text: Even though Jean no longer had her powers, she remembered what it was like to have her mind probed. The sensation always changed, depending on the telepath; Emma Frost, for example, felt like a blood-starved limb, all prickly with pain, while Charles's psychic touch produced incalculable warmth, a baby blanket for the mind. Jean, up until this point, had no idea what her touch might feel like to others, only that it would leave a mark.
  
  And so it had, one that she was astute enough to catch.
  
  "I think my counterpart—or whoever has my body—is looking for us," Jean said. "I felt her tickle my brain."
  
  "How do you know it is you?" Kurt asked. "There could be another telepath in this area. Perhaps the two are confused?"
  
  "No, it's me. I can't explain it. It's like... a familiar scent or hearing the voice of someone you thought you'd forgotten. It feels like home."
  
  "I think I'm jealous," Rogue said.
  
  "She must be using Cerebro to expand her range." Jean twisted in her seat so she could look at the others. All of them were pale, tired, with dark circles under their eyes and a hollow quality to their cheeks that was probably part of the same hunger than gnawed her own belly. "I think she's doing it badly, though. Of course, it's hard to tell, but it felt like she was on me for only a moment or two."
  
  "But that could be enough, right? If she knows what she's looking for." Scott's knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
  
  "But why would she? If my counterpart had no super-mental abilities before the transfer, then how would she possibly know what my mind feels like?"
  
  "And if it's Jonas Maguire using her? He certainly knows your mind."
  
  "If he was the one who transferred it."
  
  "Let's just say he did until we can prove otherwise," Logan replied. "So the other Jean is using Cerebro and she touched your mind. I don't think we should rule out an accident, or that she had some purpose for using Cerebro other than finding us. Think about the power she's got. She could go after anyone with that thing. Maybe she's just training herself to use it."
  
  The car sped up. Jean looked out the window and saw golden grassland bathed in sunlight, rolling hills that hid mysteries, always just on the other side. There could be a hundred people only yards away from the road, and no one would ever know. Good ambush country. Not that she thought anything like that would happen to them. At least not here, and not with people springing out from behind hills or trees. A police roadblock, a gun in her face? Maybe her own powers used against her? Yes, all of that was a distinct possibility.
  
  "There's no way to protect ourselves from Cerebro, is there?" Rogue sat between Kurt and Logan. She looked uncomfortable. Jean could only imagine what it was like, suddenly able to touch and then to have it forced upon her in the form of continuous close contact. Jean still had trouble coping with her mind blindness. Sleeping was horrible, because with her eyes closed the world truly fell away, and she was reminded of those first moments in the mental hospital when the world had felt so cold and empty.
  
  Stop it Stop feeling sorry for yourself. The others were right. So your abilities are gone. You were relying on them too much if this is the kind of reaction you're having. Take this time as a lesson to toughen up.
  
  "No," Jean said to Rogue. "There's no way to hide, not unless we have some natural shielding. Kurt, when he teleports, is always hard to find. Gambit, too. His brain... scrambles things. I doubt we're that lucky."
  
  "So if the police do not stop us, then we risk having our minds destroyed." Kurt sighed. "Lovely."
  
  "We don't have any options," Scott said. "We have to go home."
  
  And what a shame it had to be under such terrifying circumstances. Jean knew the exact process of destroying an individual's mind. It was something she had contemplated quite often—not because she wished to harm anyone, but because she wished to know exactly what to do in order to avoid some accidental, and quite devastating, use of her telepathy.
  
  To destroy a mind to rip from it the essence of person-hood, was the ultimate in tortures—and crimes. Jean did not want to consider it as the possible end for herself or her friends. She would rather face death than that, which was no better than being a zombie; a body, a shell, with nothing inside but the most rudimentary instincts.
  
  Late that afternoon they passed into North Dakota, and it was there, caught within a parted sea of hot golden grasses, at least thirty miles from the nearest town, that their little car blew out its tire. The trunk did not have a spare.
  
  "Pack it up," Scott said. "We re walking."
  
  "We better find a way of getting off the road before some cop checks out this car. Minute they run anything on the plates, they're going to figure something's fishy. And if we're the only ones on the road..." Logan's voice trailed away.
  
