I stood in the doorway watching the lights in the night sky. It was hot for March. My daughter tugged at my leg. What’s that? she asked, pointing at the lights. I picked her up to hold her and we watched the lights together. The laundry machine churned in a room behind us. A neighbor pulled his crammed sedan into the street and exited the neighborhood in haste. Some of the lights in the sky hovered still while others slid slowly, almost imperceptibly, arbitrarily. My daughter wriggled uncomfortably and I set her down. Her mother darted determinedly about the house, asking questions and answering them. I watched the lights.

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