My stomach felt like a giant hand was pinching it. Maybe I was coming down with something, or maybe it was simply guilt-induced nausea springing from the secret Sofía had uncovered, and the bigger one I was keeping.
“Y’all need to come back from the Marvel Universe,” Nick said. “Franny, Bill Nye, someone be the voice of reason here.”
Sofía massaged the bridge of her nose. “I’m actually with Arthur on this. I can’t spend the rest of my life popping into your heads. I need to figure out how to undo it, or at least how to control it, and the same goes for Franny. And what about you? Don’t you want your . . . piano nightmares to stop?”
“Well, you don’t need to say it like that,” Nick said. “Have you ever tried sleeping with one song on repeat in your head at full volume, nonstop?”
“That’s the point, Nick,” I said. “We have to figure out how to make this stop.”
“And why it’s happening in the first place,” Levi added. “And document it!”
Arthur turned on his heel and started down the tracks, puffing his cigarette like it was a glass of water he’d found in the desert. “This is going to be amazing,” he said, to us or himself. “Absolutely incredible.”
I fought another wave of dizzy nausea and fell into step behind him. We all did. We always did, but even so, that didn’t mean I wasn’t alone in this.
Maybe the shocks we’d sustained at the substation had affected all of us in some way—or at least Sofía. Maybe there was alien shrapnel lodged in the others, doing strange and impossible things, but I was the one an alien had outright walked into.
When I got home, I was going to write Bill back.
My stomach hitched and gurgled.
First I was probably going to throw up.
* * *
*
Dear Bill,
Thank you for your reply, but before I can say more, I need proof that you’re who you say you are.
Tell me about your “encounter.”
How did it all start, and when did it stop?
—F
Dear F,
I’ve seen three of our Little Friends. My first encounter was in the fall of 1986, during the Orionids. It’s a meteor shower, like the one that must have brought your visitor, but this one is the product of Halley’s Comet.
I was driving through Texas. At first I didn’t think much of it. Shooting stars streaking past on occasion, but that was about it.
Then, suddenly, this light fell from the sky, about a half mile off the road. It didn’t move like the meteors—in an arc—it dropped, straight down, brighter than all the lights on the road or anything else.
I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. It was very late, and I’d been driving all day. But as the light was falling, my radio cut out. My engine died. And all the lights down the road blew. Like they’d had some surge of power. The road, my windshield, the desert all went white it was so bright, and then, just as quickly, it went pitch-black. Nearly wrecked my car.
Glass shards landed on the hood, from the blown-out bulbs, and I pulled over just in time to see where the disc hit the earth.
You can guess the rest.
I left my car and walked out to the light. It was crackling in its gel receptacle. When I touched it, the receptacle opened and the being entered me.
So that was how it all started, but as for how it stopped, that’s more complicated, and I CANNOT discuss at length in such an insecure way.
What matters is that of the dozen of us I’ve met since I started my research, I’ve now lost contact with all but three.
If those responsible for my peers’ disappearances locate you, there will be no protecting you. I saw your video had already been removed. That suggests they’ve seen it. They’ll want to keep it quiet.
They’ll arrive with a cover story. They will give your family all the answers they want, every reason to trust that they are looking out for you, but trust me: All they want is the being. To them, you are nothing more than a vessel.
I can help you, but we must act fast. Where shall I meet you?
—Bill
Dear Bill,
I understand the need to be careful, but you’re a stranger. On the Internet. HOW can you help me?
—F
SIXTEEN
THE NIGHT BEFORE I turned eleven, Mom made red velvet cake. It was terrible. Dense and overbaked, and it had whiskey in the frosting, which Mom insisted shouldn’t affect us, but Arthur pretended it had gotten him drunk.
We took it down to the yard, where we sat on a blanket under the stars, making exaggerated “mmmm” noises while we tried to eat it.
“Jeez, Eileen,” Dad said. “Where did you ever get the idea to put cream cheese frosting on this meat loaf?”
“Is there garlic in this turd?” Arthur asked.
“Theoretically, I’m good at baking!” Mom cried through laugh-tears. “It’s science!”
“See, that’s the problem with you science types,” Dad teased. “You put too much stock in theory, when you should be putting stock in Marie Callender’s.”
“Or buying stock,” Mark said, “since we’re going to keep them in business.”
“I think I broke a tooth,” I said. “Some birthday!”