Fade in on Liz "Deeper Than Desert Puddles" Parker, fighting her way through another opening journal monologue in which the words "the world just sings to you" make their metaphorically-challenged debut. On shift at the Crashdown and smiling wanly (in a bold emotional shift probably connoted in the stage directions as "laughing heartily"), Liz lustily cleans something called the "milkshake machine." Obviously still in the throes of passion from her sweeps-culminating power smooch with Max Evans, Liz’s levity is soon to be juxtaposed against Maria’s gruff cynicism. "God, this day just sucks," Maria moans, driving home an essential truism we can thank the WB for disseminating through its impressionable teenage contingency: the one where life’s only good when you’re gettin’ some. And speaking of other-worldlies last seen gracing the cover of The Nothing-To-Write-Home-About-Much-Less-Ba se-A-Whole-Series-On Tribune, Michael "Clean Clothes Are For Suckers" Gerrin and Max "I Fell To Earth From The" Evans stride in on cue. Max sees Liz. Liz sees Max. General doe-eyed gazing ensues. Breaking the reverie but somehow maintaining the fluorescent light-esque hum of stagnancy already firmly in place (and they say a week off can cause a show’s rhythm to falter. Oh, wait, dirges don’t have rhythms), Michael asks Max why they have to be at the Crashdown anyway. Hmmm. Maybe because it’s the only food establishment set they’ve finished building on the minuscule Roswell lot? Michael, have you taken a look at this show’s budget lately? Let’s wait and see if it gets renewed and then we’ll talk about finding a place where these poor kids can finally order a meal with some actual nutritional value. That’s a season-two project. If they can somehow manage to get into a contract renewal without dying of scurvy.
Max, taking on the entirely original and never trite role of good guy, responds, "I thought maybe you’d want to see Maria." Back at the counter, Liz makes like a good Stepford Alien Girlfriend and dispenses a beverage while cooing, "Max likes Cherry Cola. What does Michael like?" Maria lazily tosses her hair and shoots back one of her patented spiked retorts: "Blow jobs and respecting a girl in the morning. Why do you think it’s over?" Or maybe she says something completely different. Let’s play a round of Make Believe The Show Got Fun. Which, of course, means sacrificing every line of actual dialogue. Let’s try another one: "Oh, look. The Mother Ship is here. I guess we won’t be bothering you all with of our petty little grievances and poorly constructed winks to the word ‘alienation.’ Instead, we’ll go back to our home planet and thank our earthbound friends for their hospitality with the heavenly gift of a continuous loop of Eight is Enough syndicated reruns appearing evermore in this time slot. Why should Pax TV have all the fun? They shouldn’t, should they? Goodbye!" Goodbye.
Walking toward the table as Michael brings Max up to speed on the break-up, Maria is appropriately curt to Michael when she and Liz approach with aforementioned sodas. Liz informs Max that his cherry cola is "on the house" which allows for Maria’s bland follow-up, "Yours is a dollar twenty-five." Easily embarrassed, Michael attempts to flee, rising quickly and knocking over at least one dollar and twenty-five cents worth of the oft-discussed carbonated drink. Glasses a-flying. Books a-tumbling. Michael picks up a notebook of Max’s, opening it to find a sheet of foreign symbols and drawings. "What is this? I know this," he threatens, mad because he wasn’t disciplined enough to collect the required amount of UPC symbols for the Kellogg’s Secret Decoder Ring. Max tells him to stay quiet, but Michael further accuses, "What are you hiding from me, Max?" Oy. The script, I think. Haven’t we heard something to the effect of one character concealing privileged information from another before? It’s boring and redundant (and repetitive, and redundant) to even mention how tired a device that is at this point. Yawn yawn yawn. There must be some gosh-darn opening credits around here somewhere.
Opening credits: Nah, these really aren’t that great, either.
