Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. The writers/creators own the show, and the era of the forties belongs to the people and events who made it what it was.

Rating: PG-13

Category: Sort of AU. Every couple included, but M/M the most. (I apologize to the Stargazers. Their part was going to be more romantic, but after what’s happening this season...well, I don’t want to be unrealistic.)

Summary: It’s July 4, 1947. In approximately twelve hours a UFO will crash into the New Mexico desert. The small town of Roswell lies nearby. Seven people, four locals, three outsiders, are inexplicably drawn together as the moment nears. They will all be there as witnesses for the night the sky came crashing down.

Spoilers: Summer of ‘47

Author’s Notes: The characters have been renamed, but it’s not that hard to tell who they are. Pullman Ranch was originally mentioned in “Foursquare” as the location of the crash.
***I mapped the idea and characters for this story in mid-July. It was based on the one spoiler that there would be a flashback episode to 1947. All of the other ideas are mine. Any parallels between this and the real episode are coincidence.***

Feedback: Yes! Yes! Please! I put a lot of time into developing these characters and the settings to fit into 1947, and I would love to know what you think! This is my special story, and it took quite a bit of research for historical accuracy in the plot and characters. Just be nice.

***

Gilbert’s Drugstore; Roswell, New Mexico; July 4, 1947; 11:16 A.M.

Nancy Gilbert carefully set down a strawberry ice cream soda in front of two teenagers, a boy and a girl, and handed them each a straw from the pocket of her red and white striped apron.

“Enjoy!” she told them, wiping her hands on a cloth as she turned to help the fresh wave of customers coming in through the door. The Independence Day parade had just ended, and business was hectic. Nancy had her hands full serving the dozens of people who wanted drinks after sitting in the hot New Mexico sun for hours.

There was the sound of breaking glass, and Nancy’s father called from across the crowded drugstore, “Nancy? Could you clean that up?”

With a sigh, Nancy wound her way through the waiting customers, wishing she’d had time to pull her hair back from her face before her father had put her to work behind the counter. She’d left her hair down for the parade, but now the dark curls were sticking to the back of her neck.

As cheerfully as possible, she cleaned up the broken glass, promised the mother of the crying child that he could have a free refill, and made her way back behind the counter. As she paused to retie her spotless apron over her light blue cotton dress, she caught sight of the two teenagers behind the counter, shyly sharing their ice cream soda.

Nancy’s dark brown eyes filled with tears that she hastily wiped away with the back of her hand, swallowing hard. She managed to set down the glass she was filling without dropping it before she rushed through the swinging door behind the counter, which led to her family’s home in back.

With a small sob, she sank onto the couch in the living room, burying her face in her hands. The two teenagers had reminded her so much of herself and Roger when they had been sixteen.

She could remember their first date so clearly, sitting in front of the counter while they shared a vanilla ice cream soda, so shy they could barely speak. Roger had always been smitten with her, he had later confessed, and she was equally taken with him. They had gone steady for a whole year, and Nancy had been sure that her life had reached perfection.

That was before the war.

That was before the months of waiting, questioning if he was alive or dead. Wondering if he was lying wounded, abandoned in some German field after a battle, unable to move. Spending hours sobbing over the sparse letters he’d sent, searching for hidden meaning.

That was before she’d received the news that Roger was missing in action, hadn’t been heard from in weeks. Nancy had collapsed when she had received the telegram; her father had been forced to carry her to bed, where she’d remained for over a week.

Roger had returned in the end, released by the Germans at the end of the war. But he’d changed, and Nancy constantly found herself dreaming of the happier time before the war, when Roger had smiled, laughed, made jokes. She missed the way his eyes used to light up when she entered the room, the way he’d gently slip an arm around her in the darkened movie theater. She dreamed about the way he had kissed her, right before he left, as if he could take some of her with him if he just held on long enough.

That last night, on the darkened street in front of her parent’s drugstore, he had slipped a thin silver ring over her finger, and whispered gently in her ear, “Will you marry me when I return?”

Her first thought was that his words were tickling her ear, and then his question had registered. She had managed to gasp a delighted “Yes!” and kiss him once more before her mother had called her inside, and he had left.

That was six years ago.

Now he grew silent whenever she tentatively mentioned marriage. They were still dating, in fact, he was taking her to the fireworks that evening, but the spark was gone from their relationship. They were just going through the motions of being in love, stuck in the limbo of a half relationship, unable to move backward or forward.

“Nancy?” her mother’s voice seemed to be alarmingly close. “Nance? What’s the matter?” Nancy jumped as her mother sat down on the couch beside her. “Are you fretting about Roger again?”

Nancy nodded tearfully as her mother reached out a hand to smooth a dark curl from her daughter’s pale face.

“He’ll come around in the end, sweetie,” her mother said reassuringly.

“But what if he doesn’t?!” Nancy cried, two more tears spilling from her eyes and sparkling as they slid down the side of her face. “What if we never get married, and I’m stuck with a cold, unloving man for the rest of my life?!”

“Oh, honey,” her mother pulled her into a one armed hug. “Roger isn’t cold or unloving, you and I both know that. He’s just frightened right now; his world was turned upside down for several years, and he’s having trouble adjusting to a life where he’s safe. You just have to try and understand.”

“But I have been trying!” Nancy protested weakly, burying her face in the worn floral cotton of her mother’s shoulder. “I ask him constantly if he wants to talk about it, and he either snaps at me or ignores me.”

“Yes, well, Roger always did have a habit of taking too much on his own shoulders,” her mother sighed. “He feels like it’s up to him to bear the burden of everything. But he just wants to spare you the pain of knowing what he went through.”

“I know that, but-”

“It’s not worth wasting tears over,” her mother announced briskly, standing up. “You love Roger, and he loves you. There’s nothing more to worry about.”

“But-”

“Come on, you know your father doesn’t like it when we leave the store unattended for more than a minute. He can’t handle that huge crowd himself.” Her mother left through the swinging door, expecting Nancy to follow obediently.

Nancy stood up, looking at herself in the large mirror over the fireplace. Her face was white and tear stained; she halfheartedly tried to pinch some color into her cheeks before leaving the room to return to the waiting crowd.

***

Gilbert’s Drugstore; Roswell, New Mexico; July 4, 1947; 5:04 P.M.

Anita D’Arcy studied the cheerful OPEN sign with grim appraisal. What she needed was a phone. A drugstore like this one ought to have one, but in a town this small she couldn’t be sure.

With a dull clunk, she dropped her high heeled shoes on the pavement and slipped her aching feet into them. She spent a moment trying to fix her short blond hair back with two bobby pins before giving up entirely. Wiping a dusty smudge from her cheek, she entered the drugstore, wincing at the brass bell that jangled overhead.

The girl behind the counter looked up, and Anita could tell from the girl’s expression that she looked even worse than she felt. Six hours walking through the New Mexico desert could do that to a person.

“Can I help you?” the girl asked quickly, and Anita shrewdly noticed that her eyes were red from crying. “Are you here to pick up a prescription?”

“No,” Anita said quickly, placing her hat, notebook, and purse on the counter. “But do you have a phone I could use?”

“Yes, of course,” the girl answered swiftly, pointing to the back edge of the counter. “Go ahead.”

Anita nodded and walked over to the phone, not bothering to ask permission for a long distance phone call. She picked up the heavy black receiver and told the operator to put her through to a number in New York, trying her best to keep her voice low because the waitress was listening with interest.

“Yes, can I talk to Mr. Redmond please? It’s Miss D’Arcy. Tell him it’s important. Thank you.” She glanced around the neat drugstore as she waited, twirling the black spiral cord around one slender finger. The girl behind the counter blushed to be caught eavesdropping, and looked away; Anita smiled. A loud voice on the other end picked up.

“Yes, Mr. Redmond? It’s Anita. I know you wanted that story in by Friday, but I think it’s going to take a little longer than that…no, I’m not being lazy, my car broke down in the middle of the desert!…Of course it wasn’t my fault!…I don’t know, I haven’t even gotten the car fixed yet; in a town this size it could take awhile.” She held the phone away from her and asked the girl, who was listening again, “What’s this town called?”

“Roswell.”

“Roswell, New Mexico…I know, I’ve never heard of it either, but it’s a pretty small place. I would have called sooner but the whole town was gathered for the Fourth of July celebrations and I couldn’t even get a ride into town. Had to walk twelve miles…so I’ll get that story to you as soon as possible?…What? No, no, that’s fine, I understand. I’m really sorry about it; I guess I’ll see you when I get back to New York. Goodbye.”

She hung up the phone, made a disgusted face, and slammed her fist down on the counter. “Damn it!” The girl looked scandalized at her outburst, and Anita smiled and shrugged casually. “Sorry. He made me angry.”

“Oh,” the girl nodded as Anita settled herself on one of the red stools in front of the counter. “It’s okay.” She smiled, and held out a hand to Anita. “I’m Nancy Gilbert.”

Anita shook the hand once, her grip businesslike. “Of Gilbert’s Drugstore?”

“It’s my father’s business.”

“That’s what I thought.” Anita stored the fact in her mind; she never knew what information could come in handy. “Anita D’Arcy. I’m a reporter for the New York Times.”

“Gosh!” Nancy looked impressed as she rested her elbows on the counter. “That sounds really important!”

“Mmhm,” Anita murmured noncommittally. It was never good to divulge too much information on herself, but a little fact or two tended to make people trust her more. “It’s good to meet you, Nancy. Have you lived here your whole life?”

Nancy looked embarrassed. “Well, yes.” She added defensively, “I was accepted to Radcliffe several years back, and I was going to go, but I didn’t want to leave my boyfriend, so I decided to stay here instead.” She sighed. “My life must seem awfully dull to you. I bet as a reporter you get to travel to lots of neat places.”

“I guess so,” Anita agreed amiably. She was impressed; there was more to this small town girl than she’d originally thought. Radcliffe was a hard school to get into. “Maybe you can help me out.”

“Of course.”

“Well, first and foremost, I need a glass of water,” Anita watched as Nancy hurried to get a glass, “and then maybe you can tell me if there’s anyone in this town who can repair my car. It broke down about twelve miles out of town.”

“Hm, I’m not sure,” Nancy looked thoughtful as she set down the water in front of Anita. “Rob Blake at the gas station might be able to fix it, but he’s visiting family right now, and he won’t be back for another week.”

“Wonderful,” Anita muttered. “Are you sure there’s no one else?”

Nancy paused, her brown eyes narrowed, but then the door opened and a customer came in. Anita spun on her stool to get a good look at the new person, and found herself facing a girl about the same age as Nancy. She was short, with a cute, pixie-like face and curly blond hair that was pulled back in a ponytail. Ignoring Anita, she sauntered over to the counter and gave Nancy a sharp look.

“I’m here to pick up a prescription for my brother.” Her tone was condescending and superior, suggesting that Nancy should have known that already.

“One moment, please,” Nancy replied politely before ducking through the door behind the counter. She returned a moment later with a bottle that had been neatly hand labeled. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” The blond girl handed over a pile of coins and started to leave.

“Wait, Ellen!” Nancy hurried out from behind the counter. “I actually have a question for you.”

“What is it?” Ellen asked, sounding skeptical. Anita, with her back to the counter, had propped her elbows on it and was watching the scene before her with great interest. There was obviously some unspoken feud between the two girls, some undercurrent of tension.

“Is your brother any good at repairing cars?”

Ellen frowned, confused and suspicious “Chris? I don’t know, why?”

“This is Anita D’Arcy,” Nancy pointed towards Anita, who smiled and crossed her legs. “She’s a reporter for the New York Times, and her car just broke down. She needs someone to fix it.”

“Can’t Rob Blake at the gas station do it?” Ellen asked accusingly.

“He’s visiting family in Oregon; won’t be back until Saturday. Couldn’t Chris help out?”

“Maybe,” Ellen said slowly, sizing Anita up. “You’ll have to talk to him yourself though.” She pulled open the door to leave. “Nice meeting you.” She didn’t sound as though she meant it.

“’Bye,” Anita said quickly. Ellen left, and Anita turned to face Nancy, one thin eyebrow arched questioningly.

“Sorry,” Nancy’s face turned pink under her tan. “That’s Ellen Pullman. She doesn’t like me because she’s in love with my fiance.”

“Really?” Anita drawled questioningly, hoping to hear more. “Did you grow up together?”

“We were never friends, if that’s what you mean. She and her older brother live alone at the edge of town. They mostly keep to themselves.”

“Interesting,” Anita sipped her water. “So, will her brother be able to fix my car?”

“Oh, I don’t really think you should ask him,” Nancy said quickly.

“Why not?”

Nancy busied herself polishing an invisible spot on the counter. “Well, you see, Christopher Pullman isn’t really all that friendly, especially towards strangers. It was stupid of me to even suggest it. He’d sooner chase you off his property with a shotgun than help you with your car. No, the best thing to do is wait for Rob Blake to get back next Saturday, and have him fix your car.”

“I can’t waste that much time!” Anita muttered angrily, scowling at her water glass.

“Sorry,” Nancy said meekly, looking down. Her eye fell on Anita’s fashionable gold watch and she jumped. “It’s five-thirty already? Oh, I’ve got to hurry or I’ll be late. Roger’s picking me up at six for the fireworks, and I haven’t even changed yet.” She pulled off her apron. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“That’s fine.” Anita stood up. “Do you know of anyplace I can stay the night?”

“Um,” Nancy paused, “you might try the Dry Grass Inn.”