  It was simply one more blow against them. Jean thought she should probably count her blessings that they had made it this far, but it was difficult to think about the positive when the sun began to set and the few cars on the road sped by with drivers and passengers who looked at them as though they were bogeymen, or the prime suspects of some horrible highway ax murder. Jean wanted to yell "Boo!" every time she saw their expressions.
  
  "You can't really blame people," Rogue said, wiping sweat from her face. "I mean, there are a lot of crazies out in the world."
  
  "Fear should not hinder compassion," Kurt said.
  
  "That's easy enough for us to say," Logan countered.
  
  "We re trained professionals. We fight space aliens with our bare hands, for Christ's sake."
  
  "Does compassion mean less when you're a superhero, then?" Kurt wondered out loud. "Without that inherent risk, that choice of possible harm, does a kind act from one of us count as much as the kindness of a normal human being?"
  
  "Kurt," Scott said. "Does it matter?"
  
  "Ja." Kurt turned around, walking backward so he could look at them. "We are powerful people. Or at least, we were. But how often do we use that power to help those without? Our focus is always on mutants, and that is right and good, because there are also mutants who have nothing. But what else? What else have we done?"
  
  "Saved the world," Logan said.
  
  "Several worlds, actually," Scott added. "Maybe the universe?"
  
  "Now you're exaggerating."
  
  Kurt threw up his hands. "You see? We have saved the world, but did we actually do anything to make it a better place? We shelter mutants at the school, but do we teach them how to interact with humans? Do we encourage them to make friends with different kinds of children? If we isolate them, do we teach compassion or superiority?"
  
  "Kurt," Rogue protested. "We're trying to create a world where mutants and humans can live together."
  
  "Perhaps, but I am no longer convinced we are going about it in the right way."
  
  Logan grunted. "We do what we can, Kurt. We do the best that we can, with what we've got"
  
  Kurt began to respond, but instead narrowed his eyes, staring up the road. "I believe there is a car coming." There was no excitement in his voice. Just a dull announcement of yet another vehicle that would speed past and leave them to the mercies of the oncoming night. Jean wondered how cold it got out here.
  
  Much to their surprise, though, the approaching truck stopped in the middle of the road. A man looked out at them. He had gray hair, blue eyes, and a nice mouth. A dog sat in the passenger seat. It had the same coloring.
  
  "Was that your car that I saw broken down back there?"
  
  "Yes," Scott said. "I don't suppose you could give us a lift into town?"
  
  The man hesitated, studying them.
  
  "I could," he said slowly. "What kind of people are you?"
  
  "Excuse me?" Scott said. "I don't understand."
  
  "Are you good people?"
  
  It was a surreal question. Not many people ever asked Jean if she was "good," though she found it rather refreshing that the old man expected a straight answer.
  
  "Usually," Logan said, looking him in the eye. "Depends how good the other side is."
  
  "Fair enough," said the man, seemingly satisfied at the answer—or the reaction to it. "You can sit in the back of the truck."
  
  "Thank you," Jean said. "Thank you very much."
  
  The man shrugged. The dog watched them, careful.
  
  "You see?" Kurt said, when they were moving and the wind blew long and hard against their bodies. "Compassion. One normal man, helping five strangers on an empty freeway."
  
  "Let's not start this again," Logan said. "If it makes you happy, we'll send him a medal when we get home."
  
  "I would prefer instead that we emulate his kindness."
  
  "I thought you said that wouldn't mean as much because we're mutants," Rogue pointed out.
  
  "It still means something," Kurt said. Jean felt sorry for him, but remained silent. Philosophical differences were always impossible to argue, and at the moment, she was content with merely watching the world go by, savoring the warmth of her husband, soft and small at her side.
  
  And then, unexpectedly, she felt a strange tickling sensation in her brain. Like fingers, scraping the surface of her mind, looking for openings. Startling, to say the least The prelude to an invasion, maybe. For some reason, she did not feel afraid.
  
  "We've got company again," she said, and tapped her forehead. The tickling stopped. Everyone, even Logan, looked at her in concern.
  
  "Are we being tracked?" Scott asked.
  