Crashdown-bound, Alex discovers a perpetually on-shift Maria in the process of sticking pins into a plush alien stuffed toy which looks like it did absolutely nothing at all to warrant such treatment. Maria scolds Alex for having disappeared for so many days without so much as a call, and he says that he’s been "underground" for the purposes of personal reflection concerning Liz’s divulgence. In the final analysis, he refuses to believe her, opting for his belief in two other theories: "One is that you and Liz have been brainwashed by a drug cult. And the other is I’m trapped in some extremely long, extremely weird nightmare." Hmmm. Well, Alex, the first one seems a little bizarre, but the second one rings almost uncannily familiar for some reason. Say the part again about the "extremely long" kind of "nightmare" you feel so "trapped in." I know how you might go about escaping from it. And it starts with the VCR remote and ends with the button marked "STOP." Usually it has a little square to it, though I’m unsure of the universal significance of that symbol. "Play" is connoted by a triangle, but for god’s sake DON’T PRESS IT or you’ll be right back where you started. I’ve been forced to learn these lessons well. Anyway, Alex wants to know why Maria believes any of this, and she responds with a foray back to the opening sequence of the pilot, something about Max saving Liz’s life just by touching her. Interestingly, that decisive plot development does not ring familiar to me, so seldom has it been mentioned since first occurring. Alex decides he has to learn more by talking to one of them directly, and Maria counsels him not to get too deeply involved with any of them emotionally because, well, "they’re pretty heartless." Oh, come on, Alien Martyr. Say it with me: One. Night. Stand.
Cut to Chez Evans, where the alien three discuss the cave drawings Max took down from memory from his visit to River Dog. I muse upon why someone doesn’t just hit a "Select All" and convert those symbols into Palatino or some other readable font. Michael is peeved because Max didn’t clue him in concerning these developments, and Max defends himself by saying, "Topolsky was all over us and I couldn’t take the risk that..." before trailing off. Michael tells him to continue, and though I usually prefer a glorious silence brought upon by the mute button or tequila shots, I’m curious about a few things myself here. For instance, has anyone been missing the FBI recently? I mean, I always thought their numbers were a bit excessive on this particular case, but it’s as if they suddenly upped and gone, filing their final report: "Kids acting more cagey than ever. Have eluded us at every turn with subtle subversion as well as high-speed car chases. Hiding groundbreaking, earth-shattering secret. Our work here is clearly done." Anyway, Max finally tells Michael that he didn’t tell him about his and Liz’s discoveries at The Reservation because he didn’t want Michael running off and doing something stupid. Which is exactly what he does as soon as Max’s mother shouts, "Max, Liz is here" from somewhere in the palatial palace that is Chez Evans. They’re going out. For Chinese food. But it’s not a date. Because of how bad she sucks, in all probability. Max is gone with his usual proclamations that no one should do anything until he gets back, and Michael implements this brilliant plan by leaving (via the window) to do something impulsive and stupid. Ah, well. At least he’s good looking and has totally normal hair. Oh, wait a sec.
Under the cover of a darkness which barely conceals the idiocy of the following sequence, Michael reintroduces a plot thread almost as vapid and pointless as the "They Like Tabasco" thread of so many weeks before and milks it for pretty much the remainder of this episode. Showing up at the reservation, Michael announces his presence to an old woman with all the whitey-come-lately bravado he can muster, strolling onto the grounds and demanding, "I’m looking for someone named River Dog. RIVER DOG!" Keanu approaches and requires Michael to state his business, and Michael none-too-surprisingly states that he is, in fact, looking for River Dog. Keanu, ever-vigilant to looming danger, suggests that Michael leave. To further sweeten the deal, he points toward a tent containing River Dog. Good work, Keanu. He’s sure to head for the hills now and not directly for the one person he came to see. ["Or perhaps to search the halls of Benjamin Franklin Junior High for that adolescent oracle, Wiener Dog. WIENER DOG!" -- Sars] Keanu tells him that River Dog is inside the tent practicing a "sacred ritual" and that Michael can’t go in unless he’s invited. Michael tells Keanu to invite him. Keanu does. I’m not seeing the logic of this. What’s the screening process for keeping people OUT of said sacred ritual? Michael is an angry stranger with a particular vendetta and hardly a nice word for anyone. So unless the reservation has a huge sign reading "Angry Strangers Only Need Apply," I hardly imagine him to be the most desirable control group for this particular experiment. Anyway, Keanu tells Michael that "it’s a sweat. It’s a spiritual cleansing. It’s intense." Michael gives a quick pause that registers on his face as, "Sweat? That I can do!" and insists on entering the tent.
