"Aliens," she says, in much the way she said 'skin guys', the protective absence she's enveloped in wobbling but unbroken.

Aliens. Why not? They'll go with the wizardry and the cult and the rest of the end of days. They're a bit past the point of disbelief, however much whatever is left of her academic integrity kicks at it.

The only evidence she has to go on is circumstantial and paltry, with a dozen superior alternative explanations she could come up with if she stopped to think about them, but what convinces her is this: John's afraid before he says it.

She pulls her hands back from the pillow. They stick unpleasantly, but she's had worse things on her hands. Her fingers come to curl below his bare elbows, and they're pressed forearm to forearm, an unbreakable loop. His skin is warm against hers. Good. Familiar.

"Well." She squeezes him back, a touch too hard, fright skittering into her sharp little fingers. "It's like I've always said. Me and my friends would have beaten E.T. to death with hammers."

She knows things are bad when she starts telling his jokes for him.