed to do a sweep of the apartment to make sure there wasn't anything lying around that, say, offered incontrovertible proof of the existence of life on other planets. Max stepped into Ray's bedroom. The first thing he saw was Ray's I Survived the Roswell Incident T-shirt lying on the bed. He snorted. That wasn't exactly proof. Half the people in town had that shirt.

Max picked up the shirt and pulled it over the T-shirt he was wearing. He wanted something of Ray's to keep, something to remember him by. And the shirt-it was so Ray. He wasn't going to find anything better, plus he was pretty sure Ray would like the idea of passing the shirt on to another true Roswell Incident survivor.