Over the remains of greasy fried foods and highly caloric soft drinks at the Crashdown, Alex lectures Isabel about how she’s absolutely not an alien. She tells him that they don’t know who they are or how they got to Roswell in the first place. She adds that they experience all of the same emotions as humans, look the same, behave the same. She even gives him the ol’ "haven’t you ever felt different from everyone else" speech, again imbuing the word "alienation" with the full heft of all two of its meanings. Didn’t I already say enough with that? In this very recap? Isabel, pay attention to my recaps. Anyway, the aliens are exactly like people. But not people. What makes them different? Well, for one thing, they can "manipulate the molecular structure of things." At which point she picks up a bottle of ketchup and changes the contents of the bottle into, well, yellow ketchup, I think. Oooh, magic. I’m convinced. Now turn it into a freakin’ carrot and a big bowl of granola and get out of that diner and take some vitamins. I mean, really -- even Sizzler has a salad bar.
Back at Sweat Central, Michael joins a group of chanting reservation dwellers in the midst of the ancient ritual which involves drinking from a large bowl and doing a whole lotta sweating. Michael follows Keanu’s every lead. He shouldn’t. I refer specifically to the moment at which Michael takes off his shirt, revealing a body type I would categorize as, well, just this side of "puffy." He’s not fat. Oh, no. But doesn’t the WB send someone into their cast members’ rooms after hours with that body-fat pincer contraption just in case they should find themselves in a situation to have to disrobe? Or is that only true for the women? Anyway, Michael begins coughing uncontrollably and has to leave the sweat. He’s nervous. He’s overwhelmed. Damn it, have a Ricola and get on with your day.
Max and Liz are deep in a billiards-related game of some kind while music as one-note as this entire relationship drones endlessly on all the while. I thought they were going to a Chinese restaurant. Max compliments Liz on her playing ability (I half expect Liz to launch into a protracted speech about how playing pool is all a matter of physics and geometry and if you just look for the right angle blah blah blah, and I vow that if I so much as see her mouth the word "vector," I am so out of here. Sound unlikely to you? Then you’ve never seen the show before, so shut up, you). Shot of stripes. Shot of solids. Will this ever end? Let’s ask the Magic 8-Ball "Ask again later." Hey, thanks Magic 8-Ball. Will this ever end? "The situation is highly unlikely." Exactly. Gee, I am sure am hungry. I really could go for some Chinese. They finish their round of Flirty Pool and head over to a nearby table when I realize with deepening horror that they in fact ARE in a Chinese restaurant. With a pool table. How reputable and obviously high on the scale of upper-echelon, first-date-worthy cuisine in the Roswell metropolitan area. Yuck-o-la. Obviously every other citizen in the state has already figured out the potential implications of such a random coupling of cuisine and carnival, typified by the reality that Liz and Max are the only people in the entire place. I guess the phrase "by order of the Health Commissioner of the state of New Mexico" isn’t in the collective vocabulary of these two. I know I’ve spent remarkably few of my own first dates in the presence of so many diverse modes of fun, at least at the same time. Well, there was that one bowling alley/Indian joint I used to go in high school, but only with my parents for really special occasions. And come to think of it, there was that place that was half skeeball and half Thai restaurant down in TriBeCa. They had a pad thai that could make your mouth water, but I just wasn’t a honed enough player to collect enough tickets to redeem much more than some egg rolls and a glass of ice water.
Anyway, they sit at the table (best one in the house, pool-table view and everything) and read each other their fortune cookies. At least they decided to stick to the shrink-wrapped food products. Liz cracks hers open and beams, "This is my favorite part," as a look of "oh, I am so not getting any tonight" passes over Max’s face. She reads her fortune: "This is the best night of your life." With a germ-spewing snarf posing as an attempt at a laugh, Max actually sounds sarcastic when he responds, "Is that really what it says?" No. Just as his doesn’t really say "ask a girl to dance with you." She responds by asking if that’s really what his says, and he tells her that it depends on her answer. And as if this place didn’t already have enough on its combination plate to satisfy every possible customer from here to, um, that place in China where they play all the pool, they get up and walk to a nearby dance floor as the tunes pump up. And so they dance. She tells him that "my parents are away for the weekend," but Max keeps his sullen "not for all the tea in China" resolve and deflects the conversation elsewhere. Let’s ask the ol’ Magic 8-Ball if some arbitrary plot development will manifest itself suddenly to prevent them from doing something icky like actually kissing again. "It will be so." Oh, thank God. Salvation arrives in the unlikely form of Maria DeLuca, who must have known instinctively where to find them. She tells them in brief about Michael, and we cut to the Crashdown to see them running in. Isabel has him cradled in her arms on the floor, looking on as if to say, "Now wait just a sec here. I thought we didn’t get sick." Which, really, we learned three episodes ago.