“Great. Thanks for all your help.” Anita smiled as she watched Nancy start to leave, then pause.

“Please don’t go visiting Christopher Pullman,” she said anxiously. “It would only stir up trouble.”

“Of course I won’t,” Anita told her reassuringly. “It’s not like I go looking for trouble.”

She left in a hurry. There had to be someone in this town who could give her a ride to Pullman Ranch.

Trouble was her middle name.

***

Gilbert’s Drugstore; Roswell, New Mexico; July 4, 1947; 6:12 P.M.

Roger Anderson ran his fingers through his neatly combed hair, sending several dark strands tumbling across his forehead.

“She’ll be down in a minute, son,” was what Nancy’s father had told him, but that had been nearly twenty minutes ago. He was worried that if they left too much later, they might miss the fireworks.

He wanted the evening to go smoothly. There’d been a rift between him and Nancy recently, and he was desperate to make things better. He wasn’t blind; he could tell that she wasn’t as enamored of him as she once had been, but he couldn’t find the will to do anything about it. Something inside of him had been numb since the war had ended, and he didn’t know how to heal it.

There was the sound of hurried footsteps above and then down the stairs before Nancy came rushing into the front of the store.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly, as Roger studied her. She looked perfect, as she always did, but his heart didn’t jump the way it used to whenever he saw her. He noted, almost scientifically, that she was wearing a white cotton dress that made her tanned skin glow with health, and there was a matching white ribbon in her dark curls. He knew she looked stunning, angelic, but he couldn’t come up with the words to tell her so.

“You look nice,” he said automatically, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek.

“Thank you,” she said quickly, looking disappointed, but taking his hand so he could lead her out to his waiting car.

They drove in silence for nearly half an hour, pretending to enjoy the beautiful sunset. “How was your day?” Roger asked quietly after a while. He was ashamed that it took all of his courage to ask the simple question.

“Fine,” was the short reply.

Roger tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Before the war, he would’ve loved this silence, just existing beside her. Now, it felt ominous, as if there was something else in the car with them that was keeping them from being themselves.

He glanced at Nancy, and saw that she was discreetly wringing her hands in her lap. They were so pale, her hands, so small; he wanted to reach out and cover hers with his own, to stop her from worrying.

Nancy took a deep breath, as if about to say something, then stopped herself. She did it twice more, before whispering, “I don’t want to marry you anymore.”

Roger didn’t react, sure that he had heard wrong, but he accelerated slightly. “What?”

“I don’t want to marry you.”

“Why?” some other piece of Roger asked coldly, as he listened in disbelief.

Nancy gave a strangled sob. “Why? How can you ask that so calmly? I thought I mattered to you!”

“You do,” Roger said quickly, but when he heard himself say it, it sounded like a lie.

“That’s what I used to think.” There was a perfect jewel of a tear shining on Nancy’s cheek, and Roger wanted more than anything to reach over and brush it away, but his arm wouldn’t obey him. Both his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, afraid to let go.

“What changed your mind?” Roger asked.

“This woman came into the store today, to use the phone. She’s a reporter for the New York Times. I was just watching her,” Nancy’s voice caught, and it was a minute before she continued, “I was just watching her, and she was so confident and smart and capable, and I realized that I could’ve been her if I’d gone to college.”

“But you didn’t get accepted to college; you said they turned you down,” Roger protested.

“I lied.”

The two harsh syllables should’ve upset Roger, he knew, but he was too far gone for emotion, and just stared stonily at the road instead. “Why?” he managed to ask again, his voice unnaturally flat.

“Because I wanted to stay. I thought if you knew I’d been accepted, you’d convince me to go, and I didn’t want to leave you. But you left me in the end, for the war, so I should’ve gone.”

“Well, we can fix that,” Roger said, trying to sound friendly. “Once we’re married-”

“I’m not marrying you,” she said stubbornly.

“Once we’re married,” he plunged on determinedly, “you can take some courses at a nearby college.”

“Yes, but it won’t be Radcliffe, will it?” she asked quietly, her face turned away so he couldn’t see her eyes. Her comment seemed to end the discussion.

Roger reflexively glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. A starved prisoner of war stared back at him, and he had to look away, frightened by how dead his dark amber eyes looked. Why couldn’t the Germans just have killed him, and saved him from this torture? He looked at Nancy again, resignation slowly numbing his thoughts. “I’ll take you home.” The car started to slow down.

“No,” she said decisively, putting out a hand to stop him. “No, let’s go and watch the fireworks, as planned. It’s a beautiful evening; I don’t want to ruin it.”

Roger wanted to tell her that she already had, but he stayed silent and obeyed, driving on.

“Look, Roger,” her voice was small and distant to his ears, “I’m not saying I want this to be forever, I just-I just don’t think we should get married right now. We’re not ready, emotionally. I think we need to take a step back, and see what we really want, before we move forward. Is that okay?”

Roger saw himself shouting that it wasn’t okay, saw himself pulling off the road and kissing Nancy as she had never been kissed before, saw himself winning back her heart. But some link was missing between his emotions and his actions, so he nodded and drove onward towards the rising moon.

***

Pullman Ranch; Roswell, New Mexico; July 4, 1947; 7:51 P.M.

“Ellen, I said no!” Christopher Pullman shouted, thumping a fist on the kitchen table.

His little sister crossed her arms and looked stubborn. “You’re not in charge of me! You’re not my father!”

“I am your older brother,” Chris said firmly, standing up, “and I say you are not to leave this house tonight!”

“Why not?!” Ellen demanded, snatching up the dinner plates from the table as though she had plans to hurl them across the room.

“Because I said so!” Christopher growled.

“You don’t care about me at all, do you?!” Ellen cried, splashing water as she washed the dishes in the sink. “You don’t care that living with you makes me miserable!”

“You’re right,” Chris said coldly, turning his back on her, “I don’t care.”

“I hate you!” Ellen screamed, starting to cry.

“I’m going for a walk,” Chris told her, slamming the door shut.

Outside, the air was fresh and cool as it washed over his face, ruffling his light brown hair. Heavy boots crunching in the dirt, Chris strode angrily past the house and barn, out into the dry scrub that made up most of the ranch.

His ranch.

He was fiercely protective of the land that had once belonged to his parents, loving it with a deep affection that he knew he should share with his sister. Technically, it was her ranch too, and she certainly did her share of the work, but he could sense that she didn’t love it as he did, and would leave it soon if she could.

He didn’t mean to make her life miserable, not really. She was his sister, after all, and he loved her. He worried about her, and that worry translated into a controlling strictness. For her own safety, he had tried to make her wary of outsiders, as he was, but his paranoid protectiveness had driven her to despise him and the protected confines of their home.

Sometime long ago they had passed a point of no return, and he no longer had any idea as to how they might salvage the remains of their shattered relationship. It was lonely, not having anyone to talk to, but he couldn’t see any other options.

***

Buckley Point; Roswell, New Mexico; July 4, 1947; 9:32 P.M.

Walter O’Reilly adjusted a knob on the telescope he was bent over. He shivered; it was cold out in the desert at night. He should’ve brought a sweater, but it wasn’t even this cold in Massachusetts at this time of year, and he had been sure the desert would be considerably warmer.

For nearly the hundredth time, he regretted having agreed to help out Professor Markham over the summer. It had seemed like a good idea at the time: making a little extra money helping his favorite professor with an astronomy project. He hadn’t realized that helping meant flying to different parts of the country to take pictures of the night sky.

He looked through the telescope again, then checked his watch. Professor Markham wanted the picture taken at 9:40 exactly. While he waited, he checked that his camera equipment was set up correctly, pointed at the right spot in the sky and focused.

The minute hand was resting on the eight, and Walter stood up. He peered through the lens, found the constellation, and proceeded to take a whole role of film.

Done with the photographs, Walter settled down beside the telescope to stargaze. He loved just studying the twinkling pinpricks of light, waiting until his perspective shifted and it felt as though he was looking down on the stars from above.

Of course, celestial bodies weren’t the only kind of stars that he liked. From an early age, Walter had been a big fan of moving picture stars, with all their Hollywood glamor and charisma. Secretly, he dreamed of being a professional photographer, working for a newspaper, taking pictures of the big stars: Katherine Hepburn, Clark Gable, Roberta Von Kaas.

Especially Roberta Von Kaas.

But his parents had wanted him to become a doctor. When he’d refused, they’d insisted on something scientific, so he’d been stuck majoring in astrology. It was the most aesthetically pleasing of the scientific fields, in his opinion, and he was still able to take pictures, if only of the stars. That was the only reason he’d agreed to help Professor Markham anyway.

Walter shivered again, and decided that it was time to head back. With one last glance at the brilliant stars above, he climbed into the car he’d borrowed in town. One more night at that small inn in that even smaller town, then he could fly back to Boston in the morning.

***

Eagle Rock; Roswell, New Mexico; July 4, 1947; 10:32 P.M.

Roberta Von Kaas paused on the edge of the cliff, the wind ruffling her blond hair. Frustrated with the long strands tickling her face, she pulled the hair back into a high ponytail.

She paused and looked out over the shimmering expanse of water set in the stone prison of the canyon. The wind twisted the few tendrils that had escaped her ponytail as she flung her arms wide, embracing the sky and the freedom it offered. Then, as if embarrassed by her private show of exuberance, she sat down cross-legged on the warm stone, her hands clasped meekly in her lap.

At the moment, Roberta didn’t care that her aunt would fuss about how dirty her clothes were, how late it was when she returned. This moment of serenity was the only thing that mattered.

Despite all the glitz and elegance that her life contained, she often missed the fierce simplicity of the desert. In between filming movies, attending premiers, and signing autographs, she would find herself longing for the soft, forgiving dirt under her bare feet, the bowl-like curve of stars over her head.

Roberta’s family had moved to southern California when she was seven, and her mother had started taking her to auditions almost immediately afterward. As a little girl, with ringlets and a sunny smile, she had reminded most people of a modern Shirley Temple. But instead of fading, her fame had catapulted as she had grown older. Between thirteen and fifteen, she had shot up six inches and matured into a curvy, alluring siren whose stunning looks could stop grown men on the street.

Almost no one remembered little Bobbie Kasser, the skinny blond tomboy who was raised a short walk from her grandmother’s farm in New Mexico. Even Roberta had to close her eyes to recall the light-hearted child who had spent hours playing in the dry land around her home with her cousins, hiding from their mothers when called to dinner.

She was visiting those same cousins at the moment, with the excuse of a much needed vacation. Very few people knew the real reason behind her sudden departure from Hollywood society; illegitimate pregnancy could ruin a career. It had taken a fair amount of money to find and pay a competent, discreet doctor to perform an illegal abortion. Unwilling to face her overbearing mother’s wrath while recovering, she had chosen instead to pay a long overdue visit to her cousins.

The actual procedure hadn’t hurt; she’d been prepared for pain but mercifully drugged. The part that ached deep within her was the loss of an unborn child she could never have, because its presence could destroy the life she had worked so hard to build for herself.

Roberta’s eyes shone with tears she had learned never to shed. Even sitting alone in the peaceful moonlight, she couldn’t remember how to cry.

It was a long time before she collected the composure to walk home.

***

Pullman Ranch; Roswell, New Mexico; July 4, 1947; 11:04 P.M.

Ellen sighed as she stood under the cold shower. Chris always yelled at her for wasting water, but she couldn’t help wanting to be clean. It wasn’t like she worked in an office all day long, farm work was dirty. It was summer, her feet were stained black from walking barefoot, and the heat caused the dust to stick to her skin until she was coated in a layer of filth.

The icy spray pounded her back, massaging muscles sore from hours spent gardening and cleaning the house. Ellen sharply rotated her head, cracking the upper vertebrae of her neck several times in succession. Slowly, the tired tension from her fight with Chris drained from her body, and she began to relax.

It was nearing midnight, and the heat of the day had finally broken, heralding an approaching storm. Ellen was glad for the reprieve from the stifling dry heat that caught in every breath she took during the day. When she was younger, the heat had seemed fun. It had meant summer, and playing, and swimming in the desert basins that were filled with freezing rain water. She could remember days when she and Chris would skip doing chores and race each other to the nearest pool of water, diving in. Chris had thought it fun to splash her and dunk her under the water, and she quickly learned how to get back at him.

The image of Chris as a carefree child seemed blurred now, vague and warped with the passage of time. He never smiled anymore, never laughed. His eyes were cold and ageless. She would give nearly anything to have her brother back again, instead of the angry stranger who shared her house.

Ellen rubbed the shampoo fiercely into her scalp.

The water running down the bathroom tiles reminded her of the rain on the car windshield the night of the accident. It had been a spring thunderstorm, and the dust on the road had turned to a slick mud. She had no memory of the crash, only a feeling of spinning out of control, the sound of shattering glass.

Waking up the hospital had been terrifying. She had screamed at the nurses to let her see her parents, her brother, but they’d refused. Finally she’d been allowed to see Chris, and his familiar face had prompted her to burst into tears. He’d sat on her bed, looking dazed, and explained that their parents had died.

She had no memory of the blurry days that had followed. Chris had dropped out of school to run the farm. Their aunt and uncle had come to live with them for several months, until her aunt had discovered she was pregnant and they’d gone home. Ellen had been sorry to see them go; she was left alone in the house with her silent, brooding brother.

When the war had started, Chris was ready to go overseas and fight, but a permanent limp from the accident left him useless for battle. When the women in town, worried about their sons fighting in foreign countries, had shot Chris nasty looks, he had stopped going into town himself, sending Ellen on errands instead. Bitter and angry, he’d withdrawn further into himself.

