The flame winked out as quickly as it had come on, leaving me empty, achy, gasping for breath. I swiped the back of my hand up my mouth, drying it, wiped at my tear-streaked face with my fingertips.

The damp hair on the back of my neck began to prickle then, just a second of warning.

“Quite the show,” said a man’s voice behind me. “That must make you Frances.”

I spun toward him. He was standing in front of the door, dressed in a bucket hat and iron-crisp Members Only jacket three shades lighter than his mocha-khaki pants. The man was easily seventy years old, white-haired and starting to stoop. He shuffled toward me, his hands raised in appeasement. “No need to be alarmed.”

I took a step back, and fear as big and hard as a jawbreaker caught in my throat.

“In fact, it’s essential you remain calm.” He was a heavy breather, the kind who gave a damp exhale between every couple of words, his lips smacking audibly as they parted to let in new oxygen. “Our bodies aren’t meant to channel the energy in that way. If you keep up like that, it’s going to make you very sick, young lady.”

I glanced between him and the door. His thin lips twisted into a smile, and he touched his chest. His hand was so papery his veins were visible as blue rivers beneath his skin, except where the sun had left dark spots. “It’s me.”

I recognized him, but not because I knew him: because he’d been following me in the blue Cadillac.

He patted his chest once more, and the movement revealed a shiny, black rectangle tucked under the jacket at his hip.

Gun, my mind registered, and it was like I could taste the bullets in the back corners of my mouth, between my molars, even down in my stomach. Cold and tart metal all through my body. My heart rate skyrocketed, and I took another step back, trying not to react to the sharp pain in my ankle.

He took another step forward, and his white eyebrows, thin and widely spread, lifted in surprise. “Bill. Black Mailbox Bill, Frances. I’m here to help.”

My throat loosened, just a little. Black Mailbox Bill wasn’t much more comforting than me. Either way, a stranger had tracked me down, flown across the country, and cornered me in an abandoned steel mill.

“What are you doing here?” My voice came out hoarse, and I fought to control it. “How do you know my name?”

“Now calm down,” he said. “You can trust old Bill.”

I disagreed. You couldn’t trust anyone who referred to himself as old Bill. My eyes flicked to the outline of the gun inside his jacket.

“Ah, this?” he said lightly. “This isn’t for you. This is in case—” He reached for it, and all at once the machinery hummed to life, the fire bells roaring against the wall. Bill jerked his hand away and held both hands up again, like I was the one with the gun and I had it pointed at him.

The current running through me dropped off, and the room fell silent in response. Bill gave a tense smile and dropped his hands to his sides. “I was just going to say, this is for protection.”

“Protection,” I repeated.

Bill gave a somehow smug nod. “From anyone who tries to get his hands on either one of us, Frances. I’m sure you understand what a risk it is, my coming up here.”

“How did you find me?” I demanded.

“I’ve got a lot of help with the MUFON community, and once we’d placed the location from your video, it just took a little digging. You kids really should be more careful how you use your social media.”

“Lesson learned,” I said.

Bill chuckled. “Now, how about this, Frances? I’ll set my gun down, and you can take a load off that bruised ankle for a minute while we chat. But only for a minute. If I could figure out to look for you here, others won’t be far behind. We’ve got to get you somewhere safe.”

“Like where?”

Bill’s watery blue eyes crinkled. He smacked his lips. “Don’t you worry about that.”

“Oh, I’m worried, Bill,” I said. “Put the gun down.”

Something surprising flared into his eyes, and his leathery face went rigid for a beat. Then it relaxed and he slipped the pistol from its elastic holster.

He held it up, hand shaking a bit, then bent at a snail’s pace and set it on the ground near his feet.

I considered having him kick it over to me, like people did in cop shows and movies, but we weren’t in a dark school or an underground facility with polished cement floors. We were standing in inches of soot and ash, and I doubted much less than a professional punt would get the gun anywhere near me.

“You—you said MUFON helped you find me,” I said. The Mutual UFO Network. I’d read about them when I was digging through Wikipedia, trying to make sense of what had happened to us. MUFON was the largest, and oldest, collective of armchair UFOlogists in the world.

“Not in any official capacity,” Bill answered. “But the community’s expansive, and members are willing to help. This trip is—so to speak—off the books.”

That same smile flicked across his broad lips, which were dried and cracking but very pink. “I had an analyst friend take a look at your footage. That was where all this started. He confirmed what I already knew—that it was real.”

Bill took another small step. This time I didn’t move. My ankle was bruised, and it was swelling too.