Back from commercial and in the back room of the Crashdown, the tiny elite group (that is to say, the entire town) who knows the secret of the alien three are discussing Michael’s recent spell. Alex, new to the brooding drama of pretending all of this is really, really grand and important, volleys jokes that die in the air, including "echinacea always worked for me" and "what I really need is a sedative." And it’s not even his fault that his groping gestures at humor hit so far off the mark. It’s not like anyone else in the room is willing to up the madcap ante any. Still, though, if one of them did, I fear that dorky Alex’s only retort would be the once-functional but now shorthand-for-loser, "That’s so funny I forgot to laugh." This is so pointless I forgot to recap the rest of the scene.
Heading back toward the desolate hell that is teenage sexual frustration (and where every sixteen-year-old is supposed to spend all of his or her time, based on my own high school experience), Liz and Maria drown their sorrows in a giant vat of ice cream, the flavor of which is -- SURPRISE -- vanilla. Well, that’s what Liz’s flavor is, anyway. I think Maria might be eating out of the other side of the carton, of which the flavor is "back into the awkward hair stage." And what reflective flavors they are. So they bond girlishly on the topic of what it’s like to kiss an alien, throwing around adjectives like "dizzying" and "explosive." Maria worries briefly that Michael has spoiled her for all other men, and Liz assures her that "he’ll change his mind" and come running back to her. After all, he could change his body type and become violently ill in an instant, so why couldn’t another highly unlikely continuity error appear in its own due time? Good point, Liz. Now shut up. Maria lectures Liz about entering into a relationship with Max, telling her to be careful and not to get too involved. She says that Michael meant nothing to her and that "I’m Teflon, babe." Oh, yay. Does that mean I can scratch you with a fork and toss you in the trash? ’Cause if that’s not what you meant, I’m gonna be really disappointed. Liz’s relationship with Max, Liz posits, is different. There’s that whole soulmate thing. Liz unconvincingly convinces Maria that she’s not too far gone on Max, smiling and promising that they can handle any crisis that comes their way. Magic 8-Ball? "Shut up, Liz."
Meanwhile, Prom Queen Winner Isabel and Chess King Shopper Alex attempt to answer the question, "If we were the only two people left in this cast without any real plot line to follow, would you hang out with me THEN?" He’s dragging her into the UFO Center, Isabel commenting, "This place gives me the creeps." Alex has taken her there to show her an exhibit on, that’s right, the Peruvian village of Machu Picchu, where many ambiguous cave drawings have led people to believe in an alien presence of some kind. Is he kidding, I ask myself. "Forget it, Alex, don’t you think we’ve checked this stuff out?" Isabel chides in a tart little speech that makes me wish the producers would cull together every scene Isabel has ever graced with her tough-talkin’ presence and make a quick-cut half-hour version of this show called simply "Isabel." And I bet it would work, too. Or maybe it would be a miserable, stinking failure that would cause people to wonder if its creator wasn’t completely strapped for one more original idea. Sucks for you, David E. Kelley. If only the Magic 8-Ball weren’t stuck in some cheesy restaurant halfway across a town you’ve never heard of, perhaps you wouldn’t be the laughing stock of Hollywood right now. Anyway, Isabel begins to walk away from Alex in a huff, and he attempts to regain some face with reason, yelling after her, "But what if this could help you find your planet?" Everyone freezes and maybe someone gasps in shock and perhaps someone drops a glass. And though the museum is at peak crowd volume in a place as loud and tourist-y as Disneyworld, Alex’s comment silences everyone, a feat almost as logistically impossible as shouting, "There’s a PERSON inside of that Mickey Mouse costume!" and instantaneously shutting up the entire state of Florida. Bania the Curator comes over and identifies Isabel as Max’s sister. He then turns his attention to Alex, angrily asserting, "I don’t appreciate your attempt at humor, young man." Oooh. Tough words for a little guy in a yellow sport coat.
