My mother often told me, “Don’t sit on Grandpa’s lap.” I never understood why. One day, I didn’t listen to her and sat down anyway. Grandpa smiled, leaned close to my ear, and whispered, “Can you come sleep beside me tonight?”

“Too far left.”

Then another.

“Too far right.”

Then he’d look at me.

“Your grandfather is a professional.”

Mom laughed.

“You once spent three hours looking for your glasses while they were on your head.”

“That was a completely different situation.”

I giggled.

For a while, it felt like an ordinary family night.

We ate popcorn.

We drank hot chocolate.

Grandpa told me stories about Mom when she was a little girl.

Apparently, she once put a frog in his briefcase.

“Mom!”

“You did?”

Mom covered her face.

“I was six.”

“You were twelve.”

“Dad!”

I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my hot chocolate.

Grandpa looked at me.

“You see? Your mother has always been trouble.”

Mom shook her head.

“You’re the one who taught me.”

“Exactly.”

For a few minutes, nobody talked about hospitals.

Nobody talked about tomorrow.

Nobody talked about fear.

We simply watched the sky.

Then, at 2:13 in the morning, it happened.

A bright streak of light crossed the darkness.

I jumped up.

“I SAW IT!”

Grandpa laughed.

“Good.”

Another one appeared.

Then another.

I pressed my face against the window.

“Grandpa!”

“I see it.”

“Did you make them?”

“Of course.”

I looked at him suspiciously.