  "I wish I knew. It's impossible to tell. All it felt like was someone brushing past my brain. I don't think anything more was done."
  
  "I hope not," Scott said. "We're dealing with a lot of unknowns here, not the least of which is whether we'll be able to make it home."
  
  "We're moving in the right direction, aren't we?"
  
  Logan said. "What more do you want? Just give it one step at a time."
  
  One step. Easy enough. Jean knew how to be stubborn. It seemed to be a mutant power all its own, one shared by all the X-Men. It was a wonder Charles ever got them listening to anything at all, and probably explained the occasional soap opera atmosphere of the Mansion.
  
  They drove in silence until they reached town. Or rather, the one lone gas station perched on the edge of the freeway. Sunset had come and gone, but the darkening sky, pricked with the first stars of evening, still bled prairie purple with a blush of gold.
  
  Their driver pulled off the freeway and turned into the gas station. He parked beside one of the pumps and got out. So did they.
  
  "Not much around here," said the man, unscrewing the gas cap.
  
  "We'll make do," Scott said. "Thank you for taking us this far. We can help pay for the gas."
  
  "Nah," he said, quiet. "Wasn't out of my way." He paused for a moment, and then added, "You all looking for work?"
  
  The question surprised Jean. She did not know how to answer, and for a moment, the rest of the X-Men shared her confusion. They looked at each other.
  
  "It's not a hard question," said the man. "And you certainly don't have to say yes."
  
  "We're trying to get home," Scott said. "Back to New York. It's an emergency."
  
  "You all have the same emergency?"
  
  "We're family," Jean said, irritated by his subtle skepticism.
  
  "Fair enough." He started pumping gas. "Even if you don't want work, you're all welcome to stay at my place tonight. Just me and the dog."
  
  Scott said, "I think we might intrude."
  
  "And I think you'll be spending a cold night on the prairie if you don't take me up. That's your choice, though. You might get a ride, but I doubt it."
  
  "Is there a reason you're so keen on having us at your home?" Logan asked.
  
  "Every man has a reason for the things he does," he said.
  
  Scott looked at them, and Jean saw her own feelings mirrored on his face. Yes, they needed a place to stay-even better, a way to keep moving—but this was just... odd. Even Kurt, for all his talk about compassion, seemed reserved.
  
  You're jaded. Maybe, but for a good reason.
  
  "Thank you for your offer," Scott said. "Really. What we need, though, is transportation."
  
  The pump clicked. The man removed it and screwed the cap back on. His movements were careful, deliberate.
  
  "I might be able to help you with that, too. That is, if you'll help me with something. Shouldn't take long. Just a couple of hours."
  
  "It's not illegal, is it?" Rogue asked.
  
  He smiled. "No. Just a little something that needs more hands than I got."
  
  "That why you pulled over?" Logan asked.
  
  "Maybe. What do you say?"
  
  Scott hesitated, and then, slow, stuck out his hand. The man looked at it for a moment, smiled again, and shook.
  
  "Okay," he said. "Let's go home."
  
  He said his name was James and that his dog was called Dog, and that they had been alone for a week. The wife was dead, gone from a heart attack because there was no hospital close enough to help. In this part of the country, he said, you lived on your own and you died on your own, and that was the way of it, the price for solitude and minding your own business.
  
  His house was very small and old and white, with real wood siding that had seen better days and some pots filled with red geraniums that desperately needed water. The house and the nearby barn were the only structures for miles, and so they had some warning, even in the waning light.
  
  The yard was dusty. Jean sneezed twice and wiped her eyes. Her body ached as she uncurled from the hard seat of the truck cab.
  
  "Come on in," said James. He walked right into the unlocked house, and Jean was the first to follow him. The interior was dark, but pleasantly decorated with an elegant spare hand that believed in the quality of old hardwood, white walls, and the occasional splash of color. Jean thought there might only be four rooms: the kitchen, the living room, a closed door that was probably a bedroom, and beyond that another closed door. A bathroom, maybe. She hoped it was a bathroom. She needed one.
  
  "Are you hungry?" James asked. "There's not much here, but you're welcome to it."
  
  "That's all right," Scott said. "Perhaps you'd like to tell us about the work you need done?"
  