Now they barely spoke to each other outside of necessary sentences and heated arguments, although anger was basically useless with Chris. When she screamed, he left the house, if she gave him the silent treatment, he didn’t notice. There was no way to win a fight with Chris, but Ellen hadn’t learned not to argue yet.

Slowly she rinsed the last of the shampoo from her hair, not anxious to enter the world again. The chilly air assailed her as she stepped out of the shower, wrapping one towel around her body and another around her dripping hair. Inside her bedroom, she dressed quickly, pulling on a short sleeved shirt and an old pair of Chris’s overalls.

Bare feet scraping against the rough wooden floor, she knelt and retrieved a cardboard box from under her bed, settling cross legged on the floor with it. The inside of the box was filled with memories from a happier time.

She fished out the best picture she had of her parents, standing in front of the house a year before they’d died. Alice Pullman had been tiny, with light brown hair and a sharp gaze. Her husband, William, towered beside her, broad shouldered and strong, with curly blond hair like his daughter’s. Their faces were hard to see in the bright sunlight, faded and bleached so the features were nearly impossible to make out.

She set aside the first photograph to study the one beneath it. Taken at the same time as the one with her parents, this one was of her and Chris. She was nine years old in the picture, grinning cheerfully. The white dress her mother had sewn for her was already stained, and her curls were coming loose from their braid.

Chris stood beside her, one hand shadowing his eyes to block out the sun. At fifteen, he was tall and gangling, unused to his long limbs as he wrapped one arm around his little sister. The grin on his face was one she hadn’t seen in eight years.

Depressed, she dropped the photo back into the box and selected a different one, one that spoke to her of the future, rather than the past. She had clipped the photo from a friend’s yearbook in high school. The picture of Roger Anderson was small but clear, showing his striking features, dark hair, intense eyes.

She had met him in student government her freshman year of high school. He was the vice-president of the senior class. Normally, she would never have expected a handsome senior to pay any attention to the shy freshman secretary, but he had been just as kind and friendly to her as he was to Nancy Gilbert, the junior class president.

It hadn’t taken long for her to fall head over heels in love with him. After four years of living alone with Chris, she was desperate for love and affection, and Roger was everything she’d ever dreamed of. He was sweet, brave, thoughtful, intelligent, handsome; the list of his virtues went on forever.

She knew it wasn’t fair to hate Nancy, but she couldn’t help it. Nancy had everything: a warm family, an easy job, a house in town, nice clothes, good friends. She already had the life Ellen longed for, it wasn’t fair that she had gotten the perfect man too.

Abruptly, Ellen shut the box and shoved it back under her bed. Attempting to put her despair aside, she turned her attention to making her rumpled bed, smoothing the white sheets and fluffing the feather pillows her grandmother had made.

Making the beds was something her mother had done every morning. As a little girl, Ellen loved to help, following her mother from room to room, hiding under the covers until her mother tickled her. After her mother had died, she had taken over the task of making the beds every day, but Chris had never even thanked her. He never appreciated anything she did, no matter how hard she tried to please him.

Suddenly furious, Ellen grabbed one of her pillows and beat it against the wall. After a minute of whacking the pillow as hard as she could, it burst, sending feathers flying all over the room, drifting down in a ridiculous snowstorm. Ellen glared at the white fluff as it settled around her. So much for pretending the pillow was Chris, although it might be nice if he exploded.

Miserably, she tried to pluck the feathers from her wet hair, but gave up after a minute. It didn’t really matter anyway.

The doorbell rang, and she jumped to her feet. Who could possibly be here at this hour? She left her room and hurried down the stairs two at a time, opening the front door to a familiar looking woman.

Ellen frowned, looking the newcomer up and down.

“I’m Anita D’Arcy,” the woman said quickly. “We met this afternoon? I’m here to talk to your brother about fixing my car.”

***

The sky over Roswell, New Mexico; July 4, 1947; 11:11 P.M.

The elliptical fireball streaked through the quiet night with the hollow wailing of a badly played wind instrument. It dropped in a smooth arc, blazing up the atmosphere as it went, blotting out the stars with a burning brilliance.

There was the whistling of a thousand windstorms as it dropped earthward, then the silence of the desert was swept aside by a deafening, subliminal roar, an ominous tidal wave of sound.

The silver oblong crashed…

A shrill cacophony of highly evolved mechanics breaking then subsequently exploding blended with the sound of foreign voices screaming together in terror, as the wreckage burst into angry flames.

A mushroom cloud of smoky debris was thrown skyward, where it sifted gently down in the starlight, sparkling.

***

The Old Highway; Roswell, New Mexico; July 4, 1947; 11:12 P.M.

Nancy screamed. It was a delayed reaction, having been a good minute or so since the flaming disc had swooped overhead, only a hundred feet above their car. She had stared, frozen with shock, as the thing, whatever it was, had exploded in the visible distance.

Then she had screamed.

At Nancy’s cry, Roger skidded off the road, coming to a sudden halt. Hands trembling, he waited, watching the distant fire with wide eyes, before scrambling out of the car to get a better look. Nancy followed, grabbing his arm as she stood half behind him.

“What is it?” she cried.

Roger shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Nancy’s eyes scanned the horizon, coming to rest on the far off building that stood only a small distance from the roaring flames. “That’s Pullman Ranch!” she gasped, tugging on Roger’s shirt sleeve.

“What is?”

“The land that thing crashed on, that’s Pullman Ranch! We should go check and see if everyone is okay.” Nancy was backing away, towards the car. “Come on, Roger!”

“All right, but I want you to stay back,” Roger warned. “I don’t want you getting hurt, and fires like that can be really dangerous.”

“Fine!” Nancy scrambled back into the car.

Forgetting that they were broken up, in the middle of a painful stalemate, they accelerated towards Pullman Ranch, momentarily allies.

***

The south road; Roswell, New Mexico; July 4, 1947; 11:13 P.M.

Walter’s car whipped around a curve and he slammed on the brakes, jolting to a stop on the bumpy country road. There was smoke in the sky, curling up to blot out the crystal clear stars.

Slowly, he drove forward, craning his neck to see beyond the low bushes on the side of the road. Finally there was a break in the bushes and he was looking down on the desert below.

Walter’s eyes widened, seeing the blazing flames that licked the dark sky. As he watched, there was another small explosion and burning embers were flung from a crater that contained the source of the fire.

“Holy smoke!” Walter was in shock. He reached blindly for his camera on the seat beside him, starting to fumble with the film, then paused, undecided.

Opportunities like this were rarely seen in a lifetime. Instinct told him that this burning fire was important, unique. He could get his start as a professional photographer by taking pictures of it. It could make him famous, and he might never have a chance like this again.

And yet, it looked like there was a building nearby. What if the fire spread? What if people got hurt, or lost their house, or died because he was too busy trying to make it big as a photographer?

Walter was torn. Slowly, automatically, he finished loading the roll of film, lifting the camera protectively in front of him as he climbed out of the car. He’d go and see if anyone needed help, how close the fire was to the house, before taking pictures.

He ran, half stumbling through the knee high desert plants that covered the steep hillside. When he reached the unpaved main road, he started sprinting, sending up dust as he ran flat out for the fire that had disappeared behind a small rise as he had descended the hill.

He was so intent on his destination that he almost didn’t see the person walking on the road in front of him. He barely had time to notice that the person was female, walking slowly and carrying her shoes, before he had dodged past her, calling out, “There’s a fire nearby! Come on! They’ll need help putting it out!”

“What?!” he heard the feminine voice cry behind him.

“Fire!” he yelled again, leaving the road and vaulting easily over a fence built for containing simple minded livestock. He raced uphill and the fire was right in front of him, sending smoke and ash into the air.

Walter coughed and looked around. The building was farther away than he’d originally thought, and the wind wasn’t that strong; there was no immediate danger of the house catching fire. Whatever had caused the fire was buried in the wide crater, but he couldn’t see what it was.

Breathless with excitement and trying not to choke on the thick smoke, Walter steadied his camera. Focusing on the flames, the glimpses of metal that lay in the crater, he pressed the button that released the camera’s shutter.

“What are you doing?!” someone cried behind him.

“Taking pictures!” he yelled back, not turning around. “Isn’t it incredible?!

“What do you mean?!”

“I’ve never seen anything like this before!” Walter’s voice cracked with excitement. “What do you suppose it was?! Meteors form craters, but they don’t burn like this! It must be pretty large to make a hole so big!”

After what felt like hours, he pulled the camera away from his face and dropped to a crouch, his fingers quick as he started to change the film.

“Sorry if I startled you,” he said, still not looking up. “The adrenaline got to me on the road.”

“That’s okay.” It was the female voice from before that replied, scratchy from the smoke.

“I-” Walter looked up and stopped, all expression falling from his face. He swallowed hard several times and said blankly, “You’re Roberta Von Kaas.”

The woman-Roberta-winced and nodded reluctantly.

Walter held out his hand. “I’m Walter O’Reilly.”

She reached out to take his hand, her face closed off. Walter tried to focus on the fire, on loading his film, but he could barely keep his eyes off her. She was beautiful, even covered in dust and out of breath. She looked back at him, and he glanced away, blushing.

Through the shimmer of heat in the distance, he could make out the shadowy outlines of people.

“Oh God,” he whispered, “they must be trying to put out the fire! They’ll need help if they don’t want to get killed!”

***

Pullman Ranch; Roswell, New Mexico; July 4, 1947; 11:15 P.M.

Chris was lying spread-eagled on the ground. He groaned.

Consciousness hurt, especially when it flooded back so quickly. He struggled to sit up, blinking stars from behind his eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d been knocked out; a few years ago one of the cows had kicked him in the head, and he’d come-to in his bedroom, looking up at Ellen and the doctor who had stitched up the wound.

He sniffed. Why did he smell smoke? It was too warm for Ellen to have built a fire. He turned his head and choked, eyes widening as he stared at the raging fire that was consuming a corner of the ranch. He stood up and wiped a hand across his forehead, surprised when it came away covered in soot.

He could remember a roaring noise, turning to see what it was, and…he couldn’t recall beyond that.

To any observer, he might have looked unconcerned by the fiery explosions coming from the crater only a hundred yards away. He stood, his frame relaxed, as he studied the flames, his face expressionless.

Inside, he was panicking.

The land was burning. His land. Sure, it was mostly uncultivated, overgrown with the hardy weeds that managed to thrive in the desert, but it was a part of him. It hurt to see a piece of himself go up in smoke, as he watched, helpless.

Chris hated feeling helpless.

He wasn’t sure what to do: yell for Ellen’s help or call the town fire department. He and Ellen probably couldn’t put the fire out by themselves, but the fire department would take forever to reach the ranch.

Heart drumming, Chris stood poised between the fire and the house. What if the house caught fire? What if the barn burned, and all the animals died? Chris would never admit it, but the ranch was their only livelihood, and even as that it wasn’t much. If the farm was ruined, they would never get enough money for it to start again elsewhere. Neither of them were trained for any other jobs.

“Chris!” the shout startled him and he nearly lost his balance. “Chris! Are you all right?!” Ellen skidded to a stop beside him, grabbing his arm. “What happened?! Oh, you’re bleeding!” she reached up and touched the side of face, and he felt the sharp sting of a bad cut he hadn’t known existed.

He shoved her away and took a step closer to the flames.

“Whatever it is, that must have been some explosion,” an unfamiliar voice commented mildly. “I haven’t seen flames that high since the Hindenburg exploded.”

Chris turned and found himself staring at a young woman he’d never laid eyes on before in his life. She was small, slender, with a narrow figure and blond hair. Her clothing looked like something out of the fashion magazines that Ellen read in secret and hid under her bed. She was watching the fire with a calm, almost bored look, surveying the scene with detached interest. Chris could feel heat rushing to his face in anger.

“Who the hell are you?!”

“Chris!” Ellen cried, aghast. “Do you have to be so rude?!”

“I think I have a right to ask questions, Ellen,” he spat out sarcastically, “when a complete stranger trespasses on our private property!”

It was then that the woman chose to look at him, only turning her head. She gave him a cold once-over, starting at his mud caked boots, traveling up his patched and dusty overalls to his uncombed hair and sooty face. Chris felt himself shrink internally under her glare, but he didn’t let it show. He glared back at her until she faced him and crossed her arms.

There was something sophisticated and pristine about her presence: her dainty white high heels seemed untouched by dirt and her tight pinstriped suit was tailored to fit her body. Chris was unable to avoid the thought that she looked like a movie star; the idea came unbidden from his subconscious.

“I’m Anita D’Arcy,” she said finally, her face smooth but her slender hands clenched into discreet fists. Chris nodded curtly.

“What’s going on?!” two voices shouted nearly as one from behind him. With a growl, Chris spun to face the newcomers. It was Roger Anderson and Nancy Gilbert, two young adults he had known in school. He wasn’t happy to see them.

Roger and Nancy were the perfect American couple. He was the brave soldier, returned home safely after defending his country; she was the model woman, resourceful and faithful to her man. They were squeaky clean and wholesome, the kind of people who sailed through life always doing the right thing, and went home to eat apple pie at the end of the day.

“What are you doing here?!” Chris demanded, striding towards them. Roger backed up, stepping in front of Nancy protectively.

“We saw something fall from the sky and crash on your land. We just came to see if you needed help!” His voice was calm, reasoning.