Nevertheless, this crisis is averted when Alex is painted as the fool. Almost time for another crisis? Sure thing: the sounds of panic behind them shift the simultaneous crowd reaction into overdrive. Everyone in the entire American Southwest runs over to see Michael Gerrin lying on the floor of the UFO Center, sweating and shaking and -- chanting? Max breaks through the crowd and surveys the situation. Michael is not well. He opens his eyes, which prove to be all white and generally yucky to look at. Max orders Michael to close his eyes, and from nowhere produces a pair of really femme-looking glasses. Oh, I think they’re his. Cut to interior Crashdown, where Max runs in to tell Liz about the current extremely bad status of things. They usher Michael into the back room, where the present cast (except for a shamed Alex) convenes to do really thrilling things like take Michael’s temperature. Michael is once again the absolute textbook definition of "shvitzy," should the word "shvitzy" have ever appeared in any textbook ever written. His temperature is up to, like, a thousand. Michael finally opens his eyes and speaks the magic word of this episode: "River Dog." The dramatic impact of this moment is lessened only by the fact that what is revealed when Michael opens his eyes is this: the same pupil-free, milky-whiteness we saw about four seconds ago. It’s like that final shot of the "Thriller" video, when Michael Jackson’s eyes turn all yellow and it is very, very scary. Except that this happens twice. And except that I’m not eight anymore.
I’m so happy that I know how to spell the name of the reservation and I can finally stop referring to it as simply "The Reservation." Another scene of this unrelenting ambiguity and I probably would have started to refer to the place as "Indiana." Anyway, Max and Liz drive the Alienmobile into the Mesaliko Reservation, looking for some answers. And oh, what a lovely day it is down at the Mesaliko Reservation. Those Mesalikans are a peaceful folk. Isn’t that what Bing Crosby says when he wants to wish someone a merry Christmas? Or is that just my raging cultural insensitivity talking? Anyway, Eddie the Gatekeeper From Hell unwelcomes them at the entrance and tells them that they have angered River Dog by telling someone else what they saw during their last visit. Max begins to cause a scene and people begin to crowd around, and Liz tells Eddie that "Michael is really sick." But it’s too late. River Dog is gone. So, Max counters, "I’m waiting here until he comes back." Oh. I thought he meant "dead." Have a good wait, Max. You let me know when River Dog gets back from the charcoal briquette store with some supplies for tonight’s sweat. I’ll be at Christmas dinner with my family, if it’s all the same to you.
Oh, did I mention Michael is sick? Maria and Isabel play dueling moms up in Liz’s room while The Sweatiest Man In Show Business gets his high-fever greasiness all over Liz’s Care Bear sheets. Alex adds another quotable to his ever-growing Annoying Dad-like Things Dorky Guys Say In Times of Stress manual, entering the room with a pithy, "Knock, knock." Who’s there? Liz. Liz who? Liz fast forward through the rest of this scene, shall we? And, uh, no, Liz isn’t really there. It’s a joke. Kind of. Anyway, Alex politely asks if they need anything, and Isabel all but becomes unhinged in screaming at both of them to leave the care-taking to her, ending her rant and the scene with, "He needs me right now, not strangers." Exactly. Oh, Isabel, I wanna rock with you. All night. Okay, not really. Okay, maybe a little.
And now for some people with whom I have never wanted to rock: Liz and Max stroll through the private grounds of Mesaliko like they’re passing a day in Colonial Williamsburg, soaking in the authentic culture. Max is telling Liz the story of the first time he saw Michael, the night they first came out of the pods. He begins it, "The sky was bright with stars." As opposed to these debased modern times, when the sky is filled with full-color overhead projections of Neil Sedaka. Do we really need that line? Edit edit edit. Anyway, Max and Isabel came out of their pods and found each other in the desert. They walked and walked. But then they realized they could feel someone else’s presence. "Michael?" Liz asks. No, Liz, Wile E. Coyote. It is the desert, after all. Michael wanted to reveal himself but was afraid to trust them. They all saw car headlights, and Isabel took Max’s hand. Max held his hand out to Michael, but he didn’t take it. And then they didn’t see each other again for three years. Gah, isn’t this torture to trudge through? But I promise you’ll be needing it again later for our drug trip through Michael’s cough-addled mind. So Max worries that Liz is having second thoughts. What if this is the alien life cycle? What if this is how they die? What if the overarching existential questions of life and the universe are all being put to Liz right now? Liz thinks getting separated is sad.