  James nodded. "I suppose now is good. I've been... putting it off. From doing it myself, you see. Too difficult, even though it shouldn't be. You're all young, though. Younger than me. I appreciate this."
  
  He walked to the first door on Jean's left and opened it. Inside, on the bed, she saw a body. Jean did not know what shocked her more: that the body was dead, a corpse, or that it was not quite human.
  
  "Whoa," Logan breathed.
  
  James entered and sat on the edge of the bed. He touched a wrinkled limb, one of many, folded like thick ribbons on the still narrow chest.
  
  "This is Milly," he said into the breathless quiet. "My wife."
  
  Jean walked to the end of the bed, and felt her friends follow. Except for Logan's outburst, they all remained quiet, respectful of the reverence in the old man's face.
  
  "Wasn't she beautiful?" he asked, and laid his hand on Dog, who nudged close between his legs.
  
  Milly did have a lovely face; Jean thought she must have been a true beauty in her youth. The rest of her body, though, was nothing more than a series of tentacles attached to a slender torso that had no discernible arms or legs.
  
  "She must have been resourceful," Jean said, gende, unsure exactly what to say, what was appropriate under such unusual circumstances.
  
  "Oh, yes. She had to be." James smiled. "We were together almost forty years. Sweet baby."
  
  He finally looked at them and his eyes were bright and wet "I don't want Milly at the local cemetery. They never understood her, anyway. She was just a sideshow. So I want her here, where she was happy. Where we can be together. That's the job I have for you. I need help digging the grave."
  
  "Of course," Jean said, gazing down upon that still face, the deformed body. "Anything."
  
  "I got some shovels in the barn. I'll show you the place. The ground is real hard, which is part of the reason I kept waiting."
  
  He took them to the barn. Outside was dark and cool, the sky heavy with stars. There were no floodlights, nothing to see by, but James led them with an unerring sense of direction and the barn, thankfully, did have a light. It was clear that livestock had been kept there in the past, but now the floor and stalls were clean and dry, and held only the faintest scent of animal.
  
  The shovels were by the door. Three of them, plus two pickaxes.
  
  "The perfect number of people," James said. "I got lucky."
  
  "There wasn't anyone you could ask for help?" Logan shouldered a pickax.
  
  "None I wanted to ask," James said. "Milly and I were pretty much alone out here. She had no family, and mine gave me up when I married her. We never had children. Milly just wasn't built that way. It would have been nice, though."
  
  He led them to a small tree that grew behind the house. Jean could barely see it in the darkness. She touched the leaves and found them smooth and cool.
  
  "Lilac," James said. "Her favorite scent. She waited all year for this thing to bloom."
  
  And then he pointed at the ground and they began to dig.
  
  He was right: the ground was hard. They rotated jobs; Jean and Kurt worked with the pickaxes first, breaking up the ground, and then the others went in with the shovels, hacking and scooping, steel ringing as it occasionally hit rock. James sat on the side and watched. Every now and then he left to bring water, and when one of them had to rest he took up the slack and worked until the weary could start again.
  
  "What did you all do before you found the road?" James asked.
  
  Scott stopped chipping at the earth. "I suppose you could say we were in the profession of helping people."
  
  "Or not," Logan added, with a smile. "Some people need to be helped in... different ways."
  
  James smiled. "Milly and I knew people like that, but they left us alone after a while. Got tired of it, I guess. Or maybe they grew up."
  
  "Some never do," Jean said.
  
  "I suppose. There were others, like her, who also treated us impolite. I took her to the city, to places where they had all kinds. I thought it would be better for us there. Less lonely for her, anyway. But Milly was too unique, even for them. I think that hurt her more than just about anything, so we came back here and never left."
  
  "That's not right," Rogue said.
  
  "That's the way it is. Those other kind, like Milly, they look different and they got different skills, but they're human where it counts. They're human in all the ways that make us mean and hard, loving and kind. Why else do you think this world has so much conflict? It's because when we look at people like Milly, or heck, all those hero folks on TV, we know we're looking at ourselves, and we know all the dirty things we'd do if we had that kind of power. Now Milly, she just looked different. She could also do miracles with sweet potatoes, but I think that was another gift entirely on its own."
  