“I can handle this!” Chris said firmly, feeling more furious with every passing minute. “Would you just leave, already?!”

“Is everyone okay?!”

He couldn’t believe it: still more people were arriving to investigate. At this rate half the town would be on the ranch by midnight. The newcomers were a skinny young man wearing a white shirt with a tie, and a tall woman who stayed back, reluctant to join the group.

There was a sudden flash of light and Chris winced, sure it was a new explosion, but for once luck was on his side. A roll of thunder followed and the sky opened up, unleashing torrents of rain that came tumbling down from the clouds. One of the women shrieked in dismay.

He lifted his face to the angry pelting drops, letting them wash the smeared soot and blood from his skin. His clothes were soaked and muddy, but the fire was slowly sizzling, beat down by the rain. The ranch wouldn’t burn to ashes after all.

“Would anyone like to explain what just happened?” the young man in the tie asked timidly, but firmly, water drenching his white shirt into a transparent state.

Chris didn’t answer. Instead he stormed towards the smoldering wreckage in the crater. From far away he could hear Ellen calling his name repeatedly, but he ignored her. Slipping in the rain slick mud, he managed to scramble to the bottom of the crater, dropping out of sight. Cautiously, he inched forward, unsure of how to approach the metal object that lay crumpled in the mud, like a bicycle after a collision with a car. It was huge, larger than the house but not as tall.

Holding his breath, Chris reached out a hand to touch the metal. Even with cold water streaming off of it, the metal burned his hand. With a shout of pain, he snatched his hand back. Stepping away, he nearly collided with Ellen, who had climbed down to join him.

“What happened?!” she asked worriedly. “What is it?! Chris?!”

“Just shut up, okay?!” he demanded, retracing his steps out of the crater. As he stepped on to flat ground, he lost his balance, stumbling into the mud. Standing up, he cursed furiously.

Nancy looked primly horrified at his language, and Chris lashed out, knowing he was out-of-control, but unable to stop. “Too harsh for your delicate ears, huh?!”

Nancy looked frightened and Roger stepped in to defend her once more. “Give her a break! What kind of reaction do you expect from a civilized person?!”

“Hey, just stop it!” Anita spoke up, holding up her hands. “This isn’t helping anyone! What we need is to get our facts straight, all right?!” She took a deep breath and continued in a calmer voice. “, Okay, what do we know about what just happened?”

No one answered, surprised by her sudden control of the situation. Even Chris stayed still.

“Okay,” she answered herself, “at approximately eleven-fifteen something metal fell out of the sky, and landed there.” She pointed. “It proceeded to burn for about the next ten minutes, until this rainstorm put the fire out.”

“Whatever it is smells like gasoline,” Roger offered. “But different somehow. Sweeter, maybe.”

Anita nodded crisply, and started to pace. “That’s probably what made it burn, because metal isn’t flammable.”

“It created that crater,” the other young man offered. “It would have to be moving pretty fast to do that.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“Chris burned his hand when he touched it,” Ellen said quietly. “That thing was hot.”

“Really?” Anita looked sharply at Chris and he resisted the urge to fall back a step. “Can I see your hand?”

“No.”

“Fine.” She took a deep breath. “Well, I guess it’s too late to do anything now, but we should come back tomorrow morning and investigate.”

“No, we shouldn’t,” Chris said firmly.

“What?”

“I want everyone off my land right now.” They stared at him, speechless. “Now! I mean it! Get off, now!”

“Fine! We’re going,” Roger said quickly, pulling Nancy with him. Ellen ran after them to apologize. The other young man and woman departed in silence, but Anita wasn’t giving up so easily.

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded, trailing Chris as he started towards the house.

He ignored her.

“We could have real story here! Things don’t generally just plunge from the sky into the desert! This could be my big break!”

“Don’t count on it.” Chris opened the screen door and entered the house, leaving Anita outside.

“I’m coming here first thing tomorrow!” she called defiantly, her voice clear over the loud rainfall.

Chris stood at the front windows, not caring that he was dripping mud on the floor Ellen had scrubbed that morning as he watched Anita cross the yard. Gone was the dainty, proper woman of a few minutes ago; she looked powerful now, striding angrily through the mud, her hair and clothing soaked, rain streaking her angry face.

The kitchen door slammed, and he heard Ellen stomp into the room. He waited for her to yell at him for dripping on the floor, but she was silent. It was an angry silence.

“What is it?” he asked finally, turning around.

She was pouting, her arms crossed, ready to throw a fit. He hoped that she wouldn’t; he couldn’t handle fighting with her right now but it was too wet to escape outside.

“Why’d you kick Roger Anderson off the ranch? I could have finally had a chance to talk to him!” She turned and stormed upstairs. Chris leaned his forehead against the cool windowpane.

***

The south road; Roswell, New Mexico; July 4, 1947; 11:43 P.M.

“Hey, wait up!”

Roberta heard the voice first, and turned around. Walter stopped when she did. They weren’t exactly walking together, but they weren’t walking separately either. Their destinations lay in the same direction.

The young reporter came running up, out of breath. “You wouldn’t happen to have a car, would you?” she asked desperately, rain streaking her face. “Because it’s really pouring, and I don’t know the way back to town and even if I did, I don’t know if I’d be able to walk!”

“I have a car,” Walter said quickly. “It’s just over that hill. I can give you both rides…if you’d like,” he added shyly to Roberta.

“That would be wonderful,” Roberta nodded. “Thank you.”

“Thanks,” the reporter said quickly. She brushed dripping hair off her face. “I’m Anita D’Arcy, by the way.”

Walter dropped back to walk beside her, and Roberta joined them, walking on the other side of him. “I’m Walter O’Reilly,” he said, “and this is Roberta-”

“-Kasser,” Roberta cut him off. “I’m Roberta Kasser.” She smiled nervously, and Anita gave her a suspicious look, but she didn’t care. The last thing she needed was some nosy reporter letting everyone know where she was, and why.

Walter looked confused. “But didn’t you say you were-”

She interrupted him again. “Where did you say your car was?”

“Over there.” His feelings were hurt, she could see that, but there was nothing she could do about it right now.

“So, do you two know each other?” Anita asked. “Or did you just meet?”

Walter seemed inclined to explain, but Roberta wouldn’t let him. She knew how to talk to reporters, he didn’t. It was as simple as that. “We just met.”

“Oh. So why are you here?”

“I was born here,” Roberta said. It wasn’t a lie; she’d been born only a few miles away. She hoped it would convince Anita that she wasn’t who she looked like. She was just a local girl who happened to look like a movie star. That was all.

“How about you, Walter?”

Roberta didn’t know the answer to that question, and out of curiosity, she let Walter answer it.

“I’m helping out a professor over the summer, taking pictures of different constellations.”

“What university?”

“Harvard.” Walter ducked his head in embarrassment as Anita gave a low whistle of admiration. Roberta smiled. There was something so endearing about the way his shirt was plastered to his back with rain. He was skinny, still built like a boy.

They walked in silence for several minutes, and Roberta was surprised to find that Anita’s presence irked her. She wasn’t a bad person, and she hadn’t done anything more offensive than ask for a ride, but all the same, Roberta didn’t like her.

“There’s my car,” Walter said. He’d left it running, and the headlights were beacons in the darkness. He ran ahead and opened the front passenger door for Roberta, and she climbed in gratefully. Anita waved him off when he started to come around to her side.

“Don’t bother, I’m capable of opening my own door.”

Roberta knew that she hadn’t meant anything by it, that she was just preventing Walter from walking through more mud, but the comment still stung. She was capable of opening her own doors too, but she lived in a world where it wasn’t done, and Walter hadn’t really given her a choice.

“Where are you staying?” Walter asked, closing his door.

“We don’t really have an address,” Roberta explained, “but it’s not far. I was just out for a walk.”

“How about you, Anita?”

“What?” Anita was carefully shifting piles of papers, books, camera equipment, and a telescope out of the way so she could sit down.

“Where are you staying?”

“Oh, the Dry Grass Inn.”

“Really? That’s where I’m staying too.” Walter started the car. “So I’ll drop Roberta off first, and then we’ll drive back into town. Roberta, you’ll have to tell me where your house is.”

Roberta gave careful directions to Walter, privately angry that Anita was there. She had been hoping for some time to talk to Walter alone; he seemed like a sweet, genuine man, and she didn’t meet too many of those. But now that Anita was with them, they’d drop her off first and she’d probably never see him again.

All too soon, they pulled up in front of her cousins’ house, and Roberta climbed out. “Thanks for the ride!” She flashed Walter a dazzling smile. “It was good to meet both of you. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“I’m leaving as soon as possible,” Anita announced. “I’m not supposed to be here in the first place.”

“And I’m flying back to Boston tomorrow,” Walter said.

“Oh.” Roberta felt depressed. “Well, I hope your trip goes safely.” She turned and walked away, towards the bright lights of her house. Behind her, she heard the sound of the car tires pulling out of the mud.

“Bobbie!” Her aunt came running out of the house, barefoot in her night gown and curlers. “Where in heaven’s name have you been? I’ve been worried sick!”

“I just went out for a walk,” Roberta protested.

“That was hours ago!” her aunt exclaimed. “A young girl shouldn’t be out wandering so late at night, especially in your condition!”

“My condition?!” Roberta’s patience had worn thin. “Aunt Grace, I’m fine! Would you please just let me be?!”

“I’m sorry, Bobbie,” her aunt said stiffly, “but I promised your mother I’d look after you. After what happened before…well, we don’t want that happening again!”

“I’m not going to get pregnant while taking a walk!” Roberta cried. Furious and humiliated, she brushed past her aunt and hurried up the stairs to her bedroom.

***

Gilbert’s Drugstore; Roswell, New Mexico; July 5, 1947; 3:51 A.M.

Nancy couldn’t sleep.

She was still in shock. What a night. What an unbelievable night. She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. It was hard to believe that she’d broken it off with Roger. He’d been such a part of her life for so long. She’d thought she’d feel better once she’d ended things, but she just felt worse. There was an empty hole in her stomach now, one that hadn’t been there before.

Nancy flipped over in bed, one arm dangling towards the floor. The thin sheet was twisted around her body, her bare feet were sweaty. She freed them, and tried squeezing her eyes shut, as if she could force her body into sleep.

There was also the matter of the explosion, crash, accident, fire. She couldn’t decide what to refer to it as, even in her head. What had happened? She’d been so disoriented to begin with, after her conversation with Roger in the car.

She could remember running up to the front door of the farmhouse, knocking tentatively, then louder, pounding with her fist. She could remember Roger grabbing her hand and running around the house with him towards the smoke, Chris yelling at them to leave, thunder shaking the air, the fire going out, embers smoldering...The images were so disjointed, it was hard to make sense of them.

She needed a distraction.

With a groan, Nancy rolled out of bed, turning on the bedside lamp as she passed on the way to her bookcase. She crouched in front of the rows of books, resting her arms on the knees of her white flannel pajamas. Little Women, Pride and Prejudice, The Complete Works Of William Shakespeare; her eyes skimmed lightly over the books, recognizing most of them by appearance and color, rather than title. There it was: A Modern Guide to Biology.

She slipped the heavy textbook out of position and carried it back to bed. It was her favorite thing to read when she was upset or worried; science was so organized and neat and clear, exactly how she liked things to be. Every time she read the textbook, she learned something new, a fact she could carry around inside of her like a secret. It wasn’t as good as actually going to college, but it was a start.

Propping herself up on one elbow, she flipped at random through the worn pages, finally setting on a chapter about the characteristics of life. She skimmed the first couple of paragraphs and paused to glance at a section she’d never really looked at before, discarding it as nonsense.

Nancy’s eyes widened as she read. Her heart pounding, she sat up, and read the paragraph over again. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. The idea was so far-fetched, so ridiculous, so bizarre…and yet, it just might be the explanation for what had happened.

She jumped up and ran to her desk, fumbling in the shadows for a piece of paper and a pen. The back of an envelope and a dull pencil were all she could find, but they were good enough. She padded quickly back to her bed and knelt on the floor, carefully transcribing the important sentences from the textbook onto the envelope.

Who could she tell?

Roger was definitely out, she wasn’t even sure what the protocol was for speaking with him. She also wasn’t especially anxious to talk with Christopher or Ellen Pullman; they weren’t exactly friendly towards her. She didn’t know the two people who had arrived after her and Roger, so that left…Anita D’Arcy.

She hadn’t been that surprised to see the young reporter at the ranch; there was something about Anita that suggested defiance and disregard for the rules. And Anita would be the perfect person to talk to: she was smart, capable, and would probably know exactly what to do with the information.

Nancy set the textbook on the floor and climbed back under the sheets. First thing in the morning, she’d go see Anita. Together they could figure out what to do. She rolled over again.

The real problem would be waiting until morning.

***

Pullman Ranch; Roswell, New Mexico; July 5, 1947; 7:43 A.M.

Anita inspected the scarred metal carefully, running one finger along the smooth edges of the crumpled object. Eyes narrowed, she stooped and picked up some of the dirt beneath the metal, letting it sift back to the ground. Balanced in a crouch, she reached into her purse and pulled out a pen and a notebook, carefully jotting down a small note to herself.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” someone demanded from above, and Anita found herself squinting up at Christopher Pullman, silhouetted by the blinding sunlight.

Anita climbed carefully out of the crater, one hand extended. “Mr. Pullman, you’re just the person I wanted to see.”

He brushed her hand aside. “What are you doing here?”

