Author's Note: My apologies for the lack of commotion in this chapter. Hope it's not too terrible. Oh, and savor the general angst-lessness while you can. It won't last.


Theresa and Juan creep stealthily into Mr. Gonzalez's house. In the kitchen, she peeks into the living room and sees Mr. Gonzalez, curled up in his worn armchair, newspaper face down on his plateau of a stomach.

"Shh…" she warns Juan, as they begin to put the groceries away and Juan opens and shuts a cabinet with a little too much force. "Don't wake him."

Juan nods. He hasn't seen Mr. Gonzalez in years, not since he used to roll with Arturo and was over at his house every day.

Once they've finished with the groceries, Theresa and Juan leave the cozy little kitchen and head for the front door. Juan opens the door and Theresa's just about to leave when they hear a disgruntled snort from inside the house.

"Theresa, you go on home, my dear. Juan—get back inside this house now!"

Theresa laughs and Juan looks somewhat bewildered. "What, you don't remember him being this sharp? He's got the ears and tongue of a razorblade," explains Theresa to Juan. He nods, and awkwardly reaches for her, holding her tightly.

It seems as though they won't be going for ice cream after all. Theresa finds her heart strangely sinking. She wasn't actually looking forward to that, was she? Oh, maybe she was, but Juan's just a friend, they can catch up another time.

"It was good to see you," he breathes into her neck. Theresa has this sudden feeling of speechlessness. She wants to say something in return, but she can't. So she stands there, wrapped up in Juan's laborious arms, breathing in his clean scent and wondering where he came from, what she did to deserve a caring friend like him.

"Maybe I'll see you tomorrow," Theresa ventures haphazardly, surprised at herself but more pleased when Juan nods his head enthusiastically.

"See you." He disappears back into Mr. Gonzalez's house, and Theresa almost pities him. Juan will be in that house all night, listening to Mr. Gonzalez and answering his questions.

Theresa takes her time walking back to her house. She stops on her front lawn, a patch of clovers and weeds is all it is, really. There's a clear outline of the full moon even though it's only five-thirty and images of ET play like a movie in Theresa's head. She remembers watching the movie with Ryan, making a chart to track the full moon so they could be sure to see ET and Elliot on the bicycle. They never saw him, though, but Theresa can't help staring curiously at that moon for a few minutes.

She sighs, shakes her head after yet another disappointment, and walks over to the entrance of her tidy home. She stomps up the steps unintentionally, and cringes when her fingers grasp the handle to the still torn screen door. Theresa promises herself, while the screen door creaks and groans, that she'll fix the netting and get the hinges oiled before Ryan comes home.

Theresa knows she won't. But if her empty promises can give her the courage to live for one more day without Ryan, she'll continue to make them.

When she walks into the kitchen, Dolores is at the counter, cracking eggs into a bowl.

"Ma, I'm home," announces Theresa. Dolores drops the egg she's working with and turns around to face Theresa, her eyes shining.

Theresa stares curiously at her mother. Dolores' eyes are fixated on her and they're glistening with tears.

"What, Ma? Do I have something on my face?" Theresa reaches up to touch her nose.

"No, child. Mr. Cohen called," Dolores manages to say, her tone devoid of emotion.

Theresa bites her lip nervously…she's dying to ask, but now that all is said and done does she really want to know? "Is…Oh…did he mention anything about Ry—"

"It's not him, Theresa, it's not him!" Dolores cuts in excitedly. She walks over to Theresa and squeezes her tightly and kisses her on both cheeks repeatedly.

"It's not him, it's not him. It's not him!" says Theresa thoughtfully. And then, "He's alive!"

She releases herself from her mother's embrace and runs to the front door, opening it and the screen door quickly.

"Mr. Gonzalez, Mr. Gonzalez," she shouts, running across the lawn to his house and opening the door.

Mr. Gonzalez is sitting in his armchair, Juan standing against the wall. "Yes, Theresa?" he says.

"He's alive! Ryan's alive…the body isn't his." She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses his leathery cheek. Mr. Gonzalez winks at her.

"Eh, now?"

"I feel like I can breathe again, Mr. Gonzalez," Theresa explains, hugging Juan this time.

Mr. Gonzalez nods his head, understand fully. "Good. Pessimism does a person no good, you hear? Everything happens for a reason."

"Oh, you knew all along, didn't you?" Theresa chides Mr. Gonzalez gently. He smiles and shrugs.

That's the best she's going to get from Mr. Gonzalez, and Theresa's okay with that. Ryan is alive. Her Ryan—well, not her Ryan—is alive. He's not a headless body, found lying in an alley in Rialto. Ryan is living, breathing, flesh and bone. Theresa is giddy with relief. She doesn't even notice she's falling over backwards until Juan catches her, steadies her.

"Are you okay?" Juan asks Theresa worriedly. "You just practically fainted."

