Neon Green. Margaret Wappler

ago was on the importance of green space in the town mall, currently shut off to car traffic. Prairie Park’s officials wanted to run a street through it to spur business. Ernest thought it was a terrible idea. His editorial had garnered several responses: some from local businesses who said a street would save the flagging mall, some who agreed with him, and one from a seventeen-year-old Marxist who advocated for the entire mall to be destroyed.

      Marilyn dug a card out of her purse, an unfashionable but highly functional canvas shoulder bag that gave Ernest a sense of kinship.

      “What are you working on now?”

      “All sorts of stories,” she said in a way that suggested she wouldn’t talk any more about them. She had a serious, secretive air about her, even when she was smiling. “Let me ask you something: Do you spend a lot of time in this park?”

      “All the time. I live only a block away.”

      “I see,” she said with a bobbing nod.

      “In fact, you can see a bit of my house right there.” Ernest pointed down the block. They were close enough to see some neon-green light from the spaceship spilling onto the driveway.

      “There?” She squinted. “With that green light? What is that?”

      “Well,” he said with an exhalation, “that’s a spaceship from Jupiter.”

      Her body froze and then a giddy smile spread on her face. “You’re kidding me.”

      “Lucky winner, right here.”

      “Right, oh right! Someone at the office was telling me that a saucer had landed in this neighborhood—”

      “Do you want to come see it?”

      She checked her watch. “Sure, I’ll take a quick peek.”

      Marilyn Fournier walked around the ship, rubbing her hand on a leg, then knocking on it. She pressed her hand to her sternum and murmured, “Amazing.” Then she folded over with a few vigorous sneezes. She laughed. “Is it made out of ragweed?”

      “No, but you’re not the only one allergic to it.” Ernest pointed to two squirrels who’d been on their way into the yard via the driveway but promptly turned around. “All small critters run in the face of the spaceship, including our cat.”

      “Not surprising.”

      “You’ve never heard of these being toxic, have you?”

      “No,” she said. “Nothing of the sort.”

      “You should come back in a week,” Ernest blurted out. “We’re having a party. It’s calm right now, but if you’re here for a while, it’ll make a racket. You’ve got to see it.”

      Before she left, they both checked in on the sky. One of the contrails looked like it had been drawn with chalk. That mark would stay the longest, but by nighttime, it blended in with the rest of the clouds, its edges gilded with moonlight.