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Please consider turning it on! Remember Me. The cave was cold, air crisp and dry with the smell of metal and dust. If Rosa was alive then Max could be alive again.

Liz could pinpoint the moment her brain physically shut down her panic, packed it away into a tight little box and started parsing out the possibilities.

Max was still warm under her hands, she could still feel him just under her skin, like a whisper, like a secret. Rosa was alive.

Rosa was alive and Max Evans was dead under her fingertips.

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She was shaking, heart stuck on a beat too fast to maintain as she turned, one hand still on Max. He would never leave her.

Some things were just true no matter how many times you tested the theory. This cave was smaller than the chamber off the passage in the turquoise mines.

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It felt like little more than a scraped open sinkhole. She had a moment to catalogue what was around her. It was always best to list the tools necessary and collect them before an experiment.

There were books stacked in piles of two or three under old candles that had melted down and been replaced over and over. There was the pod, a strange sickly yellow amber color- not vibrant and alive like the three she was used to.

She knew how to do this.

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It was delicate work. Are we serious right now, Max? The solution was delicate and if it cooled too much it hit activation site and the solute would precipitate.

The solution needed to cool minutely on his skin, settling the precipitate of silver in a fine layer so that it could breach the barrier on the pod.

That was her lipstick. That was her kiss on his skin and she had to push both hands flat on his skin to stop her hands from the violent shake that shuddered through her.

She could hear the solution starting to boil. She tossed the left one somewhere to her right, hearing a clatter of something and not caring.

She sniffed, wetting her lips and stared at the door handle for a long moment, heart pounding before she shoved it open and strode in purposefully. Dresses for Women, Mini Club Dresses different sizes, designs, cuts I touched it, and a shiver ran through me.

She had to be faster. She had to be better.

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She had to raise the damn dead and of course Max Evans had to be wearing cowboy boots that she was struggling with, twisting and pulling and watching his hair muss in the dirt as his head lolled to the side, eyes still half open.

There were specific instructions she had to follow. She had a theory, she had an experiment, she had the tools. A successful theory is proved by multiple experiments ending with the same results.

She must look wrecked, hair wild and tear tracks under swollen eyes. She was laying on her back, the shattered picture still glittering on the terrazzo.

Everything in her life was beige or taupe. She had the perfect Martha Stewart Eggshell on the walls, the bits of woodwork a softer masculine note among the curated Pinterest board that was her life.

She frowned, but maybe it was a pout. She hated how taupe and timid her living room felt. It burned before the cool spread numb fingers down her throat and through her chest.

He looked so warm, jawline sharp like she could cut her palms on it, the long line of his nose, plush mouth too soft for his face. She loved the way it would drop open on her name.

The living room was open concept, ceiling soaring up to the railing that tucked the second floor to the west side of the house.

She loved how open and airy it felt and now, determined to be drunk and alone, it felt cavernous. She wet her lips and focused on the soft sage green vase, willing it to shatter.

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It wobbled violently before settling back with a clatter even as her stomach turned once. Instead she let her knees go watery and sat back down, swallowing around the way her mouth watered.

Cold and quiet like a bucket of water after being set on fire. Her mind gone quiet and blank between the space in seconds.

Isobel Evans lived in a beige house with notes of masculine wood and soft green accents. She puked in the vase.

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She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes watering as she shook. The shattered glass crunched under her feet as she forced herself up.

Maria had turned on the neon behind the bar racks and wiped down the wood, but the chairs were still up and the drawers were only half counted.

The back door was propped open, letting a cool breeze creep through the back hallway, carrying the vague lingering smell of moldering cardboard and stale wine.

She and her mother had done the Dumpster Bounce since she was a little girl. There was a sick sound, like someone had wrapped a branch with wet towels and meat.

The breeze blew and it shifted her hair, carrying that same overripe wet cardboard smell and something darker, something that smelled burnt and crisp like day old bacon.

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She slipped, falling and smacking her head against the edge of the dumpster, uncaring even as she scrambled back and away. There was a strange noise mewling through the air and it took her a moment to realize it was her, panting scared sounds into the morning.

She was alone and that fact sank into her like ink into water, staining and spreading until she was pushing to her feet and reaching shaking hands to pull the plywood out of the dumpster.

She knew there was a body there. Maria DeLuca screamed until her voice cracked hard, a long straight note of fear that faded into little panted breaths as she turned heel and ran.

She tore back into her bar, nearly bouncing off the crash bar on the door and into the hallway where the bathrooms and the liquor room huddled tight together.

The chairs were stacked on the table and the mop bucket was still in front of the jukebox, the handle of the mop a straight line pointing towards the dartboards.

The neon lights were on and she still had to count the drawers, take a quick inventory to get the liquor order in, and there was a dead body in her dumpster.

Her skin crawled, shivering a sick wave that turned her stomach as she reached out and dialed Max Evans.

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Then Kyle Valenti. She tried Guerin.

She suddenly wanted to just call Rosa, old pain welling unexpected and bright. It was a mess, five straight hours of questioning, pictures, taped off areas, flashing endless red and blue lights.

She spoke in a quiet voice, answering every question Sheriff Valenti asked her in simple sentences.

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She hugged her arms to herself, feeling the way her hair was whipping around her face and started pulling it up into a quick loose french braid.

Five hours of crime scene vans and pictures, casts of tire marks, and endless pictures numbered with little yellow flags. Five hours and she was supposed to open soon, the afternoon drawing up tight to the building.

She closed the back door, feeling the way the whole bar went still. There was no music, no laughter, no press of bodies and clink of glassware.

The toilets were silent, the soda gun still needed to be taken out of the cleaner. She needed to fill and start the dishwasher behind the bar, run it a few times to bring it to temp.

She needed to polish the glasses and take down the chairs, but she sat at the bar and put her head down to cry. She went to the office, dialed the combination on the safe and pulled the drawers.

She walked out, the change a good loud sound rattling on her hip and pulled over a stool. She had to count it three times before she managed to make it through the twenties to start on the tens.

She took a second to realize the front door must have still been unlocked and it warred with how relieved she was that he was here, that he must have gotten her message.

She hated the way she went watery at the sight of him, the way he seemed safe after a morning of fear and confusion. She hated that he just came into her bar and smiled at her and she had to physically restrain herself from flinging into his arms.

She could smell him from here, dust and sweat and smoke with something more feral and dark under all of it. She spun in the chair, holding onto the bar for balance and stared at him.

He would leave if she told him to. He would walk right out the front door with that hurt look and he would leave. He would go and there would still be the memory of Racist Hank staring at her with those dead eyes.

She watched him take off his hat, the gnawing realization that he was going to kiss her dawning. It fought with the panic and fear of the morning.

She stared, heard the strange strangled little noise he made, the way his smile only twitched the corner of his mouth- not even managing the arrogant cocksureness of a few weeks ago.

He was safe. She just wanted a moment of her own. A moment to not think about anything, but something as simple as lips on hers and that singing blood pounding sparkle of being alive.

Michael Guerin kissed her: once, twice, and she kissed him back. She kissed him back and it hurt when what she was doing became something less than automatic.