Anita drew herself up stiffly. “I’m doing my job, if you don’t mind.”

“And what’s that?” Chris asked nastily, crossing his arms.

“I’m a reporter, for the New York Times.”

“This is New Mexico, not New York.”

Anita rolled her eyes. “I’m aware of that. I want to write a story about what happened last night.”

“I see.” Chris glared at her. “And what part of ‘get off my land’ did you not understand?”

She looked away, refusing to answer the question.

“What will it take for you to leave me alone?”

She smirked. It was so easy to make him mad. “You have to answer my questions.”

“No.” He turned and walked away, towards the barn. “I don’t have the time to answer questions for a nosy reporter. The cows need milking, the other animals need to be fed; I have chores to do!”

“I won’t stop you from doing them,” Anita said quickly, jogging after him. She was glad she’d dressed casual today; blue jeans and tennis shoes were so much easier to run in. “Just answer my questions!”

“No!”

Anita trailed after him into the gloomy seclusion of the barn, following over to the area where the cows were fenced in, waiting to be milked. Thin ribbons of light fell from the cracks in the high ceiling, striping the room in sunlight and shadow. It smelled musty and natural. Anita felt strangely comfortable as she stood over Chris, watching him drag over a milking stool and sit down next to a placid brown cow. She studied him as he leaned his head against the animal, his sandy brown hair a subtle contrast to the cow’s chocolate colored hide. From the side, she could see the muscles in his arm tensing as he milked the cow.

“How long has your family owned this ranch?” she asked abruptly, her pen poised over the paper. He jumped at the sound of her voice, and the cow kicked over the bucket of milk.

Chris turned slowly, and Anita could see from his profile that she was in for it. He stood up menacingly, striding towards her. She noticed for the first time just how much taller he was than her, and backed up slightly.

“If I fix your damn car,” he asked, through gritted teeth, “will you leave me alone?”

She nodded.

“Will you never come back here again?”

She nodded again, waiting.

“Fine. We’ll leave in half an hour. Until then, you can wait in the house with Ellen.” He raised an admonishing finger. “Don’t go poking around anywhere, I mean it! Stay in the house.”

“Fine, fine.” Anita brushed off the order. “Will you be able to fix my car?”

Chris didn’t answer, so she sighed and left for the main house, jogging lightly across the dry soil. Already the sun was baking into her back, and she wondered just how hot it got out here. As she reached the back door, she paused to look around, taking in the flat expanse of land around her. She felt a wave of sympathy for Ellen Pullman, having to live with this desolate landscape, alone with her surly older brother. The few plants that grew in a just visible pasture didn’t stir. There was no breeze, and the silence hung painfully in the air.

She knocked on the door, and Ellen’s face peered out. She stared blankly at Anita. “Can I help you?”

“Your brother said I should wait in the house,” Anita said, smiling to ease the girl’s worried look. She opened the screen door and stepped into the rustic kitchen. A bucket of soapy water and a rag sat on the floor, and Anita jumped backwards.

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry! You’re washing the floor! Here, let me take my shoes off.”

She bent to untie her shoes but Ellen stopped her with a strained, “Don’t bother.” The younger girl grabbed the bucket of water and moved it away as Anita sat down gingerly at the kitchen table.

“I’m sorry to just intrude like this,” Anita apologized. “You don’t have to entertain me or anything, don’t let me stop you from your work.”

Ellen nodded and started to wash the breakfast dishes in the sink, her head bent with shyness or concentration, Anita wasn’t sure which. Feeling out of place, Anita reached for her note pad and pen, studying Ellen a minute before asking, more bravely that she felt, “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

Ellen startled, splashing soapy dishwater on the front of her cotton shirt. She looked up. “What?”

“I’m supposed to be out in California working on a story right now, but I’m stranded here, and I have a deadline next week. This story might just be unique enough to get me the promotion I want. So, can I ask you some questions?”

Ellen looked away, her blue eyes unfocused on the sky beyond the window. She bit her lip. “I’m not sure; I don’t think Chris would like it.”

“Oh, come on!” Anita prompted, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Chris isn’t here, he can’t stop you! Plus, being quoted in the New York Times! How often do you get a chance like that?!”

“Not often,” Ellen said shyly, her eyes catching light. She paused, glanced out the window again, then smiled and hurried over to sit at the table with Anita. “Okay, you can interview me.”

“Great.” Anita smiled back. “Let’s get started.”

***

60 Murray Lane; Roswell, New Mexico; July 5, 1947; 12:33 P.M.

Roger sat on his bed, knees pulled up to his chest.

His mission was clear: he had to win Nancy back, he had to convince her that they were meant to be together. He couldn’t just let her go.

Decisively, he jumped out of bed, running down the stairs and out the door, ignoring his mother’s reminder that dinner would be at six. He forgot to take the car, running into town instead and arriving at Gilbert’s Drugstore sweaty and out-of-breath.

“Where’s Nancy?” he asked, leaning against the counter as he caught his breath.

Nancy’s mother looked surprised. “She just left, said something about going to see someone at the Dry Grass Inn. Was she supposed to meet you somewhere?”

“No, I just need to find her. Thank you, Mrs. Gilbert.” Roger started to leave.

“Roger!” Mrs. Gilbert called out, and he turned around. She looked worried. “Nancy was awfully quiet last night when she finally got home. Did something happen? Is everything all right between you two?”

“It will be,” Roger said firmly.

It wasn’t long before he was standing impatiently in the lobby of the Dry Grass Inn, waiting to speak to the woman behind the registration desk.

“Excuse me,” he asked politely, smiling at the woman. “Did you see a young woman, with dark hair come in here a little while ago? She was looking for someone?”

“Yes, I did, actually. She asked about someone who was staying here, and I told her that person had just left for some ranch outside of town. She seemed to know what I was talking about, and she left in a hurry.”

“Darn it,” Roger muttered. He sat down in one of the lobby’s chairs, trying to decide what his next move would be.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” someone was saying quietly, “but do you have a Walter O’Reilly staying here?” Roger looked up and saw a tall woman with fair hair standing at the registration desk, her face tense.

“Sorry, he checked out this morning.”

“Oh.” The woman turned away, and Roger caught a glimpse of her face. She looked startlingly familiar.

“Hey,” he said quickly, “don’t I know you from somewhere?”

She froze, her eyes looking him nervously up and down. “No,” she said quickly. “No, you don’t.”

Roger jumped up and caught her arm as she started to walk away. “Yeah, I do! You were there last night, at the ranch. I saw you!”

She relaxed. “Oh. Yeah. I was there.”

“The person you were looking for just now, was that the man who was with you?”

“Yes. But I don’t really know him.”

“Oh.” Roger studied her carefully. She seemed anxious, nervously twisting a ring around her finger. “Hey, would you like to join me for lunch? There’s a good restaurant right across the street.”

She smiled for the first time. “Sure. I could use a distraction.”

They crossed the street to a small diner nearby, and took a table in front of the windows, so they could watch the inn. Roger quickly ordered a sandwich and a soda, but the woman just asked for a bowl of soup.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a minute of companionable silence. “I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Roger Anderson.”

The woman took a deep breath, her eyes unsure,“I’m Roberta Von Kaas.”

Roger could feel his mouth drop. “The movie star?!”

“Shhh!” she hissed, ducking her head and glancing around to see if anyone had heard. The diner was empty except for a bored looking waitress in the back. “I don’t want anyone to notice me!”

“What are you doing in Roswell?!” Roger was stunned. No wonder she’d looked so familiar.

“It’s a secret,” she said quietly, averting her eyes.

“I won’t tell.” It was true; he could be more close-mouthed than anyone. He hoped she could tell that he really meant it.

“Fine.” Roberta leaned in closer. “I got pregnant.”

“What?” Roger was shocked. Such things were not usually spoken of, especially to almost strangers like himself.

“The father wouldn’t marry me, and it would have ruined my career. So I had an abortion.” Roberta looked down.

Roger reached across the table and gently touched her hand. “It must have been horrible,” he said sympathetically. She looked up, her brown eyes full of tears.

“It was the hardest thing I ever had to do,” she agreed, her voice catching. “The only people who know are the doctor, my mother, and my aunt. My mother is furious with me for endangering my career that way, and my aunt is so overprotective that I’m forced to think about it all the time. No one ever asks me how I feel!”

“How do you feel?” he asked.

She buried her face in her hands. “Like I’ve lost the will to live.” She took a deep breath, and looked hard at Roger. “I suppose that’s a feeling you’ll never have.”

“What?”

“Look at where you live! Your life is perfect. You live in this beautiful town where everything is wholesome and good, and you’ll probably end up having a nice home and children and a picket fence. I’ll never have that.”

Roger opened his mouth to lie, to agree, but instead his own story came tumbling out. He told her about first falling in love with Nancy, about going off to war, the terrible years he spent as a German prisoner. He told her what it was like to come home empty, watching Nancy’s spirit fade each day as he was unable to return her affection, their love slipping through his fingers like water.

Roberta listened quietly, and in turn, shared more about herself. She talked about the long, lonely hours on movie sets as a child, with only her mother for company. She told him about how it felt to never know if someone was really your friend, or just pretending. She spoke of how empty her life was, even though she was rich and famous.

Roger felt a kinship with Roberta, like they’d been destined to be friends. He felt no attraction to her, beautiful though she was, only a brotherly affection for someone whose emotional plight was very similar to his own. They were both envied by others, and left with no one to confide in when their lives were not as perfect as they seemed. He felt like he could tell her anything, even though they’d known each other for less than a day.

Roger checked his watch, and stood up abruptly. “It’s 2:14! We’ve been talking for almost two hours!”

“Oh!” Roberta stood up too. “I should go, or my aunt will be worried.”

“It was wonderful talking to you,” Roger said warmly, shaking her hand. She paused for a second, then hugged him fiercely, burying her face in his shoulder.

“It was. I’ll be in town for the rest of the summer. Maybe we can get together for lunch again?”

“I’d love to.”

She glanced over his shoulder, and he saw her face light up. “Oh, that’s Walter! He didn’t leave town after all!”

Roger laughed. “Go! Talk to him! I’ll see you around!”

“’Bye!” she called as she crossed the street. “Thank you!”

“’Bye!” Roger smiled. His conversation with Roberta had made him feel more positive and alive than he had in over two years, and it also made him more anxious to talk to Nancy. He decided to go home first, then drive over to Pullman Ranch. He’d catch Nancy and talk with her.

Heart higher, hopes fuller, Roger started to walk home.

***

Pullman Ranch; Roswell, New Mexico; July 5, 1947; 2:35 P.M.

Someone was knocking on the door.

Ellen stood up and groaned, placing her hands on the small of her back. She had been scrubbing the kitchen floor for over an hour, cleaning furiously to make up for time lost while talking with Anita. Chris would never notice the difference, but it made her feel better to get something done.

“I’m coming!” she called, drying her hands on a dish cloth. She never had so many people stopping by to visit; first Anita, then Nancy Gilbert, and now…

“Roger,” she breathed, opening the door.

“Hi, Ellen,” he said quickly, stepping inside. “I’m sorry to bother you, but is Nancy here?”

Ellen’s heart fell. He hadn't come here to talk to her, only to find his girlfriend.

“No, sorry,” she apologized, leading him back into the kitchen. “Nancy was here, looking for that reporter. I told her Anita had gone off with Chris to get her car fixed, so she left. That was over an hour ago.”

“Oh.” Roger hung his head. “I’ll guess I’ll be going, then. Sorry I bothered you.”

“No! Don’t go!” Ellen said quickly, then, flushing, “I mean, you don’t have to leave so quickly, I was taking a break anyway. Come have a cup of tea with me?”

Roger checked his watch. “I really should try to find Nancy.”

“She’s not going anywhere.” Ellen tried to smile, feeling horribly guilty in the pit of her stomach. She tried to push the guilt away, reminding herself that she deserved happiness with Roger more than Nancy did. “Surely you have time for a cup of tea?”

“I guess so,” Roger agreed, sitting down at the kitchen table.

Nearly dizzy with excitement, Ellen quickly poured two cups of tea and settled herself next to Roger at the table. As her leg brushed his, he moved imperceptibly away, trying not to be rude, but obviously uncomfortable.

“Nancy seemed pretty upset earlier, when she was here,” she told him. “Is everything okay with you two?” Please let the answer be no, she prayed.

“No, we broke up last night,” he said, and her heart soared. Then he added, “But I’m trying to find her so I can apologize for being such a fool, and beg her to forgive me.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Ellen said.

“What?!”

“I mean,” Ellen looked down at her teacup, “maybe you shouldn’t push things. If you’re having problems, I think it would be best if you just stayed away for a little while, give her time to figure out how she feels. Besides,” she added coyly, glancing up at him through her lashes, “if she’s silly enough to let a great guy like you slip past her, maybe she doesn’t deserve you.”

Roger stared at her for a long moment, his light brown eyes wide. She could count every one of his long eyelashes. Unable to hide her feelings any longer, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. He jumped backwards so fast that he knocked over his cup. Scalding tea spilled across the table.

“Oh!” Ellen grabbed the rag she’d been scrubbing the floor with and tried to mop up the tea.

“I’m sorry if you misunderstood my intentions in coming here.” Roger was staring at her with a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance. “I think I should go find Nancy now.” He walked out of the kitchen.

When she heard the door slam behind him, Ellen crumpled to the floor, tears running silently down her face.

