We had a hard time convincing the aliens that we didn't want our car repaired. I'm sure they never understood why we wanted it to remain a mess. They kept showing us pictures of how the car would look once they were done: all shiny and new, full tank of gas, all the dents, breaks, and damage gone. "All to the highest levels of current native technology," they said. I can still remember their puzzled expressions when we refused.

It was nothing compared to their reaction to what we wanted them to do with my old body.

The problem was, that if they fixed the car, we would have had a VERY hard time explaining how "Fred" had died. We would have had a car in better-than-new condition, and one very mangled body, obviously killed by a high-impact collision. We knew that the state trooper (and, we supposed, the local police) would probably understand, but I doubt that our insurance company was up to date regarding alien activity on Route 99.

For that reason, we didn't want the aliens to touch the car wreck, not even to fix the tiniest detail.

We also asked them to put my old body back where they'd found it. They were horrified by the request, but they did it.

Full of doubts and misgivings, in the end the aliens did as we asked, and with many a shudder they wished us goodbye and got the hell out of there, as fast as their flying saucer could carry them. I doubt that they ever came back to our planet again.

They took off just before sunrise, and in the growing light we took stock of ourselves.

"Fred" had looked a mangled mess when he was lying on the infirmary table. In the sun, on the grass, he was a heartrending sight. We had to move away from the broken, bleeding body. It was too much to bear.

The rest of us looked great, except for some rips and stains on our clothes.

The state trooper who responded to our call was the same one we'd met last night. He was clearly shaken by what happened to us, and apologized many times over, saying it was "all his fault."

"But, honestly, it's never happened before," he explained. "They've never hurt anyone before. I'm going to talk with my commanding officer to see if there is something we can do for you — not that anything can ever make up for—"

As shaken as he was, the trooper was the one who suggested the line we should take. "I'm sorry to say this, ma'am," he said to Kristy Anne, "But it would be best for all of you if you say your husband was driving. I know it sounds callous, but the insurance company isn't going to believe that you were running from UFOs. Now, if we say that he was doing the driving, then it's simple: he made a wrong turn and hit the gas instead of the brake. End of story. But if you say the girl was driving, she'll end up being charged with vehicular manslaughter, and that can be prosecuted as a felony. And felonies are forever."

As grisly as it sounded, we all agreed. The trooper wrote up our statements, quizzed us on them, and made sure we understood the importance of sticking to our stories.

Then the scene got mighty crowded: the coroner came, an ambulance came, the tow truck came, and more police arrived. The local newspeople showed up as well, though the police kept them at bay. The EMTs checked us over. The police asked us questions and took our statements a second time. As we left, I saw the trooper talking with the coroner.

One of the local police gave us a ride down the dirt road back to the highway, where Aggie was waiting. She brought us back to her house, where we all fell apart. The four of us cried until we were exhausted.

After that, there were phone calls to be made: the insurance company, the coroner, the funeral home, my brother and sister, our close friends... and we had to rent a car to get back home.

"I've got to make the calls," Kristy Anne said. "Like it or not, you're just an eighteen-year-old kid who's not even related."

"I'll say I'm you," I told her, and I began banging down the list. I could handle the business end of my death; Unfortunately, I had to leave the more difficult calls — the ones to friends and family — to Kristy Anne.

After I'd made all the calls on my list, I was itching to get home. There were so many things to do, now that I was dead: there was my life insurance, my 401k... I had to get my name off all our accounts, and there were all my belongings to clean up.

"Oh, there's one more person you need to call," Kristy Anne told me. "Your mother."

"My mother?" I repeated. "My mother's dead."

"Not your mother, dummy, Dexie's mother. Her mother in Spokane. She's expecting you. You need to call her and put off the trip."

I tried to fish in Dexie's bag for the number, but it was so hopelessly full of junk, I ended up dumping the contents on the floor. Among the debris was a scrap of paper with the name "Lizzie Martineau" and a number in the 509 area code. I called the operator and was told that 509 would be right for Spokane. So I dialed the number and got voicemail. The message was the standard, out-of-the-box message. I wasn't sure what to say, so I hung up, composed myself and called again. I told the machine that I was Dexie. I explained about the accident, said I was fine, but that I wasn't sure when I'd be coming. I said I'd be in touch.

