John Smith, though . . . he’s a different story. “So . . . ,” I say, trying to wrap my head around everything Sam has said. “He really is a good alien.” “I just told you everything I know about him,” Sam says. “If you’re not convinced that he hasn’t been tainted by the dark side yet, I don’t think you ever will be.” “Why didn’t you guys tell everyone about all this sooner? Recorded some better commercials maybe. Put on, like, a protest or something.” Sam turns to me, squinting his eyes. “Do you really think a protest would have stopped them?” “No, but at least we woulda been prepared for this shit. We could have nuked them in space or something.” He shakes his head. “You were listening when I said some of the government is in on this, right?” “Damn,” I mutter. “Guess you got a point.” We’re a few subway cars away from where we left John sleeping like a rock. Benny used to pass out that hard sometimes—though it was always from too many beers—and would be completely immovable until morning.