***

Horseshoe Road; Roswell, New Mexico; July 5, 1947; 3:21 P.M.

“I can’t fix it,” Chris told Anita, slamming the hood of the car.

“What?!” Her face registered disbelief.

“I can’t fix it,” he repeated, turning away. “Come on. It’s getting late, and we still have to walk all the way back.”

Surprisingly, she remained silent as they walked side by side in the bright afternoon sunlight. Chris was sure she’d start talking at any minute, and he tried to relax. He could hear the faint sighing of the wind in his ears. It was hot. The sun shone directly on his back, and it wasn’t long before he could feel himself starting to perspire. He wiped his forehead, wishing there was some shade around.

Anita seemed absorbed in her own thoughts as she kept pace beside him, so he took the opportunity to study her again. She didn’t looked as sophisticated as she had the night before; this time her clothing was sensibly casual. Her short blond hair was pulled tightly back from her face, although several strands had escaped over the course of the afternoon. Eyes narrowed in the bright light, she looked serious, with her full mouth set in a grim line.

Not wanting to be caught staring, Chris cleared his throat sharply and looked away. She glanced at him, one thin eyebrow raised. “What?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, looking down.

The afternoon wore on, and their shadows lengthened in front of them.

“God, it’s hot,” Anita said suddenly. She looked exhausted, pale, her skin shining with sweat.

Chris looked around, recognizing where they were. “We can stop for a little while. There’s an underground spring nearby. Ellen and I used to go swimming there.”

“Really?” Her face lit up. “Where?”

“Just over there.” Chris pointed. “Come on.” Walking briskly, he left the path and crested a small rise, following a nearly invisible trail past a large boulder to the spring.

The water was clear and crystal blue, reflecting the sky on its mirror smooth surface. It was nothing more than a depression in the solid rock, filled with water from underground. It was ice cold and clean, as pure as rain.

“Oh, thank god,” Anita whispered. She crouched by the edge of the pool, cupping water in her hands to drink. Chris did the same, letting the icy water cool his dry throat. Thirst satisfied, he stretched out in the shade of one of the larger boulders.

“Is it okay to swim in the water?” Anita asked.

“If you want.” Chris closed his eyes. After a minute, he heard a splash, and he sat up. Anita had slipped into the water, leaving her shoes and jeans in a neat pile on the rock. He could see her blurred shadow underwater, gliding upwards. Her head broke the surface, and she threw her arms triumphantly in the air, spraying water in a glittering arc.

“Be careful,” Chris said sharply. “It’s deep, and I don’t feel like getting in just to stop you from drowning.”

She grinned and ducked under the water again, coming up closer to where he sat. “Come in, the water’s beautiful!”

“No.” Chris shook his head.

“Seriously, come in!” She drew back her hand and splashed him. Chris scrambled to his feet, startled. “Come in!”

He looked at the water, then back at her. It had never looked so inviting. Quickly he stripped off his shirt and shoes, diving in with his pants on. The water was mind numbingly cold, freezing his senses as he floated towards the sky. Treading water, he looked around for Anita. She appeared on his other side.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It’s cold!” he told her angrily, pushing wet hair back from his face.

“No it’s not!” she retorted, diving under again and kicking away.

He swam for awhile, enjoying being suspended in the water, his head clearing as his body temperature cooled. When he could no longer feel his toes, he decided it was time to get out. The sun felt soft and comfortable on his bare back as he sat on the warm stone. He turned his head to check the sun’s progress in the sky and froze, watching Anita as she climbed out of the water.

The shirt she was still wearing just covered the top of her legs, but soaked as she was, there wasn’t much left to the imagination. His face hot, Chris looked away as she sat down beside him, wringing water from her hair.

“Oh, now the sun feels good,” she said, leaning backwards, her weight braced on her hands. Chris could feel her watching him. He looked at her and she quickly averted her eyes. He thought he saw a hint of color on her fair skin.

“This story could save my job, you know,” she said quietly. He looked at her questioningly, but her eyes were unfocused on the horizon.

“What do you mean?”

“During the war, so many women filled jobs that were normally occupied by men. Now that the war’s over, more and more women are getting laid off. I’m one of the few professional women that I know who still has a decent job. If I don’t prove that I’m a more than average reporter, I’ll lose my job.”

Chris suddenly understood her prying need to ask questions, to poke into things that didn’t concern her. “You can write the story if you want. I don’t mind.”

She smiled slyly at him, and he knew that his permission didn’t really change anything at all. She would have done it regardless. “Thanks.” There was a period of silence before she spoke again. “Ellen told me why you weren’t able to fight in the war.” Her choice of subject made his positive outlook plummet hell-ward.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Chris looked down, caught a glimpse of her bare legs crossed in front of her, and looked up at the sky instead.

She reacted with anger that seemed to come from nowhere. “Is that how you deal with everything, Chris?! By not talking about it?! By not telling anyone how you feel?!”

Chris jumped to his feet, feeling attacked and consequently defensive. “What the hell do you mean by that?!”

“I talked to your sister for over an hour, Chris,” she said coldly, standing up. “It doesn’t take a genius to tell that she’s miserable with her life. You were supposed to take care of her, but instead you’ve allowed her to grow up in a cold, loveless environment!”

“Don’t even think you can understand a fraction of what I’ve been through!” Chris yelled, advancing on her. She didn’t back away. “You just waltz into town and expect to understand who I am! You couldn’t possibly know what a living hell my life has been for the past ten years! I have been doing the best I can, but running a ranch by myself at sixteen wasn’t easy!”

She regarded him indifferently, arms crossed. “So you do have emotions after all.”

He stared at her for a minute, seething, then seated himself at the far end of the rock, facing away from her. He didn’t hear her sit down again.

Explosively, out of nowhere, she threw herself into the water. When he heard no sound of her reappearance, Chris looked over. She was gone. He jumped up, running to the water’s edge to scan its depths. The surface was smooth, untouched. He didn’t see anything in the water, and it was too deep to see clearly near the bottom.

“Anita!” he yelled, looking around. Had she climbed out? No, there was no trail of water except his own. “Anita!” She must’ve caught her foot on some rocky edge, trapping herself underwater. That had happened to him once, and he’d barely freed himself in time. It had been one of the most frightening experiences of his life.

Chris leapt into the water, keeping his eyes open to look for her. How far under had she been when she’d caught her foot? He pulled out of the water, taking in air, before diving down again. The third time he lifted his head to catch his breath, something grabbed his foot and tugged him under. He swallowed water and came up sputtering, only to find himself face-to-face with Anita.

“Lose something underwater?’ she asked innocently.

“What happened to you?!” he demanded, hauling himself out of the water.

“There’s a ledge under there that has an air pocket at the top,” she told him.

Of course. He and Ellen had always hidden under that ledge, attempting to scare their mother when they disappeared. How could he have forgotten?

“You scared the hell out of me!” he yelled, anger replacing relief.

“Sorry! It was just a joke!”

“A joke! I thought you were trapped! I thought you might have died!” He reached out to grab her shoulders. “Don’t do that to me again! Ever!” And before he knew what he was doing, he was kissing her, his hands holding her face tightly. She froze momentarily, then she reached up, rising on her toes to wind her arms around his neck. He was vaguely aware of how nicely her ribs fit against his, how soft her loose hair was as it touched his fingers. He didn’t know how much time passed before he finally managed to pull away.

They both spoke at the same time.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I have a boyfriend in New York.”

“Of course. Sorry.” Chris backed away, reaching for his shirt and pulling it on, refusing to look at her. “We should go back. Ellen’s probably wondering what happened to us.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, pulling on her jeans.

Chris grabbed his shoes, not bothering to put them on, unusually anxious to get home. He walked in silence, spending the entire time being acutely aware of the woman beside him, her every move and breath. They approached the house from the back, and as they passed the crater, Anita grabbed his arm. He felt a shiver go down his back at her touch.

“Look!” she whispered, pointing into the crater. Chris followed the line of her arm and felt his throat constrict. A piece of the metal object was missing, cut cleanly off. A dense mesh of wires had been revealed on one side.

Chris wasted no time climbing down to where the object lay, and Anita followed him. “You can see where the missing piece was,” he said, pointing to the dirt. “The outline is right there.”

“It was dragged away,” she added, pointing to a mostly covered trail that led out if the crater. “My god!” She looked up, her eyes wide. “Something wanted to preserve what was in there, to keep it safe. Something-or someone-was here!”

***

Eagle Rock; Roswell, New Mexico; July 6, 1947; 9:13 A.M.

“Wow,” Walter said quietly, staring at Roberta with amazement. She looked away, embarrassed. “I never would have thought…”

She looked up, and he noticed again just how disconcerting her brown eyes were against her fair skin and hair. “What?”

“I just-” Walter stretched out his legs on the rocky ground, “I always saw you in movies, and stuff, and I would look at you and think ‘Her life must be perfect. She must be one of those people who you want to know because just having contact with her brightens your perspective.’ It never occurred to me that you could have problems like the rest of us.”

“I wish I didn’t,” she said softly. She looked so sad that Walter quickly shifted to sit beside her. He was surprised, thrilled, when she rested her head on his shoulder. Afraid she would move away again, he tentatively wrapped his right arm around her back.

Together they sat and watched the faded blue sky of midmorning. The sun was hazy behind the grey clouds, leaving the landscape with a soft, blurry feeling. Walter could feel the earth’s heat beneath him.

“I wanted that baby, Walter,” Roberta said softly. “I wanted it more than anything.” She looked down, soft blond tendrils escaping from her braided hair and twirling around her face, like wind made physical.

“Why didn’t you just marry the father?” Walter asked. She’d explained most of the story to him, but had discreetly left out certain information.

“The father was still married. He was a bastard, anyway. He used me and he let me believe that he loved me, and then he abandoned me.”

“Oh.” Walter resisted the temptation to ask who the father was. He wanted to kill the man for what he’d done to her. She was so pure; she didn’t deserve this.

“But I wanted that part of him that was also me.” Roberta’s voice caught as she continued. “I wanted someone who would love me unconditionally, not just because I was famous. I tried to explain to my mother, but she wouldn’t listen. She kept insisting that my career was at stake, and she was determined to keep my image clean.”

“So she forced you to have the abortion,” Walter finished. He was trying not to stare, but he couldn’t help himself. She was so beautiful.

He also wished he had his camera with him. The light was so clear on her face, highlighting her sharp cheekbones and illuminating the dark sparks in her eyes. The sun was a halo behind her hair. She looked like an angel on earth, the guardian goddess of the desert.

“Thank you for coming here with me,” she said.

“It’s my pleasure,” Walter said. It wasn’t a lie; he had never imagined the desert could be so beautiful and rugged. In the movies it was always just yellow sand, but here there were rocks and colors, wild bushes and rugged vistas.

“This was my favorite spot when I was little.” She seemed embarrassed to admit it. “It’s so peaceful up here, and on a clear day you can see for miles.”

“Mm,” Walter agreed. It was hard to concentrate on her words when he could smell her soap: lavender. “Would you eat dinner with me tonight?” The words left his mouth before he thought them through, and he was immediately terrified that she would refuse, or worse, laugh.

Instead she twisted to look at him, a small smile tugging at her mouth. He was delighted that his words had the power to make her smile. “Okay,” she said shyly, blushing like a schoolgirl.

He only hoped she couldn’t feel his wild heartbeat as she leaned against him.

***

Pullman Ranch; Roswell, New Mexico; July 6, 1947; 11:56 A.M.

“No, I’m not going with you!” Chris could feel the start of a bad headache behind his eyes. “I don’t have time to go running off all over the place for the second day in a row!”

“But don’t you want to find out what happened to that missing piece of that-that object?!” Anita demanded, following him as he left the barn.

“No! It could be part of a new bomb the Russians are building to destroy us all, and I wouldn’t give a damn! They can blow us off the face of the earth if they want, but before they do, I want to finish planting the grain so that after the explosion, the animals will have something to eat!”

“Just one more day, and I won’t come bother you again!”

“Isn’t that what you promised me yesterday?”

He had sworn to himself that he wasn’t going to give in this time, he had so much to do. The grain still needed planting, one of the barn doors was broken, Ellen wanted him to white-wash the cellar, the cows had to be led out to pasture…

“I can’t do this without help!” She grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop and listen. “I don’t know anything about the desert!”

“That’s right, you don’t! Why don’t you just go back to New York and let me continue my life in peace?!”

She narrowed her eyes, a danger signal he was learning to recognize. “I would go back to New York-god knows I’ve had enough of this hell hole you call a town-but my car remains broken, thanks to you!”

Chris opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. He was out of breath from yelling, and it was a losing battle anyway. “Fine! I’ll come with you. But this better not be a waste of my time!”

“It won’t be,” she said, trying to suppress the glimmer of triumph that lit her face. “Come on.”

He followed her towards the crater. Ellen could wait another day for him to white-wash the goddamn cellar.

***

Gilbert’s Drugstore; Roswell, New Mexico; July 6, 1947; 1:23 P.M.

“Roger, no! I am not doing this right now!” Nancy hissed, trying not to attract attention from the few customers waiting for prescriptions or drinking sodas.

“But-”

“No! I am working! You will have to come back later!” Nancy turned her back on him. When she looked back, he was still there on the other side of the counter, watching her. Caught off guard, she made the mistake of making eye contact, and she was nearly overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze.

She had fallen in love with his eyes long before their first conversation. They were otherworldly: light amber, framed by long dark eyelashes. Clear and ageless, they belonged more to some mythic Greek god than to a human, yet they suited him. His eyes held no secrets, they betrayed the intensity of his every emotion.

