Emmaline and her mother entered Dad’s room after going to the cafeteria for food. They had spent the rest of the day either quietly talking by Dad’s bed, or browsing on their phones. A few times, a nurse came in to take Dad’s vital signs, but other than that, there had been little else going on. They were still waiting to hear from Anna’s doctor, and of course, hoping that maybe Dad would just wake up on his own. Eventually, Mom declared a break for food, and Emmaline had offered to go help to have a reason to stretch her legs.

  Eric had stayed and had grabbed the remote for the television. He now had the remote pointed at the TV mounted in the room's corner, flipping through channels with a glazed look in his eyes. The sound was muted, but the images flickered across his face—a cooking show, a car commercial, and a news bulletin that he flipped from so fast that Emmaline couldn’t see what it was about.

  “Anything interesting?” Emmaline asked as she sat down in her chair with the styrofoam container and a bottle of Sprite. She opened the lid, and the aroma of the grilled chicken sandwich and enormous pile of tater tots hit her in an inviting wave.

  “Not really,” Eric frowned as he stopped channel surfing to take the container Mom offered him. “Thanks.”

  He set the remote on the armrest of the chair as he opened up his food. They had all gotten the same thing. Not exactly a home-cooked meal like Mom’s, but it would do. Emmaline was picking at the last of her tater tots when movement on the screen caught her attention. The familiar presidential seal appeared, followed by a somber news anchor whose lips formed the words “breaking news” before the feed cut to the White House press room. Her fork froze midway to her mouth.

  “Eric, turn it up!” Emmaline told her brother.

  Her brother fumbled for the remote, nearly knocking over his half-finished soda. He jabbed at the volume button several times until the president’s voice filled the sterile hospital room.

  “My fellow Americans, I am addressing the nation regarding the unusual craft that appeared over Lake Thurmond and briefly over New York two days ago,” the president said, standing behind the podium, his expression grave but measured.

  “I want to assure the American people we are taking this situation with the utmost seriousness. Our military and scientific experts are working around the clock to analyze all available data, and we remain in close communication with our international partners.”

  Mom set her food aside, wiping her hands slowly on a napkin, her eyes never leaving the screen.

  “At this time, we can confirm that the vessel appears to be of extraterrestrial origin,” the president continued. “However, there has been no hostile action taken against our nation or any other. There has been no communication from the entity involved, and we can confirm that the craft departed Earth’s atmosphere shortly before noon on Wednesday. It does not appear to be in Earth orbit at this time.”

  A chill ran through Emmaline despite the warmth of the hospital room. She glanced at her mother. Cassie’s face had gone perfectly still, like a photograph.

  “I understand the fear and uncertainty this news may cause. Let me be clear: the United States government has contingency plans for situations such as this, and we are taking every necessary step to ensure the safety and security of our citizens.”

  “We ask the public to remain calm and to avoid speculation. Any individuals who believe they may have information relevant to this event are encouraged to contact federal authorities using a dedicated hotline, which will appear at the bottom of your screen.”

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  The numbers scrolled past. Mom’s eyes tracked them with an intensity that made Emmaline wonder whether she was memorizing them—or trying not to.

  “As we learn more, we will share updates in a responsible and timely manner. Until then, I ask for your patience, your trust, and your continued belief in the strength and resilience of this country,” the president said. “Thank you. May God bless you, and may God bless the United States of America.”

  The broadcast cut to a panel of experts, their faces grave as they began immediately dissecting the president’s words. Eric turned the television off.

  “I wonder how long it will take Mr. Grober to call that number?” Eric said.

  Emmaline snorted. “He’s probably dialing it right now.”

  “Well, at least the president didn’t come right out and tell the world about us,” Mom replied in a quiet voice.

  “For now,” Eric said as gathered his leftovers and stood up. He went to throw his styrofoam container in the trash and reached out to take Emmaline’s. “Are you done?”

  She nodded and handed her container to him. “You think the government will rat us out?”

  “I think for now, it is in their best interest to keep what they know a secret, but at some point that might change. We may want to consider getting out in front of this and telling everyone ourselves. At least then, we can control the narrative.” Eric said as he brushed the crumbs of his meal off his pants and sat back down.

  Emmaline frowned. “I’m not sure I like that idea.”

  Mom shook her head. “It’s not that simple, Eric. Controlling a narrative like this…” She trailed off, glancing at Dad’s still form on the hospital bed. “The moment we go public, we become targets from all sides. The government, the media, religious groups, conspiracy theories. Everyone will be at our door demanding answers we aren’t ready to give or even can give them.”

  “But if people find out about us anyway—” Eric started.

  “Then we’ll deal with it,” Mom said firmly. “It doesn’t matter which way it comes out; it’s going to be bad for all of us and disrupt our lives in big ways. We need time to come to terms with Michael being gone and try to get your father well again before we even attempt to deal with all that mess.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “We should get ready to go home soon. I think we all could use a good night’s sleep.”

  Emmaline sat there in the quiet that settled over them, realizing that it wasn’t a matter of if but when the truth would come out. She had secretly hoped it would never come out, but after talking to Tyler today and then Mr. Grober, she knew it there when would be sooner rather than later.

  She slumped in her seat. Would it be so bad if everyone knew she was an alien? That her family was different? Yes, she decided. It absolutely would be that bad. She had seen enough movies about aliens to know how humans reacted. In the best scenarios, they were curious but wary, keeping their distance. At worst, they grabbed pitchforks and torches—or in the modern version, guns and government agents with unmarked vans. She shuddered at the thought.

  “You okay, Em?” Eric asked, noticing her reaction.

  “Just thinking about what happens when people find out.” She pulled her knees up to her chest, making herself smaller in the hospital chair. “It’s going to be bad, won’t it?”

  Eric gave her a soothing smile. “Maybe not. People might be fascinated rather than afraid. You never know.”

  But Emmaline remembered what her brother had said about people being afraid of what they didn’t understand. She was pretty sure he was now just saying something to make her feel better.

  “Right,” Em replied, unconvinced. “Because humans have such a great track record with accepting differences.”

  Mom sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Let’s not borrow trouble. We’ve got enough problems as it is.”

  That didn’t make her feel better either. Mom and Eric changed the subject to small talk, but Emmaline sat stewing in her fear of being outed as an alien. By the time Mom decided to call it a day, Em was ready to bolt from the room like a startled deer.

  In the elevator, she stared at her reflection in the polished metal walls—same frizzy red hair, same freckles, same everything—yet the girl staring back suddenly felt like a stranger wearing a human costume.

  It was well past dark by the time they got home. Emmaline made some excuse about being tired and made a dash for her room. She shut the door, pressed her back to it, and slid the lock with shaking fingers. The dark felt safer; no mirror could betray her. She peeled off her clothes like shedding skin, crawled under the quilt, and curled into the smallest possible shape, whispering, “Still me, still me,” until exhaustion folded her into a restless slumber.