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cry.
    That night I dream of an alien family who live in a round silver house high on a cliff among the clouds. And they have blue hair.

• 4 •
 
    It’s officially the first day of summer, and I am at the front screen door trying to enjoy the smell of the summer rain. David is catching his daily show of man harassing alligator on Animal Planet. Gramps has been in his workshop for days, but today he has come upstairs to talk to Mom. I hear them whispering together on the front porch. They’ve been doing this a lot lately, and their secrecy really bugs me.
    Our trip to Niagara Falls has been postponed for reasons unknown. Something wicked this way comes, but I am not in the loop to know about it.
    â€œWhy not just tell me and get it over with!” I suddenly yell, exasperated.
    The whispering stops, and David clicks off the TV. Silently Mom and Gramps come inside, and the four of us scrunch up together on one couch. Gramps hugs me tohim. Hanging on a cord around his neck is a silver object that looks like a long whistle.
    â€œYes, you’re old enough to hear hard truths without falling apart,” Gramps says.
    â€œI am,” I say, but my heart is thundering. “Tell me.”
    â€œIt’s all the talk in town—of aliens,” Mom says softly.
    â€œBut what about it?” I say irritably.
    â€œIt grows worse and worse,” Gramps says. “People are wild with fear. We must take precautions. Just in case … You know.”
    â€œWhat kind of precautions?”
    â€œWe must have a plan,” Mom says.
    I touch the whistle, and a vague memory stirs. We’ve had this thing for many years, and once it was used for … what? When?
    â€œIt’s called the Log,” Gramps says. “You were only three the last time we played it, and in case you’ve forgotten, it sounds like this.” He props the whistle against his lips.
    As he blows softly into it, a flimsy mist floats out of the air holes and circles our heads. It’s gray and smells a lot like smoke, and there’s another odor that’s pretty bad, but I can’t quite place it. At the same time this really lovely mystic music that sounds almost like a pan flute fills the house. I have to say, there’s such a pang of longing and sadness in the sound that I feel like crying. I’ve almost remembered the last time I heard this whistle, when Gramps interrupts my thoughts.
    â€œAt full volume, it will be heard all around our property, and it’s our danger signal,” he says. “If you everhear it, drop what you’re doing and get to the basement pronto.”
    â€œWe’ll all meet there in Gramps’s workshop,” Mom says.
    I can still smell the whistle mist, and feel the sadness in its music.
    â€œAnd there we’ll be safe from them?” I say.
    â€œUtterly and completely,” Gramps says. “They can’t touch us there.”
    We fall asleep on the screened porch with moonlight washing over our faces. It’s long after midnight when I wake up with a start, to the uncomfortable feeling of a hand being placed over my mouth.
    Before I can react, Gramps whispers, “It’s just me. Let’s go quickly, quietly.”
    My body stiffens with fear.
    When he takes his hand away from my mouth, I squeak, “Are they here?”
    â€œYes, in the cornfield.”
    I can’t resist looking out at the corn in the full light of the moon. There I see dark figures moving without a sound among the stalks. I shrink against Gramps, fearing they might see us. But we have the advantage, for at this hour we are in the moon’s shadow, and they are in its light.
    I see Mom and David tiptoeing through the French doors into the house. With Gramps holding my hand, we follow.
    In our bare feet we step down the stairs to the main floor, with Mom and David ahead of us. Nobody speaks aswe hurry toward the basement stairs near the