Maria leads Michael to her car, frustrated that she fell into this trap again. Happens the same every time. The first, when her mother started showing symptoms of forgetting. The second, when the second opinion found no evidence of a shift, and now, when not even the mystical can intervene. The sun lies about its ability to keep them warm and she wraps her jacket closer around her. She gets into her car, unlocks the door for MIchael and crawls back in.

Maria's the only one who stayed. Alex left because of his dad; Max was half a person since Liz left; Isobel was too busy trying to fit in to ever be available. He had to admit, he was an asshole whenever he went to the bar, but he felt like he had an unspoken agreement with Maria-no matter what happened, they could come back to each other, veterans of abandonment and disappointment. That's what hurt every time she spoke of regret and threat in the morning-not the hurt that breaks hearts, more like the hurt between kindred spirits. People inevitably destined to take care of each other for the rest of their lives. While Alex was his weakness, with Maria, he found someone with whom he could be strong. "Wanna get something to eat?

"Yeah," she says putting the key into the ignition, "but after we get on the road. You payin?"

"Thanks to Arizona," he answers, "I have enough for a diner I spotted closer to the stateline."

With the "Awesome."

She stays silent from leaving the parking lot, not sure of what to say or of what more to ask of Michael considering the energy shift she witnessed between him and Alex almost two days earlier. She didn't open herself to knowing what was there, leading her to believe there was something more than what she wanted to see. Michael was like the Wild Pony sign, a beacon towards home in need of replacing. Whether it was home or the beacon that needed to change remained unclear for her.

"Can I turn on the radio?" he asks as they enter the freeway.

She shrugs.

He turns it on and changes the channel to a station playing Dierks Bentley. He starts humming to the song, mouthing some of the words.

"Didn't peg you for a singer, Guerin," she says.

"Well," he explains, "before the accident that ruined my hand, music was the only place I could find quiet...quiet from everything going on around me."

"Hmm," she says, lowering the tension from her shoulders, "it can serve that purpose for me from time to time. That's why I like singing...though I wish I grew up listening to more people who looked like me."

"I hear ya," he said.

She turned to look at him, furrowing her brows, "Guerin?"

"Ya know what I mean," he clarified, "I don't know if these people are the people I come from or if they look different."

"That sucks," Maria comments, changing her tone, "I take that for granted sometimes."

"What?"

"That as much as I'm the only one like me in Roswell, at least I know the people I come from…"

"Yeah," he sighs, leaning back into his chair and beginning the to sing along with the next song.

Maria doesn't push for more information for the leg of the trip to the diner. Something about the open desert and scattered traffic inspires her to think she's in the car by herself, with only her thoughts as company. The little bit of freedom she has until she goes back to a world where her mother's forgetting her and she does all she can to fight the urge to be complicit in being forgotten and forgetting the person who loves her the most. "Is that it?" Maria asks as she sees a sign stating a diner's 2 exits away.

Michael opens his eyes and turns to her and then to her finger. "Yeah," he answers adjusting his cowboy hat. "Hangover's killin me," he lies, considering the amount of alcohol they drank the night before, he figures he should be feeling some kind exhausted.

She pulls off on the exit, hoping for the best. They arrive and are among a few in the diner, it's still too early for a sunday rush. Maria leaves her jacket on as Michael takes off his and his cowboy hat. They drink coffee in silence, exchanging nonverbal forms of exhaustion and frustration until a waitress appears. "I'll have a Denver omelette," Michael says, "and a side of home fries.

"Same," Maria says smiling at another invisibilized comrade in the struggle of customer service, "thank you, Doreen," Maria concludes reading off the waitress's name tag.

Doreen nods and folds her order pad closed.

Maria leans back in her booth chair, takes in a deep breath.

"What?" Michael asks.

"Trying not to think," she answers avoiding his eyes. "I get this. I get why this sometimes happens," she admits, "and I know why I don't like it…"

"I've heard," Michael says.

"It's because of what happens after the morning," she explains, "where you go and what you do-and I get it. I get the hustle…"

"But?"

"But the bad boy's gotta get tired, Guerin," she says, "doesn't he get tired?"

Michael lowers his head, "No one to ever be good for, so I dunno."

"Because you're never bad enough to stay in trouble," she observes, "just enough to stay on the sidelines, like you're planning something."

He nods, "And you always seem to be on the best side of fun," he observed tilting his head, "no matter what you're going through, you smile through it, dance and sing through it, and you could be completely fucked up about something and no one knows...well not many people know, save the ones who know you don't wanna stay…"

"Look at that," she said smirking, "it's like you pay attention."

"Even when I'm not supposed to care," he bites.

They stare each other down, taking in the truths they've revealed about the other, the truth that keeps them stumbling back to each other when nothing and no one else makes sense. "I'm not the only one who doesn't wanna stay in Roswell," she admits.

"And I'm not the only one who has people they don't want to leave," he concludes, "am I?"

She returns to silence as Doreen comes back with coffee. She takes some in her cup, says thank you again, and turns her eyes towards the window, counting the minutes till they have something else to occupy their time than the vulnerability and grief they do such a good job of escaping in each other.