"What is that?" you say from bed.

            "The buzzing outside? Maybe the motor on the fountain broke?" I reply from across the room where I nurse the baby in the dark.

            You lean over to open the window. The fountain two stories below us sounds fine, but the buzzing is louder, echoing off the high-rise across the street and bouncing around the C-shape of the courtyard in competition with the tinkling waterfalls. You shut the window fast.

            "Could it be street sweepers?" you ask.

            "At four in the morning?" We both wait and listen for a beat.

            You jam the edges of your pillow against your ears.

"If they wake the baby, I swear…" I add.

            The baby is out cold. Shame that we are not. They unlatch and flop back onto my waiting forearm.

            Just as I begin to lift them for the bassinet transfer, a slew of emergency sirens screams past the windows. The baby startles, lifting their head with a cry, and we stare across the room at each other in the stripes of red and white flashing around the edges of the poorly mounted blackout curtains.

            "Jesus, did they wait until they were directly outside our building to turn those on?" you ask.

            I recognize by its similar-yet-distinct set of whines the trifecta of fire, ambulance, and police. At least ten vehicles pass before the cacophony starts to fade around a corner while I resettle the baby then stumble back to bed.

            And still, that buzzing remains. We both sigh and curl up with our heads under the covers. As our breathing slows, from the toddler's adjacent bedroom comes a whimper that quickly rises to a roar. "No. NONONONO!"

            "Your turn," I say, then fall into a dreamless, solid sleep that lasts to daybreak.

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            By morning, the night feels like a fog, its details stalking away on its little sandman-cat feet. The four of us sit in our usual seats around the living room, each with our usual devices, except the baby who is discovering their fingers. Then you look up from your phone to say, "Whoa."

            "What?"

            "There was an alien abduction last night. In our neighborhood."

            I sip my coffee before replying. The baby has pooped, which I am ignoring for another minute. "No shit."

            "Yeah, the… Rakowskis? You know them? They took the whole family."

            "That's terrible," I shake my head. The name doesn't ring a bell.

            "But that's not all. Apparently, they also took all the cars on the block. And the dumpsters? And a crane that was parked by the aqueduct."

            "God, I wish they'd finish that red line station." Speaking of which, I realize, it's almost time to leave if we're going to get to preschool on time on foot. Slowly, your words register. I sip more coffee. "Hold on—all the cars you say? Why?"

            You laugh and shrug. "Who ever knows with ETs? But according to Fox32," —I interrupt with a snort—"eyewitness accounts suggest they had a problem with the tractor beam. They couldn't turn it off, or close the door or whatever. Finally, some crafty paramedic got all the neighbors to aim their garage openers at it and press at the same time."

            "And that worked?"

            "Probably a coincidence, but looks like it."

            I shake my head and turn to the toddler. "Okay, nugget. Time to get those shoes on." I stretch and rise off the couch. "City life, am I right?"

            You're already back to scrolling on your phone, though you give me an mm-hmm. I think you've stopped listening.

            A car passes out front with bass so loud the windows vibrate. The baby stirs, opens their mouth, then resumes sleeping. I down my coffee and prepare to face the day's more predictable close encounters.

            On the threshold, I pat my pockets, checking for keys, wallet, phone. The toddler barrels by and down the hallway, riding their scooter with alarming abandon, while the baby coos at me from the stroller. My heart lurches with both children in view. I stop short and reach back inside, feeling around in the junk dish until I find it: my mother-in-law's spare U-Store-It remote opener. When we reach the sidewalk, I look up for a moment, sending my thoughts to the Rakowskis, who I now feel like maybe I do know. To us all.

            I hope I'm not the only one who left the house this morning with a remote.