Melinda Metz - The Watcher

That's what Liz had said. That his skin had bubbled. Patient X, Max corrected himself. A witness reported that patient X's skin had bubbled.

Max picked up the lighter again. It would be better to have a firsthand account for the file. Firsthand. Ha! A pun! Patient X still had a sense of humor. He clicked on the lighter, hesitated, then held his left index finger over the flame.

He felt warmth, but not pain. Even when he caught a whiff of something that smelled like hot dogs on a barbecue, he didn't feel any pain. And he had to agree with the witness's observation. His skin was bubbling.

Max lifted his thumb off the lighter, and the flame disappeared. The bubbles on his finger grew smaller, then stopped forming altogether, leaving his skin looking completely normal. No redness. No blistering. He rubbed his finger across his desk. No pain.

Fascinating. Patient X's case was truly fascinating.

Max heard a fast double knock on his door. He quickly flipped to a blank screen as Isabel barged in and flopped down on his bed.

"I've earned so many brownie points tonight, so many," she announced, smiling her most smug smile. "Everyone in Alex's family loves Isabel. The mom, the brothers. Even the dad."

"Uh, that's good," Max answered.

Even coming up with those three words was hard. Patient X was having difficulty with basic interpersonal interaction. He had to remember to write that down.

Isabel gave a sniff. "Have you been doing one of your chemistry experiments in here? It reeks. You're supposed to use the garage, remember?"

"Yeah. Forgot," he muttered.

Now was the time to tell her everything. Max had planned to tell her-and Michael, and everybody-about the akino yesterday night. And then again at lunch today. But he couldn't do it.

If he talked to them, he'd be talking about he, Max, not patient X, being about to die. He'd also be talking about his sister and his best friend, who would eventually die from the akino, too. Not just two more case studies to add to the file.

He couldn't deal with that. Not that.

Maybe he wouldn't have to. Maybe he would find the crystals in time. Maybe there would be a miracle cure for patient X. Maybe.

Why don't you tell Michael how you feel?

Liz had made it sound like it was no big deal. Like why don't you tell Michael that you love cats? Or why don't you tell Michael that you love horror movies? Or why don't you tell Michael that you're particularly fond of cottage cheese with raisins?

Just thinking about it-about telling Michael how she felt about him-stressed Maria out. She sat up and fumbled around on her nightstand for her little bottle of eucalyptus oil. That's what she needed right now. A walk among the calm, ancient trees, where she could forget about Liz, Michael, and everything else.

She sprinkled a few drops of the oil on her pillowcase. The scent of eucalyptus instantly filled her nose. Eucalyptus. Which, of course, reminded her of Michael.

Liz would probably say it was some kind of Freudian sprinkle, a message from Maria's unconscious telling her to get her butt out of bed and over to Michael's to confess her feelings. But Liz was a bad friend who gave bad advice. Like, for example, her all-star suggestion: "Why don't you tell Michael how you feel?"

She grabbed the phone and hit speed dial number one. Liz answered on the second ring.

"I hate you," Maria burst out without even. saying hello.

"Maria?" Liz mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

Maria shot a glance at the clock. Almost one-thirty. "Sorry, I didn't know it was so late," she said.

"But you just had to call to say you hate me?" Liz sounded equal parts confused and amused.

"Yeah. I do. I really do. How could you tell me that I should open up to Michael?" Maria knew she was talking way too fast, but she couldn't stop herself.

"So… so he didn't feel the same way? What did he say? Tell me everything," Liz instructed.

"He didn't say anything," Maria admitted.

"What? He just stared at you?" Liz asked.

"No, he didn't say anything because I didn't tell him," Maria answered. "I don't know if I can."

"Of course you can," Liz insisted.

"See, this is why I hate you. This is why you're a bad, bad friend. A good friend would listen to me talk about Michael a couple of hours every day and never, ever suggest that I should actually do anything about it."

"Slow down," Liz said. "I'm taking notes. Good friend equals wimp who only tells Maria what she wants to hear."

Maria sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm being a total lunatic. Go back to sleep."

"Wait. Just tell me one thing first. What's the worst thing that could happen if you tell Michael?" Liz asked.

Maria hesitated, running her fingers over the dozens of wrinkles in her bottom sheet. "Sometimes its like I can feel this little glowing spot way down inside me, the place that's filled with… how I feel about Michael," Maria began, trying to explain her worst fear.

"With love, you mean," Liz interrupted.

"Fine, make me say it," Maria answered. "Loooove. Anyway, bringing up this glowing spot… well, it might not be pretty. I keep thinking about those fish that live way down in the ocean. When they get hooked and pulled to the surface-kablooey! Fish guts everywhere. They just explode."

"So you could explode, which I have to say is physiologically very unlikely, or, and I feel I must say this again at the risk of being a bad, bad friend, Michael could say he feels the same way about you," Liz said.

Her words brought a new image to Maria's mind. A picture of that little glowing piece of her rising up and exploding into a skyful of stars. Stars that shared the sky with other stars, stars from a little glowing piece of Michael.

"Well, he did kiss me twice. That's one indicator that maybe he could possibly feel the same way. Or really two indicators," Maria told Liz.

"Describe, please," Liz ordered, then gave a big yawn.

"Both were on the lips," Maria answered. "But both were really fast. And one had an element of gratitude-because I was helping him find his parents' ship. And one had an element of fear-because he thought I was practically, you know, dead. So I don't know if they really mean anything." Maria pulled in a deep breath of the eucalyptus-scented air and rushed on. "Okay, maybe they mean he doesn't think of me in a totally little sister-esque way. But they definitely don't mean Michael's looking for some kind of pledge of endless love from me."

"You're leaving out one really important fact. Michael almost got himself killed trying to save your life," Liz reminded her.

"But he probably would have done the same thing for anyone in the group," Maria answered. "Besides, if he really does feel the same way, why isn't he over here right now? Why isn't he kissing me, a real kiss that lasts more than two seconds?"

"Only one way to find out," Liz said.

"Yeah, I should just put myself out of my misery, I guess," Maria agreed. "I'm going to do it. Right now. Before I can talk myself out of it." She hung up without letting Liz say good-bye. Then she picked the phone back up and hit redial. Liz answered immediately.

"I just wanted to say that I don't really hate you," Maria announced, and then hung up again.

She climbed out of bed and crept over to her closet. She knew she had to keep moving so she wouldn't chicken out. Now the important question. "What should I wear?" she muttered. "I wonder if I have anything that goes well with exploded guts."

She gave a low growl of frustration. She grabbed her favorite pair of jeans and a nubby dark green sweater and threw them on. Then she tiptoed out of the house.

She wished she could take the car, but she was afraid the sound would wake up her morn. She pulled her bike out of the garage instead. She hesitated for a moment, standing motionless in the driveway. Maybe it would be smarter to just go back into the house and hit myself on the head with something heavy enough to knock me out for a few hours, she thought.