by David Hopkins

January 23rd, 2056 is the day. I bring Dianna, my lovely wife of 26 years, down the garden path, past the neighbors, past the Hemmingway Deputy, past cousin Amber. This is the day she will go with the Aliens. It's a great day, or it's supposed to be. I think this happened before, in a dream or something.

January 23rd, 2081 I look up in the sky and wave. I feel like I've been ripped off, but you can't really tell people these things.