Back in Sicksville, Maria attempts to make amends by bringing Michael some food. "I care about him too, y’know," Maria asserts, and Isabel tells her that Michael and Max are all she has. Suddenly, Michael awakens in full-throttle seizure mode, gasping for air and just generally punching things. Cut to Liz, feeling more put out than anyone because no one will answer her cell phone call. Boo hoo, Liz. And three cheers for caller ID. Let its many and varied uses all prove equally effective. Cut back to Liz’s room, where Isabel attempts to feed Michael some water. Suddenly he hurtles into some dream state I will now proceed not to fully document here. You know that episode of The Simpsons where Homer eats the hot pepper and goes on that twenty-three minute drug trip where he talks to that fox-like animal and makes the sun smash into the ground? It’s like that, but much more out of context. Basically he’s in the desert, his cactus-like hair blending in to perfection with the surrounding fauna. He’s standing on dusty ground, surrounded by different-colored representations of the symbols. Then it’s night. Then he sees stars. Then it’s day. Then we’re cutting back to the sweat lodge, and I realize that the nightmare is really only beginning. Liz and Max watch the ritual for a moment, and turn around to find themselves face to face with River Dog. "Bring him here," he orders. "We might not have much time." Well, thanks a lot there, Dr. Dog, but aren’t you the feller who caused him to get so sick in the first place? And so we cut back to Liz’s room, where all are present to see Michael slowly becoming enveloped in a gauzy web. Hello? That room needs some serious dusting. Where is The Mom That Does Laundry when Liz’s dirty friends are raiding the snack cabinet and weaving an alien death cocoon all around the place?
And then I don’t understand what happens for the rest of the episode. No, really. But I’m paid to try. And try I will. The party of five stands inside a cave at Mesaliko, surrounding a cobweb-ified Michael while River Dog has center stage. He tells the group about another visitor who participated in a sweat, whose reaction was as severe as Michael’s. So this was his test. Or whatever. So he knows how to heal Michael. He has drawn a circle with a line leading to Michael in the middle. Damn if River Dog isn’t the least precise chalk-outline guy in the history of the Mesaliko Police Department. Each of the dour teens takes his or her respective place in the circle and uses some magical stones brought by the last alien visitor. And if you plant the magic stones, a beanstalk will grow and the aliens can climb back to the home planet. Or something like that. Oh, um, the stones are from another planet. And they all have to hold the stones and restore THE BALANCE (without that one line of dialogue, I think this episode would have instead gone by its more applicable title, "Gonna Mesaliko You Up In My Love") the aliens possess that is, for an unknown reason, lost during the ritual of the sweat. So they hold the rocks and drink from a bowl. Drink drink drink, bowl bowl bowl. But as River Dog approaches Liz, he singles her out and stares into her unemoting eyes. Describing Liz’s feelings like a late-night psychic on Dionne Warwick’s payroll, he warns, "You’re afraid. Not of the healing. Your fear runs deeper. Your fear for someone else. Someone you care for a great deal." And then the real slap: "You must step back. You cannot stop the flow." Oh! Dissed! Sorry, Liz. Can’t help in saving Michael’s life today, can you? Go, River Dog, you old rapscallion, you. So everyone else starts some kind of chant for which they must have bought the Berlitz tapes and memorized during the car ride over. The stones in their hands light up, and the four remaining non-losers are seen entering into Michael’s desert space and bringing him back. And at the last second, Max sees Liz in the space. Fine, you can come in. But just remember you don’t have anything to do with anything good that happens from here until, let’s say, um, the end of time. Flashbacks of young Michael intersperse with present Michael. He’s emerging from the pod. He’s being born back into the world. We get it. Back in the cave, Max rips through the cave and he’s back in this room again. The situation seems to warrant hushed, reverent whispers, so I can’t really understand that Michael is insisting he take the rocks out of the hands of those who cured him. Good morning, everyone. And a "thanks" probably wouldn’t kill you, either.
Journal-bound, Liz is back on her roof, journalizing (that’s my new word, and it means "rationalizing in the only forum in which someone will listen to one stinkin’ word she has to say"). She says that she’s always the one who rises to the occasion in times of crisis, but stops just in time for Max to show up on her roof and break it off. He says that he’s been off balance in the twelve seconds since they’ve gotten together, and that feeling like she’s the only person in his world isn’t living in reality. She opines, "It is the only real thing that I’ve ever felt." The non-depth of this moment could only be made more faux serious by the presence of a soul-searching Jewel song, I think, at which point a soul-searching Jewel song begins to play. She’s really deep because she’s from Alaska and lived in a van. And don’t get her started about it, because she’s not going to let you forget, okay? And so Max insists that they take a few steps back and legitimize the episode’s title again by asserting that they have to regain their balance. They kiss. And he’s gone, ending a very very unspecial Roswell, indeed.