  Jean laughed, and James said, "Good. I'm glad someone can smile when I talk about her. She was a sweet woman. She deserves smiles."
  
  It took them until midnight to dig the grave. James went into the house and spent a long time there. Jean and the others lay in the grass, stargazing while they waited for him.
  
  After a time, they heard a whistle. James stood at the back door. He had a suit on, and a nice hat.
  
  "She's ready," he said. "Maybe you could help me carry her."
  
  James had wrapped Milly in a white sheet. She looked smaller, bundled tight, and Jean picked her up before anyone could offer help. Milly was heavier than she looked, but Jean bit back any complaints and carried her from the house to the grave. There, it took some effort to lower her into the ground. Everyone got on their stomachs and grabbed a sheet corner. Careful, slow, they let her down, deep into the earth.
  
  And then they stood, and listened to James say his last words to his beloved wife.
  
  They did not discuss the promised transportation. It seemed inappropriate. James told them to go into the house and get something to eat, to clean up if they wanted because there were plenty of clean towels and a lot of soap. James did not go back in with them. He sat on the ground at the foot of Milly's grave, staring at the fresh-turned pile of dirt. Dog stayed with him.
  
  "That poor man," Rogue said, slumped at the kitchen table. A wet towel lay over her shoulders. She sipped coffee.
  
  Jean sat beside her, also drinking coffee. She had taken her shower first, and it was good to be clean— though rather startling to see herself naked. Logan, the last of them to bathe, was still in the bathroom.
  
  Jean thought of James, sitting alone in the dark at the grave of his wife. She thought of him and Milly, living their lives in isolation because the only place they could find true acceptance was here, with each other. Perhaps that was enough for them. James, certainly, did not seem to have many regrets. Jean, on the other hand, tried to imagine herself in their shoes and could not. People consumed her life and that was fine, because despite her gift, she did not like to be alone.
  
  "I'm going to go check on James," she said. "Maybe he'll want something to eat."
  
  The night air felt colder than she remembered, though digging deep holes in the hard earth tended to distort one's perception of temperature. She stumbled along in the dark, and knew she was getting close when she heart Dog whine.
  
  She tripped, and even as she fell to the ground she recalled the sensation of her foot catching something soft, and no, that could not be true, she hit the ground hard and did not stop moving, just rolled and got to her hands and knees, crawling to the soft lump she had missed seeing in the darkness, and she called his name but he was quiet, and she felt his neck and for a moment there was nothing, but then she moved her fingers and felt a pulse, sweet, and she called his name again and James finally stirred, whispering, "I was trying to die. Now is a good time when I have someone to bury me right."
  
  Jean lay on her stomach, breathless. "Do you want to die?"
  
  "No," he said. "I feel like I should, I loved her so. But I don't want to die."
  
  "Then don't try," Jean said, and watched him hold something up in his hands. "It's too dark, James. What is that?"
  
  He gave it to her. It was a syringe. "An air bubble kills you quick. Goes right to your heart."
  
  "Death is a bad way to fix something that's broken," Jean said, her own heart pounding.
  
  "I know." He took a deep breath, still staring at the stars. "I've seen the way you look at that girl. Mindy is her name? You love her?"
  
  "We're married," Jean said. "We... grew up together."
  
  James smiled, slow and bitter. "Milly and I were the same. She never did look quite like the others, but it wasn't until her teens that she made the full change. It was real hard on her. Hard on me, too, I guess."
  
  "But you made it," Jean whispered.
  
  "Sure did. She wouldn't want this. Me, thinking about dying. I can't help it, though. I'm alone out here, and those people in town... even if one of them did find me, they wouldn't bury me here at her side. They would take me away to the cemetery. Heck, I don't even know what to do about Dog." He looked at Jean so very solemn she wanted to cry. "Be careful, son, when you get older. Take care of the people you love. Find some good friends. The kind who will watch over you after you've gone. You don't want to end up like me."
  
  "Was it such a bad life?" she whispered, trying to imagine James and Milly, both alive and full of love in that little four-room house.
  
  "No," he breathed. "I wouldn't trade it for anything."