The police and fire rescue workers were coming and going for hours after the flames were put out. They sifted through the debris on both floors, wondering aloud about the last time they’d seen something like this before, and left their half-finished coffee cups on any remaining counter space.
Most of the night’s events were a blur. At one point, Booker was wrapped in a blanket out front, sitting in the back of an ambulance as a police officer took down his statement. Booker wasn’t sure what to say. A part of him felt so delirious he wasn’t even sure if what he remembered was true at all.
The officer assumed a gas leak was to blame, asking Booker questions about leaving the stove on or if at any point he had smelled rotten eggs or sulfur.
“The house is electric,” said Booker. “There’s no gas.”
“Are you sure?” said the officer, jotting down notes on his notepad.
Booker assured him that the house was all electric. When he told the officer about the sphere that had crashed into the house, the officer bit his lip and flipped the notepad closed. “Listen kid, the boys over there tell me you’re likely to be feeling some serious shock symptoms. I’ll tell you what; why don’t we get you comfortable, and make sure you get some rest. You can come down to the station tomorrow when you’re feeling better, and I’ll take your statement then. How’s that sound?”
Booker told him that he was telling the truth, and that shock had nothing to do with it. However, the mug of coffee he held was shaking violently because he still couldn’t steady his hands. The officer assured him that all would be fine and asked if anyone else had been in the house.
“Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. My neighbor was in there. Her name is Joanna,” he said.
“Well, they haven’t found anything yet,” said the officer. “Are you sure she didn’t get out?”
Booker rubbed his face, praying that she had found a way out. She might have had to retreat into the burning office once she was unpinned, but the hole in the center of the room could have taken her right back to the first floor. The officer said something about needing to talk to the Fire Marshall and said he would return soon.
But the officer didn’t come back. Booker heard the officers and fire rescue workers chatting about gas leaks and laughing about meteor showers and UFOs as they settled around. No one seemed to be doing anything except taking up space at this point. Booker refused to go to the hospital, insisting that he was fine.
When the sun rose, Booker was standing in the driveway, alone, watching the last firetruck carefully maneuver its way down the cramped street. The garage door and front door both had yellow police tape stuck to them, and a small sign that said, “Danger! Do Not Enter” was taped to both as well. A steady stream of dust and pink insulation wafted in the sea breeze above the caved-in roof, making the house look like something straight out of a war-torn country. There were even scorch marks on the roofs of the houses on either side.
As the last firetruck disappeared around the bend, Booker heard the sound of a rapidly downshifting motorcycle growing louder. The motorcycle swung around the bend a moment later, swerving around the fire truck, and headed right toward him. It was a dark green, cafe-style bike with a woman bent low over the handlebars. The twin motor roared as the rider downshifted again and swung the bike into his driveway, coming to a sudden stop right in front of him.
It was Joanna. She was wearing blue jeans, a brown leather jacket with dark red stitching, and maroon gloves. She pulled off her helmet and shook her head vigorously, her hair dancing back and forth in a messy bun. “Morning,” she said brightly and tossed the helmet at him.
Booker caught it, barely getting his hands out of his pockets in time. “Morning,” he said. “Where have you been? I thought you might have died!”
She laughed, leaned back on her seat, and swung a leg over top of the handlebars so she could hop off the bike. “What a night! You holding up okay? You look terrible.”
Laughing in spite of himself, Booker rubbed his face and said, “I’m just glad you’re okay.” Trying to deflect any other questions about the night before, he nodded to the motorcycle and said, “I haven’t seen you on this thing before.”
“I don’t go out much,” she said, brushing a strand of hair out of her face with a gloved finger. “But today I was feeling adventurous.” She placed her backpack on the motorcycle seat and unzipped it. A small brown box with round holes on either end was produced, and she said, “I present you with … donuts.”