“What is it?” she whispered, breaking her own resolve.

“I really need to talk to you.” His voice was flat, without inflection, a sure sign he was upset.

Nancy untied her apron and pushed open the door to the apartment behind the store. Roger followed. She spun to face him, hands on her hips, watching the front of his shirt instead of his face. “You have two minutes.”

“Listen, Nancy,” Roger began, trying to take her hands. She pulled away. “I’ve been trying to find you since yesterday.”

“We said we weren’t going to see one another any more,” she muttered, crossing and re-crossing her arms nervously.

“I know, but I think we made the wrong decision!” He took her face in his hands, gently forcing her to look at him. His eyes reflected back her own torment. “I am so terrified by the prospect of facing life without you. I care about you more than I could ever care about anyone else. If something happened to you, if you died, my soul would be buried beside yours. A world without you in it is empty.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she whispered, hating herself for being so cruel. She forced her gaze away from his, blinking back tears. As much as she hated to admit it, his words were resounding deep within her; she felt the truth of them. “People always move on. It’s human nature to grieve for a little while, then move on to someone new. You’ll find someone else to take my spot.”

Roger froze; she felt his hands go stiff against her face. “You didn’t talk to Ellen Pullman. Did you?”

“No!” Nancy’s heart started to hammer. Instinct warned her not to ask another question, but she couldn’t help it. “What does that have to do with what I just said?”

“Nothing.”

“Roger!” She took a sharper tone. “Why did you ask that? What happened?”

“Nothing!”

“Roger! Tell me the truth! Tell me the truth or I swear I will never talk to you again as long as I live!”

Roger looked away, pained, but she wasn’t sure if he was troubled by her threat or what he had to tell her. “Ellen and I kissed…yesterday.”

“What?!” Nancy gasped, horrified. She wrenched away.

“She kissed me!” Roger protested quickly, following her as she backed away from him. “It wasn’t my fault at all, I would never do that to you! I went to Pullman Ranch because I was trying to find you!”

Nancy pressed her hand over her mouth, whether to stifle a scream of pain or anger she wasn’t sure. His eyes broken, desperate, Roger dropped to his knees in front of her, reaching out to grab her arm, trying to make contact.

“Nancy,” he said quietly, his voice breaking. “I need you. You make me whole. We belong together, and as much as you try to deny it, our lives are intertwined. I love you, and I am begging you to give me another chance.”

Losing control, she let the tears come, spilling from her eyes. One landed on Roger’s cheek, but didn’t fall. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

And before Roger could stop her, she turned and ran blindly up the stairs. He lifted his hand and wiped away her tear from his face. Dry-eyed, he left the store.

***

The desert; Roswell, New Mexico; July 6, 1947; 4:33 P.M.

“What is this place?” Anita asked quietly, looking around. They were in a canyon of some sort, full of tall, angular rocks that stripped the wind to pieces and sent it howling. Some very sparse vegetation grew nearby, but otherwise the land was barren, covered in a coarse, sandy dust that coated the bottom half of her jeans.

“I don’t know,” Chris answered, the eerie breeze ruffling his hair. “I’ve never come here before.”

Anita squinted into the sunlight. The trail they’d been following had grown clearer and clearer as the thing dragging it had taken less care to disguise its tracks. “I think the trail goes that way, up that rock,” she said thoughtfully, pointing to the highest rock in the area, jutting diagonally into the sky.

Chris nodded.

They made their way slowly up the rock, stopping to catch their breath. It wasn’t as hot as it had been the day before, but they had been walking for hours.

The trail stopped abruptly against a stone wall.

“Where did it go?” Anita asked, confused. The missing object being dragged was large, and things that big did not usually vanish.

“It’s a dead end,” Chris said flatly. “Great. Just great.”

“But the trail can’t just stop!” Anita protested, grabbing his arm as he turned to leave.

“You’re not suggesting that something’s buried inside that solid rock, are you?” he asked, tugging his arm free.

“No, I’m not suggesting that…” Anita trailed off. She crouched and ran her fingers along the base of the rock wall. “There’s a crack here!”

“Let me see that!” Chris elbowed her out of the way, and she crouched beside him, watching as he brushed his fingers along the ground. “You’re right!” he said at last, his tone incredulous. “This isn’t solid rock at all!” He stood up quickly, only a nose length from the rock as he scanned it for other details.

“What’s that?” Anita asked, pointing to the stone over their heads. “Here, give me a leg up and I’ll see what it is.”

Surprisingly, he didn’t protest, only locked his fingers together under her foot and lifted her up. She put out her hands to brace herself.

“What do you see?” he asked, shifting beneath her.

Starting to lose her balance, she grabbed at the rock, glaring down at the top of his head. “Stop that! You’re going to make me fall!” She looked up and found herself face to face with a silver hand print. “What the hell?!” she whispered, touching it tentatively. It glowed instantly at her touch, heating up beneath her fingertips. Startled, she cried out and leapt backwards, throwing Chris off balance.

She landed in a catlike crouch on the ground, but Chris was not so lucky. The force of her fall threw him sideways, and he lost his balance, landing painfully on his side.

“God, I’m sorry!” Anita cried, scrambling upright. Her palms were scratched and raw, but otherwise she was uninjured. “Are you okay?!”

“Damn it!” Chris sat up, holding a hand to his head, which was bleeding. “What the hell did you do that for?!”

“There was this thing, this hand print, up on the rock,” Anita explained distractedly, trying to see how badly he was hurt. “When I touched it, it started to glow.” She knelt beside him. “Let me see your head.”

“No,” he said angrily, starting to stand up. He managed to get halfway to his feet, before swaying dizzily and sitting down again.

“Let me see it,” she repeated, gently removing his hand. The cut was shallow, but bleeding. Muttering about sharp rocks in the middle of nowhere, she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it against the cut. She kept the palm of her hand against his forehead, keeping his face turned from hers.

“Ow!” Chris yelled, trying to pull her hands away. “That hurts!”

She ignored him, blotting gently at the fresh blood. After a minute she lifted the corner of the handkerchief, checking to see if the bleeding had stopped.

“I’m fine, okay?” he moved her hand aside, gingerly touching the broken skin above his left temple.

“Okay.” Anita removed her hands, her gaze traveling down the sharp lines of his face. “Where’d you get that scar?” She reached out a finger and traced the light line that cut across his cheekbone. He swatted her hand away.

“None of your business, okay?” She held up her hands in submission. He studied her grimly, sizing her up, then took a deep breath. “It’s from the accident,” he said, running his finger across the scar absentmindedly.

“The one that killed your parents?”

“Yeah.” He looked down at the rough ground they were sitting on. “My dad was driving, and he just…” he pressed his hands against his eyes, taking another deep breath. “I hit my head against the door, and I think I passed out. My leg was trapped under on of the seats and broken, it never healed right.”

“Things like that can haunt you lifetime,” Anita said. Could she share her secret with him? She never told anyone about her past, but… “My father killed himself when I was three.”

Chris looked at her, startled. This time she was the one to look away.

“The stock market crashed in ‘29, and he jumped out the window of his office building in New York city. I was only three, but I remember it so clearly.” She pushed a strand of hair behind one ear. “Sometimes I would give anything to talk with him again.” She hesitated before asking, “Do you ever feel that way?”

He tilted his head towards the hazy sky. “Yeah.”

Anita glanced at him shyly, amazed that they’d finally found common ground. He stared back, a mixture of surprise and something else unreadable crossing his face.

They reached for each other at the same time.

The stone which was so uncomfortable to sit on didn’t bother her at all as she leaned backwards, arms wrapped tightly around Chris’s neck. He reached around her waist, drawing her closer. She ran her fingers through his hair and tilted her face to his as he kissed her forehead, her eyes, her nose and lips.

She knew that they were nothing like one another, had grown up in different worlds. She was better matched to some analytical Manhattan businessman, and he belonged with a quiet farm girl. They were totally wrong for one another.

And yet…

Chris moved away slightly and kissed the top of her head. They remained close together without touching for several minutes, just breathing the same air. Finally he shook his head, as if clearing it from some fog, and started to pull back, but she reached for his face, keeping him near her.

“Don’t try to pretend that meant nothing, because it didn’t,” she told him softly. He blinked once in agreement, and she released him.

Together they stood and started their descent of the high rock. They walked separately, but Anita could feel the powerful draw between their bodies, connecting them as one.

***

Chez Pierre; Roswell, New Mexico; July 6, 1947; 7:20 P.M.

“How’s your meal?” Roberta asked, leaning towards Walter.

“It’s good, very good,” he stammered. “How’s yours?”

“Excellent.” She placed her napkin on the table. “I’m so full I couldn’t eat another thing.”

“I’m glad.” Walter reached out his hand until their fingers were touching.

“I’ve had a wonderful evening,” she told him sincerely. “The best I’ve had in ages.”

“Really?!” He sounded shocked. Tentatively, he laced his fingers through hers. “I’ve had a wonderful time too! And I just want to tell you-” He was interrupted by a voice.

“Excuse me! I’m so sorry to bother you, but you haven’t seen a tall man with brown hair around town, have you?” A petite blond stood next to their table, wringing her hands.

“Um, no, I don’t think so?” Walter raised his eyebrows at Roberta, and she shook her head, just as confused as he was.

“Who are you looking for?” she asked, trying to calm the young woman down.

“My brother! He disappeared this morning, and I can’t find him anywhere! I just don’t know what-” the girl stopped, and looked again at Roberta, who winced. “Oh my gosh! You’re Roberta Von Kaas! Oh gosh, I’m so sorry I interrupted you!”

“No, you didn’t interrupt anything!” Roberta protested. She stood up. “You look as though you should sit down.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly!” the girl cried.

“No, I insist.” Roberta forced her into the seat and pulled over an extra chair for herself. “Now, when did you see your brother last?”

“This morning, he was working in the barn when I saw him last. He promised he’d been in by lunchtime to white-wash the cellar, but he never showed up! I’m so worried that something happened to him!”

“Wait,” Walter interrupted, “the barn?”

“Yes,” the girl looked confused at his question. “The barn. On our ranch.”

“I thought you looked familiar!” Walter pointed a finger at her. “You were there, that night; it’s your ranch that thing crashed on!”

“Shh,” Roberta hissed. “Keep your voice down!” She turned to the girl. “Was it your ranch then?”

“Yes, I’m Ellen Pullman.” Ellen frowned, then looked at Walter again. “That’s right! You were there the other night! I remember you!”

“So it was your brother that was yelling at everyone, was it?” Roberta muttered. “Why don’t we let him stay lost?”

“Oh, he’s-” Ellen stopped herself. “Actually, he’s not normally like that at all. He’s usually very friendly, I think he was just upset. You should come by sometime and meet him, maybe have dinner with us.” Her tone was cajoling.

Roberta smiled, heartened by the offer of friendship. “Thanks, I’ll try to take you up on that.” She fiddled with the fork near her plate. “But, unfortunately, I won’t be in town for long.”

Ellen’s eyebrows went up. “Really? Are you filming a movie here?”

“No, just…resting. My cousins live just outside of town. Maybe you know them? The Kassers?”

“You’re related to them?”

“That’s me,” Roberta shrugged. “Roberta Kasser. Von Kaas is a stage name.”

“Wow.” Ellen rested her chin in her hand, missing brother all but forgotten. “I’ve always wanted to ask you: what’s it like to be a movie star?”

Roberta glanced at Walter, but he had lost interest in the conversation and was staring into space. She decided to give Ellen the positive version of the truth. “Well, it’s a lot of hard work, but I enjoy it a lot.”

“Really? You must have some good stories.” Ellen smiled winningly.

“Well, there was this one time where…” Roberta let herself fabricate the story, leaving out the dark, depressing side of her life so far. She sensed that Ellen would never appreciate the truth.

“I should get back to the hotel,” Walter said suddenly, standing up. “Roberta? May I take you home?”

“Oh,” Roberta felt torn. This was her evening with Walter, but it felt so wonderful to have a real girl to talk to again, someone to laugh with. She didn’t have any close friends in California, and those who did befriend her were only after her fame. “Maybe another time? I should see if I can help Ellen find her brother.”

“Okay.” Walter paid the check and left the restaurant slowly, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Roberta felt a wave of guilt before Ellen caught her attention again with another question.

***

Pullman Ranch; Roswell, New Mexico; July 7, 1947; 11:04 A.M.

“Yes?”

Roger tried not to let intimidation get the best of him; Christopher Pullman had always been a threatening figure. “Is Ellen here?”

“No. She’s in town. What do you want with her?”

“I just wanted to ask her a question, but it can wait. Will you tell her that I stopped by?”

Chris crossed his arms. “Why should I?”

“It’s important.”

“Right.” Chris was staring at him without blinking, an act which put Roger severely on edge. He started to walk away, heading back to his car.

“How does it feel?” Chris called after him.

“What?” Roger turned around, confused. He walked back to the front door, and Chris stepped outside.

“How does it feel to be the town hero?”

“What do you mean?”

Chris’s fists tightened, and Roger took a step away. “What do I mean? I mean that everyone thinks the world of Roger Anderson. He’s smart, he’s brave, he’s handsome, he’s engaged to the prettiest girl in town! You’re a god damn war hero! You can do no wrong in people’s eyes, and I want to know how it feels!” There was a desperate glint in Chris’s eyes.