That seemed to be all that could be done for now. I smiled at Kristy Anne. She looked at me with a sad look and sighed.

"This is way beyond strange," she said. "I don't think the impact of all these changes has even remotely begun to hit us. It's awful having to tell everyone that you're dead when you're sitting right there, where I can reach out and touch you."

"I know," I said.

"Do you?" she countered. "I don't think you realize that even if you're not really dead, for all intents and purposes, you might as well be."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you understand? We've lost each other. I've lost my husband! You've lost your wife!"

Her words hit me like a Mack truck. "What do you mean? We haven't lost each other! I'm not going anywhere!"

"You are an eighteen-year-old girl, regardless of what you are inside. You're not Fred Holderlin anymore, and you're not Dexie Lane. You're not my husband any more, and I'm not your wife. What's happened to us is worse than any divorce. We're friends now, sure, but for one thing, we can't sleep together anymore."

"Why?"

"It would be too weird," she said. "I'm sorry." She stood up to leave. Then she added, "And think of Carla: she's lost her father and her best friend."

"I'm both now. Can't I be both?"

"No," she said. "It's just not possible."

She stood in silence for a minute or so. Then she drew a deep breath and said, "There is one more phone call to make, but I don't have the energy for it."

"Can I do it?"

"Yes. Can you check our answering machine at home? I can't deal with it right now. I'm off to bed. I'm exhausted, I hope I can sleep. I think Carla left you the bottom bunk." With that, she shuffled out.

I sat alone, looking through the glass doors at the blackness outside. It was hard to not feel guilty about the state of things. Was any of it my fault? I didn't think so, but for some reason I felt that it was. Somehow, it seemed, I'd hurt everyone that I cared about, and I didn't see how to fix it. So, yes, I felt guilty. I felt something else, too: excitement. I fwas swimming in a heady mix of guilt and excitement.

Thank goodness Kristy Anne and Carla had gotten some benefit from the aliens — physically, they were never better. Kristy Anne looked twenty years younger. The excess pounds she'd been carrying were gone, along with her wrinkles and gray hair. She'd gone from being legally blind to not needing glasses at all.

And Carla — her epilepsy was gone, along with some other, more minor issues. Well, minor to me -- probably her issues with digestion and acne were major for her.

So... considering what the two of the gained, it wasn't as though I won the lottery and left everyone else in the poor house.

But I really had won the lottery, hadn't I? I'd been entirely reset: I was back at the beginning of life. Sure, I'd have to learn about being a girl, but how hard would that be? And sure, our family relationships would change... I wasn't sure what they'd be like, but how could it be bad? Maybe Kristy Anne was just tired. I tried to look at myself from her point of view, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't make the mental leap to put myself in their shoes. I sat down and made an effort to imagine how I must seem now to Kristy Anne and Carla. I tried, but I couldn't get there. it was too hard, too foreign. I mean, for Carla — I was still her dad, wasn't I? Inside? And outside, I was her best friend. I knew it was mixed up and messed up, but I thought I could make it work.

Then in a sudden moment, I abruptly felt very, very tired, as if the weight of the day snuck up and settled over me. My brain couldn't think any more; all I wanted to do was drop into bed. I was sure I'd fall asleep in a moment.

But first I dialed our home number and listened to our voicemail messages. I wrote down names and numbers; there was nothing that couldn't wait, and nothing I didn't expect.

Except for one message: it was from Dexie's mother. Not the one in Spokane, but the mother she grew up with. And the message was this:

Dexie, you were supposed to pick up your belongings BEFORE you left for Spokane, but you didn't.
Just remember that trash day is Tuesday, and if any of your stuff is still here, out it goes.

That was it. No hello or goodbye. No humanity or kindness. I felt my fists ball up and my jaw set. A moment ago I was ready to drop into bed and sleep. Now an angry fire burned inside me. I looked at the clock. It was too late to call back, but oh, did I want to.