She pulled the lid off the box revealing chocolate, glazed, and sprinkled donuts, a couple of maple bars, and a glistening cinnamon roll. Each was separated with a wrinkled piece of waxed tissue paper. “Take your pick,” she said.
“What’s good?” he said.
“It’s all good. No, not that one!”
He stopped, his fingers reaching for the maple bar.
“I’m just kidding! That’s a good choice,” she said.
He picked up the donut, which was still warm, and took a bite. It was fresh and rich with flavor. “Not bad. You must’ve been flying down the highway for these to still be warm.”
“Me? No,” she said, winking at him. She took a sip out of a silver thermos from her backpack and covered up the donuts again. “What’s your plan for today?”
He chuckled in a resigned sort of way and said, “I have no idea.”
“People were talking about this at the donut shop, so I’m sure the news vans aren’t far off.” Hands on her hips, she looked up at the carnage before pulling her gloves off.
“I should probably try to get some sleep,” he said. “I really don’t want to deal with reporters right now.”
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“I don’t blame you,” said Joanna, plucking the donut out of his hand and taking a bite. She closed her eyes, savoring the flavor. “Mm, no kidding. That’s good.” She handed it back to him, licking the excess maple frosting off her fingers.
“Yeah, really good,” he said, looking down at where she’d bit the donut.
“Let’s talk about that job offer,” she said.
Booker chewed another bite of his donut, slowly recalling what they had talked about the night before over dinner. It seemed like a lifetime ago that they’d had dinner together in the kitchen and she’d mentioned a job offer of some kind. “You want to offer me a job? Still? After all this?”
“What does ‘all this’ have to do with it?”
“Nothing, I guess. It’s just - I still can’t wrap my head around what happened last night. Work is the last thing on my mind.”
“Well, you better get it back on your mind because I’m running out of time. My plans have changed, and so have my plans for you.”
“You had plans for me?”
“I told you I had a job offer for you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but I guess not anymore?”
She grinned and said, “No. I still need you. So, how about it? Will you take the job?”
“What kind of job is it?” said Booker.
“The kind where you drop everything and come with me. Right now,” she said.
Booker laughed again and tossed the last bite of his maple bar high over the garage and into the wreckage of the house. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”
“Why not?” she said.
“What is it that you do again?”
“I can’t tell you that,” she said.
Book scoffed again, “I can’t take a job I know nothing about.”
She shook her head and said, “You’re just going to have to trust me.” Her eyes seemed to twinkle as she looked at him. “Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”
He shook his head incredulously, and said, “I’ve had enough adventure for one day.”
“I need your help, Booker,” she said in a low voice. “And I’m not alone. If we move quickly, there’s still time to help your father.”
Booker, who had bent down to pick up a stray piece of charred wood from the driveway, froze for a moment. He slowly stood up, bouncing the charred piece of wood in his hand, and turned to face her. “Come again?”
“There’s still time to help your father,” she said.
Booker dug in his pocket and pulled out the mysterious postcard. His eyes scanned the last line scribbled toward the bottom:
There’s still time to help your father
Heart racing slightly, he scanned the message again.
Watch the sky
A memory of the pulsing blue lights in the sky from the night before flashed across his brain.
Take the box from the office
The box - could the postcard be referring to that box briefcase from his father’s office? The one that they’d switched on? But it was destroyed! He could no longer take it anywhere. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes scanning and rescanning the message with blurry, tired eyes.
Joanna spoke softly again, pulling him away from the postcard’s spell. “Trust me. You won’t regret it.”
He looked up at her. She seemed so calm and collected, with no interest in the world aimed at the postcard in his hand. Then he looked back down at the postscript:
P.S. You can trust your neighbor
Booker felt a sudden rush of excitement and wonder rushing through him. This had to be it! Whatever the card wanted him to do, it must be this job Joanna was talking about. He was sure of it! “Where would we be going?” he said quickly.
“Vegas to start,” she said.
