Hank Green's U.F.O.

Hank Green, age seventy-seven, had never imagined his retirement years would bring anything more exciting than a surprise raccoon in the attic or the occasional lost hiker. After nearly five decades of work as a small-town detective, the quiet had grown on him, and he'd settled into his one-bedroom log cabin at the edge of the Maine woods with a sense of contentment that surprised even his grown children.

The cabin, located so far from the main road that GPS units became existentially confused, was his sanctuary, a place where he could indulge his lifelong appetite for murder mysteries and, of course, science fiction.

Hank's love of all things space-related was legendary in the county. The local librarian joked that Hank had single-handedly kept their interlibrary loan system afloat with his appetite for battered paperbacks and specialty magazines, and she wasn't far off. His favorite by far was a certain space franchise that had launched in the 1960s, and he still wore his replica communicator pin with a certain proud, nerdy gravitas.

For years he'd dreamed of seeing something unexplainable, and if he was honest, he'd spent more than a few hours a week scanning the night sky with an old, slightly lopsided telescope.

On the morning it happened, Hank's first clue came not from the heavens, but the ground: A vibration, low and steady, that rattled his mug of tea and sent a shelf of mystery novels tumbling in slow motion. At first Hank suspected a mild earthquake or a logging accident, but the shake lasted longer than felt natural. He put on his battered barn coat, grabbed his ever-ready field notebook, and stepped outside. He was met not by the usual birdsong, but a profound silence.