The skin was torn. The edges were red and raw, and probably should have hurt me, all things considered. There was no blood, but there was a small amount of cloudy fluid, like sap leaking from the torn leaf of a bush. Where the skin had been, where the skin had ripped away, there was …

There was …

It was still skin. I touched it gingerly with the tip of one finger, and I felt the contact exactly like I expected I would. There were even tiny hairs there, filaments that probably served some biological purpose, mammalian or not. It was a small tear. If not for the color, it would have looked human.

I was a deeper shade of green than Jeff was, less tropical and more Pacific Northwest. I was the color of pine needles, of evergreens, of places where the snow was never quite strong enough to conquer the trees. I touched the patch of alien skin again. It was mine. It was me. I had always been telling the truth. I had never, despite the cries of parents and classmates, been crazy.

“You can open your eyes now,” I said softly, pulling my hand away and extending my arm, giving Graham the clearest view possible. This was his moment. If he wanted to run, if he wanted to turn against me, this was his moment.

He opened his eyes and looked at my arm. For a long time, he didn’t say anything, and neither did I. Finally, he took a breath.

“Is that makeup?” he asked. “Is this a joke?”

“No.”

“Is it a bruise? A really … a really strange bruise?”

“No.”

“Can I touch it?”

Graham had touched every inch of my body during our time together, had scoured my skin with fingers and tongue. If I had ever turned green before this, he would have known before I did, teasing the taste of chlorophyll from my flesh. Maybe that was why I nodded acquiescence and held my arm out toward him, allowing him to reach for me.

His fingertips were gentle as they brushed against my tender new skin, and the tiny hairs that might not be hairs at all stood on end at the sensation. He paused before running a single finger over my skin a second time, focusing on the hairs. They bent under the pressure, springing back up when it was taken away.

“It’s real,” he said softly. He looked up, meeting my eyes, and only the fact that he didn’t flinch away kept me from crying. “You were telling the truth. This whole time, you were telling the truth.”

“Yes,” I said.

“The invasion is coming.”

“Yes.”

“Can we stop it?”

“No.”

“Can we survive it?”