“Vegas? Like Las Vegas?” he said, flipping the card over to look at the UFO picture again. Las Vegas, Nevada was printed on the bottom of the card in fine print. Again, he felt a rush through his body, invigorating his tired muscles and foggy brain. “What’s in Las Vegas?” he said, looking up at her again.
“Adventure,” she said with a grin. “You won’t regret it. Come with me.”
He carefully folded the postcard with slightly shaky fingers and put it into his pocket again before saying, “Why is my father in trouble?”
She leaned against her motorcycle, folded her arms, and said, “Do you know where your father works?”
“Yeah, he works for the Air Force, I think.”
“Sure,” she said. “But do you know where he works?” When he shrugged, she said, “Come on. Really?”
“He works on a base somewhere. Maybe Miramar? He works three weeks at a time, and then is home for a week,” said Booker.
She chuckled then sighed. “Your father works for Colonel Henry Jacobs at Groom Lake Air Force Base in Nevada. They recruited him out of NASA a few years ago. He specializes in propulsion systems, and they have him working in S4 skunk works now.”
Booker’s jaw dropped. “What - I mean - how do you know that?”
“It’s my job to know,” she said. Before he could blurt out more questions, she gestured to the ruined house behind him and said, “Don’t you remember moving here a year ago? Your dad seemed to have a bunch of money all of a sudden, then I moved in around the same time?”
Booker could only shake his head, trying to keep up with her train of thought. She continued, saying, “It’s not a coincidence I moved next door. My job was to keep an eye on your father for a while. When you’re involved in some of the government's most top-secret projects, you tend to lose a lot of your privacy.”
“Hold on,” said Booker, holding up a hand as if that would stop the sudden rush of information. “Groom Lake is Area-51. You’re saying my dad works at Area-51?” She nodded. “And you moved here to spy on him?” She nodded again. “Who are you?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m your neighbor. Joanna Jones.”
“You’re a spy?”
“Ex-CIA,” she said.
“The CIA is spying on my father?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “I’m actually retired, believe it or not. But I took this job as a favor to a friend.”
“Who?” said Booker.
She waved away the question and said, “Listen. Last night, you and I really messed things up for your dad. I don’t know why all that fancy tech was his office, or what any of it is supposed to do, but whatever crashed into your house last night has not gone unnoticed. Your dad is in a lot of trouble. It’s up to you and me to help him.”
Booker thought about the sphere again and a shiver ran down his spine. Where had it gone? As fast as he’d been filled with excitement and wonder, a crushing sense of being overwhelmed descended on him. “How am I supposed to help?” he said.
Joanna put a hand on his shoulder and looked him directly in the eyes. He felt disarmed for a moment, but something about her touch brought a sense of calm to his nerves again. She said, “I was given two instructions when I took this job. The first was to keep an eye on your father. The second, to keep an eye on you. Someone, somewhere, thinks you might be worth a look.”
“Why would they think that?”
Joanna thought about that for a moment and then said, “You’re in the business of saving people - always the first to jump in. Remember?”
Shaking his head, Booker said, “You can’t be serious about all this.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “I feel something special in you, Booker. You just have to trust me. There’s so much out there; so much I can show you!”
“Like what?”
“Adventure!” she said, eyes sparkling. She let go of him and pulled a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses out of her pocket and put them on. “There’s not much time left to make up your mind. What’s it going to be, Wonderboy?”
“You’re serious about all this?” he said.
She only smiled. “Come with me. You won’t regret it.”
He looked at his own pale reflection in her silver sunglasses and shook his head. “This is crazy. But … Let’s do it.” He gave her a weak grin.
“Good choice,” she said, pulling an envelope out of her pocket and pressing it against his chest. “Clean yourself up. We leave in twenty minutes.” She pushed hard against the handlebars of her motorcycle and steered it back to her own garage next door. Booker watched her go, perplexed, and then opened the envelope. Inside was a boarding pass for flight 1637 to Las Vegas later that morning.