"I know," smiles Theresa, "I'm just relieved, that's all."

"Oh," answers Juan. He looks meaningfully at Mr. Gonzalez. "Do want to go for some ice cream?"

"I'd love to," Theresa answers quickly, without stopping to think. She doesn't want Juan to think she actually likes him, when they're just friends…but—oh, she shouldn't even be thinking about the possibilities, not with Ryan still missing—yes, he's alive, but missing.

"Great. Mr. Gonzalez, do you want some? We can bring it back for you if you want…" Juan politely asks him. Mr. Gonzalez shakes his head and picks his newspaper off of his belly.

"You two run along now." He winks at Juan and Theresa makes a mental note to ask Juan what's up with his and Mr. Gonzalez's eye communication.

"Night, Mr. Gonzalez," Theresa says, and walks into the kitchen.

"I'll be out in a minute, Theresa," Juan calls after her, and after he hears the front door slam he turns to Mr. Gonzalez.

"You remember what I told you, Juan; be careful with that girl. She's gonna break your heart, I can feel it in my left hip."

Juan sighs. "I know she's trouble…I know Eddie, I know what she's done to guys in the past but I'm still attracted to her. I like her, Mr. Gonzalez, and I think she kind of likes me too."

"I'm not saying she doesn't like you; that much is obvious. Just…be cautious. I think she's got her heart set on Ryan and I just don't want to see you get hurt," Mr. Gonzalez explains.

"I think this time's gonna be different, her and me, I mean," Juan says firmly. "I have to go…thanks for the advice, Mr. G."

He too enters the kitchen and walks to the door.

"Don't call me 'Mr. G.' ever again, boy," yells Mr. Gonzalez after him.

Juan laughs appreciatively. "It won't happen again, Mr. G.," he shouts in response.

He opens the door and steps outside, smiling at Theresa. He takes her hand and they walk down the block, Juan wondering if Theresa likes him and Theresa wondering if Juan could ever like her. They can wonder all they want; the truth is crystal clear.


A knock comes at the door. "Room service."

Sandy gets out of bed, hurriedly throws a bathrobe over his shoulders—for he is unclothed—and opens the door.

The young man in the hotel uniform wheels a cart with silver platters and a bucket of ice into the room. He reaches beneath the cart and produces a bottle of champagne, settling it comfortably in the ice.

"Enjoy." The young man turns to leave and Sandy fumbles with his wallet, handing the kid five bucks. "Thank you, sir."

Sandy closes the door and smiles at his wife, who is in bed. Kirsten smiles through tears of happiness. Not again, thinks Sandy. Kirsten's been crying on and off since Petey called with the news.

"It's not Ryan," Petey had said.

"Oh, I see," replied Sandy neutrally. Beside him, Kirsten had been squirming with anticipation. "Well—thank you, Petey."

"Good news or bad news?" Kirsten had attacked Sandy with an assortment of questions as soon as he'd hung up the phone.

"Kirsten, stay calm," Sandy said.

"Sandy!" Kirsten had cried, her voice elevating a few decibels and tears springing to her eyes.

"Fine. Kirsten—the body isn't Ryan's!" Sandy had smiled and pulled Kirsten in for a kiss. She'd kissed him all right, but not before slapping him lightly.

"Don't you ever do that to me again," she'd warned.

Sandy laughs, remembering what came after that. After all those years, he and Kirsten were still on fire. Okay…that was enough sharing.

Kirsten gets out of bed, without a bathrobe, mind you, and walks over to the room service cart. She lifts the plate covering and breathes in the smell of warm grilled cheese.

"Good choice." She points to the grilled cheese approvingly. Sandy, still up, opens the bottle of champagne and finds two wine goblets beneath the cart. He opens the bottle with the opener, also beneath the cart, and pours himself and Kirsten a glass each.

Kirsten takes a ravenous bite of the grilled cheese and accepts the glass Sandy hands her.

"To Ryan," she says through a mouthful of bread and good old American cheese, "To finding him and bringing him home safely."

"To Ryan," Sandy clinks his glass against Kirsten's and takes a long swig. "However we find him, and whatever state we find him in, to staying strong and sticking together."

Kirsten washes down the grilled cheese with two sips of champagne. Then—out of nowhere—comes a guilty look that plasters itself across her face, uninvited. "To Seth," she whispers, fear in her eyes.

"To Seth," agrees Sandy, feeling some of Kirsten's guilt radiate over to him. They didn't even think about Seth. But now they are. So it's time for another toast, some more champagne. "To finding Seth so Summer can kick his ass for leaving, and then we can ground him infinitely, but not really."

Kirsten smiles, feeling slightly better already. She runs a hand through her disheveled bed hair. "To both of our sons." Sandy raises his glass to meet Kirsten's.

"To both of our sons," he repeats, his heart suddenly draining itself of despair and filling in the emptiness with hope.