Los Angeles contains nearly four million people.
This sounds like a great place to hide.
It is not.
Everyone is watching everyone else.
The city has cameras on buildings, cameras on traffic lights, cameras on dashboards, cameras on telephones, and cameras attached to dogs.
I am not entirely certain about the dogs.
But I would not be surprised.
By noon, Elian and I were moving through Griffith Park.
At least I was moving.
Elian was attempting to appear human.
This was not going well.
She had reduced her size considerably.
Not completely.
Just enough that she no longer resembled a small aircraft.
Her wings were folded tightly against her back beneath what appeared to be an oversized hooded sweatshirt she had somehow acquired.
I had stopped asking questions about how advanced alien civilizations obtained clothing.
The answers were usually unsettling.
“Do I appear normal?” she asked.
A jogger passing us walked directly into a trash can.
“Close enough,” I said.
The jogger turned and stared.
“Model?” he asked.
“Dentist,” I said.
“Ah.”
He nodded as if that explained everything and continued on his way.
Los Angeles is a remarkably adaptable city.
Across town, Detectives Ramirez and Collins sat in a conference room they had not been invited to enter.
This did not stop them.
Both detectives possessed the useful quality of believing rules were suggestions created for other people.
A large screen filled one wall.
On it appeared a grainy image from a government satellite.
The image showed a hillside.
A stream.
A man in an orange jail uniform.
And a winged figure standing beside him.
Collins stared.
Ramirez stared.
Then Collins stared some more.
“Well,” Collins finally said.
“Yep.”
“You seeing what I’m seeing?”
“Unfortunately.”
“That appears to be a giant bee.”
“It does.”
“A giant flying bee rescued our murder suspect.”
“Looks that way.”
“I hate this case.”
“Me too.”
For several moments they simply sat there.
Years of police work had prepared them for many things.
Drug dealers.
Murderers.
Politicians.
None of those experiences had adequately prepared them for giant extraterrestrial insects.
Meanwhile, several hundred miles above Earth, another observer watched events unfold.
The observer was not human.
The observer was not from Earth.
The observer had been monitoring Elian for a very long time.
A very, very long time.
The kind of time measured in centuries.
On a surface that was not quite a screen and not quite a window, images from Los Angeles drifted silently past.
The observer paused.
Focused.
And considered.
This was unusual.
Elian rarely attracted attention.
She was normally careful.
Exceptionally careful.
The observer enlarged the image of Jed.
A human male.
Middle-aged.
Injured.
Confused.
Apparently important.
That was interesting.
Very interesting.
Back in Griffith Park, Elian and I sat beneath a large eucalyptus tree.
The city stretched below us.
Smog floated over distant neighborhoods.
Traffic crawled across freeways.
Somewhere a helicopter circled.
“Why did you save me?” I asked.
Elian looked away.
“I have answered this question.”
“No.”
“No?”
“You answered it scientifically.”
She frowned.
“What is wrong with scientific answers?”
“They are often terrible answers.”
“I disagree.”
“You said I was statistically unlikely.”
“You are.”
“That is not why you saved me.”
For a moment she said nothing.
Then she surprised me.
She blushed.
At least I think she blushed.
It is difficult to know exactly what constitutes blushing in a queen bee from another star system.
But something definitely changed.
“Perhaps,” she said quietly, “there were additional reasons.”
I smiled.
“That sounds suspiciously like a human answer.”
“I have spent a great deal of time studying humans.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“I am beginning to realize that.”
Far away, in a building protected by guards, fences, cameras, and enough bureaucracy to stop a charging rhinoceros, a report landed on a desk.
The report contained one photograph.
One image.
One impossible image.
A giant winged female standing beside a human male.
The photograph carried a simple heading.
UNKNOWN NON-HUMAN ENTITY.
Below that was a single question.
Intentions?
The official studying the report sighed.
That was the problem.
No one knew.
Not the military.
Not the intelligence agencies.
Not the scientists.
Not even the politicians.
Especially not the politicians.
As the sun began to set, Elian stood and looked toward the horizon.
Her expression changed.
Instantly.
Completely.
The warmth vanished from her face.
“What is it?” I asked.
She did not answer.
“Elian?”
Her wings slowly unfolded beneath the sweatshirt.
“We are no longer alone.”
A chill moved through me.
“Who found us?”
She looked upward.
Not toward the city.
Not toward the helicopters.
Not toward the mountains.
Upward.
Toward the sky.
“Someone from home,” she said.