For the first time, Roger understood some of Chris’s isolation, some of his anger. He had heard somewhere how Chris wasn’t accepted into the army because of his leg, but it had barely registered; he’d been too busy preparing to leave Nancy behind. He knew how much he had felt compelled to fight for his country, and he could see how it must have killed Chris to stand by and do nothing.

He looked Chris in the eye. “How does it feel?” His voice cracked with pent up emotion. “It ruined my life! I spent two years as a German prisoner, and another two trying to put my life back together. And I failed! The woman I love just broke off our engagement, and I think I’ve lost her forever. I have nightmares almost every time I close my eyes.” He took a step towards Chris. “That’s how it feels!”

There was a moment of silence, in which Roger could hear the wind, before Chris tried to protest. “At least you got to fight! At least you got to do something!”

“All I got was a near death experience that will haunt me for the rest of my life! I would have traded places with you at any time!” Roger pounded his fist through the air. “You can have the glory if you want it! I want my life back!”

Chris uncrossed his arms. “Well, I guess it’s too late now.” He turned and went back into the house. Roger returned to the car and sat down, too shaky to drive. He hadn’t even been aware of feeling the way he did, until the words came tumbling out, His own intensity scared him.

Was it really too late? Was there no way he could find happiness? Or had Chris merely meant that it was too late for them to trade places?

Roger set his jaw. It wouldn’t be too late; not for him. He wouldn’t let the war destroy the life he had fought so hard for; every day had been a struggle for survival. He wasn’t going to let Nancy’ first refusal derail him from trying again, and again, if necessary.

He was ready for the hardest battle of his life.

***

Room 285; The Dry Grass Inn; Roswell, New Mexico; July 7, 1947; 7:19 P.M.

Anita sat cross-legged on her bed, flipping through pages of notes she’d made to herself over the last three days. Her deadline was approaching much too swiftly; if she didn’t have the article written by midnight, she would lose her promotion, and possibly her job. She knew she had to write something, and soon, but writing an article that would destroy the anonymity of this small town no longer felt like a respectable goal.

Someone knocked tentatively on the door. Anita scrambled up, checking herself in the mirror to make sure she looked decent before opening the door. Nancy Gilbert stood in the open doorway, clutching her purse tightly.

“Hi! What are you doing here?” Anita motioned Nancy inside and returned to her perch on the bed.

“Um,” Nancy settled uneasily into the room’s only chair. “I discovered something, the other night after…you know, and I couldn’t think of anyone else I could show it to besides you. I figured you’d know what to do about it.”

“Oh,” Anita was confused. “Sure. What is it?”

“Here.” Nancy rummaged in her purse and came up with a tattered envelope. “I’m sorry, I just copied the information down. I hope you can read it.”

“Oh, it’s no problem.” Anita frowned as she scanned Nancy’s neat cursive. She was fairly sure that the text came from some science textbook, and its content made her heart skip a beat. She tried not to show any emotion as she read the concise text discussing the theories that life existed on other planets.

“Oh, I feel so silly now, sitting here with you reading that!” Nancy jumped up. “I don’t know, alone in my room in the middle of the night it seemed like a plausible idea, but I guess I let my imagination get the best of me. I am so sorry for wasting your time.”

“No, not at all,” Anita protested.

Nancy shook her head, dark curls swinging around her face. “And me! Behaving like a foolish school girl with my childish ideas! I’ll just take those ridiculous notes and go!”

“Actually,” Anita held tight to the envelope. “I’d like to hold onto this if I could?”

“Okay,” Nancy said, bewildered by Anita’s interest.

“Can you tell me what book it came from?”

“’A Modern Guide to Biology.’”

Anita scribbled the title down and set the envelope with her other notes on the bed.

“I guess I’ll go now.” Nancy stood up, but Anita stopped her.

“Wait! Is there any chance I could interview you too?”

“Me?” Nancy flushed. “Why?”

“Well you were there, on Pullman Ranch, on the night of July fourth, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I want to hear your account of what happened.”

“Oh. Okay.” Nancy thought hard before giving a brief narrative of her role in the incident. Her description was very short, with no details, and Anita sensed that she was embarrassed to be involved. She wished that Nancy would elaborate more, but she jotted down her story word for word anyway.

“Now this Roger person,” Anita asked, tapping her pen on her note pad, “he’s your fiance?”

“No, my ex-fiance.”

“What happened?”

“We-I broke it off.” Nancy looked at the carpet and bit her lip.

“Why?”

“He was…different, ever since he came back from the war. More distant. I didn’t want to marry him if his heart wasn’t in it.”

Anita nodded, and reached out sympathetically to pat Nancy’s arm. “War does that to some people. Throws their emotional balance off.”

Nancy stiffened. “At least that’s what I thought it was. It turns out he never truly loved me. Right after we broke up, he went and kissed Ellen Pullman.”

“You’re kidding!” Anita was shocked. “What a bastard!”

“I know!” Nancy looked tearful. “I just never thought he would do something like that to me. He claims he didn’t, but I-”

“Wait, what do you mean ‘he claims he didn’t?’” Anita asked.

“He says she kissed him, but it meant nothing to him. He came to talk with me yesterday, wanting us to be together again, but I don’t think I can trust him.” She looked up, brown eyes worried and full of tears. “Did I do the wrong thing? Should I have believed him?”

Anita was flattered by Nancy’s trust in her judgment, and thought carefully before responding. “Well, I only saw Roger for a short time the other night, but I know you a little bit, and I’d say that I would trust and respect anyone you fell in love with. If this man swears that he didn’t kiss another woman on purpose, I’d believe him.”

“Really?” Nancy looked anxious. She bit her lip again.

“Yeah. You seem like someone with good judgment in people. I would wager he’s as honest and kind as you are.”

Nancy stood up, wringing her hands. “So you’re saying I should give him another chance?”

Anita opened the door for her. “I’m saying you should follow your heart.”

Nancy smiled, the first real smile Anita had ever seen. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

Anita closed the door and crossed the room to pick up her papers, flipping to a blank page in her notebook. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, head bent, she wrote furiously, pausing only to edit her mistakes and stretch her cramped hand.

Finally she sat back and straightened her legs, looking over her finished article. It was scrawled in almost illegible handwriting, full of cross-outs and spelling errors, but she knew it was one of her best pieces of writing. She dragged the phone off the dresser and asked the operator to put her through to New York. It almost hurt her eyes to be looking at the room again, instead of the white paper she’d been staring at for…

“Four hours!” she cried, checking her watch again in disbelief. Someone answered the phone on the other end. “Oh, hello! Can I speak to Mr. Redmond, please? It’s Miss D’Arcy. Thank you.” There was a pause. “Hello, Mr. Redmond? It’s Anita. No, I’m still in New Mexico, but I’ve got a story that you won’t believe.”

***

Pullman Ranch; Roswell, New Mexico; July 8, 1947; 8:15 A.M.

“Coffee?” Ellen held the pot out in front of Chris.

“What?” he looked up at her, startled.

“Do you want more coffee?”

“Oh. Yes.” Chris bent his head and returned to the article he was reading in the paper. He knew Ellen couldn’t figure out why he’d asked her to buy a copy of the New York Times when she went into town earlier, but she’d obeyed. He needed to see if a certain article had appeared, and if it had, what it said.

“Where exactly were you the other night?” Ellen asked, again breaking his concentration.

“I told you yesterday, I had to do something by myself! There was no need for you to worry!” He wished she would stop asking questions; they were making him uncomfortable.

“Yes, but I did worry!” Ellen’s tone was sharp. “Look, Chris! I know you think that because you’re older you can tell me what to do, but I’m an adult now and I can think for myself!”

Chris was startled; Ellen never stood up for herself. She would cry and whine when she didn’t get her way, but she never managed to argue with him like an equal. He had always treated her like less than an equal because of it. “I’m sorry.”

Her face registered surprise, and Chris wondered when he had last apologized to her. “It’s okay.” There was a period of comfortable silence between them before someone knocked on the front door, and she jumped up. “I’ll get it.”

Chris could hear her opening the door, the low murmur of voices, then Ellen calling to him, “Chris! Someone here to see you!” He stood up. If the pattern of the last several days was anything to go by, it was probably Anita. He was surprised to realize that the idea didn’t bother him. In fact, he wanted to see her again.

He opened the door from the kitchen to the front hall. A young man, dressed in a black suit and wearing dark sunglasses was standing beside Ellen, who looked mildly alarmed. As Chris stopped in the doorway, the man pulled off his sunglasses, stuck them in his front pocket, and extended a hand to Chris.

“Agent Kenneth Vale, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Chris took the hand and shook it. “What are you doing here?”

“I received information that there was some sort of disturbance on your property the night of July fourth. I’m here to investigate.”

“This is my property. I haven’t given you permission to be here.”

The agent’s sharp blue eyes bore into his, and Chris felt a twinge of fear. “Don’t make me use force. I’ll confiscate your property if I have to.”

“You can’t do that,” Chris said.

Agent Vale just stared at him, and Chris lost his nerve. His land was too valuable to risk it for the sake of an argument. He turned on his heel and retreated to the kitchen, the door cutting off Ellen’s voice as she offered to show the agent out back. Chris sat down again and reached for the paper, flipping through it, barely noticing that his hands were shaking.

The headline caught his eye, and he was surprised that he hadn’t noticed the large block letters before. “THE NIGHT THE SKY CAME TUMBLING DOWN: Real Life Story of Extra-Terrestrials Landing in Roswell, New Mexico.” The attention-grabbing words sounded in his mind like a death sentence. They would destroy the solitude he had fought so hard to build around himself, and for a moment he forgot who was responsible for the article.

The print beneath the title was small, and it took a moment for the words to register in his mind. The author’s name, ten letters: Anita D’Arcy.

***

60 Murray Lane; Roswell, New Mexico; July 8, 1947; 2:02 P.M.

Nancy tried knocking three times before she finally made contact with the door. It opened slowly to reveal a disheveled Roger. His dark hair was uncombed and he looked as though he hadn’t slept since she had last talked to him.

“Hi,” she said quietly, hoping that he wouldn’t slam the door in her face. It was what she deserved, after all.

“Hi,” he responded warily.

“Listen, I behaved really badly the other day and I want-”

“Don’t say anything!” Roger cut her off. “Let me explain first.” He stepped outside in his pajamas. “I have been nothing but selfish for the past two years, and I know how horrible it’s been for you. I can understand if you never want to see me again because of it, because you never deserved what I gave you. But you need to know that there’s nothing at all between Ellen and me.”

“Roger, I-”

“Let me finish. I love you, Nancy,” his voice was hoarse with emotion. “I love you, and only you. I love the way you smile and your hair and how perfectly you fit in my arms. But most of all I love your kind heart and your brilliant mind.”

Nancy realized that Anita was right. Roger was a wonderful man, and he would never hurt her intentionally. She’d been so stupid in refusing to see how he’d changed.

“I want to marry you, Nancy,” Roger continued, placing his hands on her shoulders. She felt as though there was no one else in the world but the two of them. “But first,” he smiled slyly, a rare look from him, “I want you to go to college.”

“What?” Nancy was shocked. She had forgotten completely about college; she would have married him on the spot if he’d asked.

“You should have gone to college six years ago, but you didn’t, and it’s my fault. You could change the world with your mind, and you’ve been wasting it serving sodas in your father’s drugstore.”

“But what about you, Roger? I don’t want to leave you for another four years.”

“I’ll go to college too. I was accepted once, I can probably get in again. We’ll go to Boston together, you at Radcliffe, me at Harvard.” His eyes were bright with excitement. “How does that sound?”

“Perfect!” Nancy whispered, throwing her arms around his neck. He held on for dear life, swinging her around in an arc. She murmured into his ear, “I love you, Roger.”

He set her down, and kissed her gently, holding her face in his hands. “I love you, too.” He smiled sheepishly. “I’ll go get dressed, and then we can go tell our parents that we’re engaged again.”

***

Pullman Ranch; Roswell, New Mexico; July 8, 1947; 5:15 P.M.

“Miss Pullman?”

Ellen jumped, nearly dropping the basket of fresh vegetables she was carrying in from her garden. Agent Vale was leaning on the fence, smiling at her.

“Oh, you scared me!” Ellen cried, blushing. She knew she looked frightful with her hair in two pigtails, wearing her brother’s clothes. “Can I help you?”

“I was wondering if your brother might be around. I need to talk to him.”

“Oh, no, he’s not.” Ellen set down her basket and walked towards the fence. “He went into town to buy some rope. Why? Is there anything I can help you with, Agent Vale?”

“Please. Call me Kenneth.” The agent twinkled his blue eyes at her, and Ellen felt her heart skip a beat.

“Okay.” Ellen gazed up at him seductively through her lashes. “Is there anything I can help you with, Kenneth?”

“Well, I sure am hungry. I don’t suppose there’s anything you could do about that?”

Ellen arched one eyebrow. “I could try. Follow me…Kenneth.” She knew he was watching her as she walked towards the house, doing her best to look feminine and graceful in Chris’s overalls.

Kenneth followed her into the kitchen and sat at the large wood table, propping his feet up on one of the chairs as Ellen made him a sandwich. “You know,” he said softly as she set the plate in front of him, “someone as pretty as you are shouldn’t spend all of her time working. A girl like you should be able to have fun, see a movie, go dancing.”

Ellen sat down across from him. “Well, Chris needs help running the ranch, and I’m the only person he has.” She smiled. “But I still have time to have fun if I want to.”

“Your brother works you too har