On hot summer nights, when the mosquitoes buzzed incessantly and the air hung like a wet, smothering sheet, they would sit on the front stoop and hope for a breath of breeze. Almost always they were rewarded only with the cloying scent of honeysuckle, which hung around them like miasma.

"What's that up there?" he asked. "That red thing?"

"Mars," she replied. "You'd know that it's at its closest approach in 60,000 years if you'd watch something on television besides professional wrestling."

He burped, then drained his can of Budweiser.

"That reminds me. That outdoor show I like is on. They got a good one tonight about using enough gun when you hunt catfish. Oughta be important to watch, what with the catfish-huntin' season just around the corner." And he went inside.

She heard the toilet flush, and then the noise of the television.

God, she thought. If what she heard was right and Mars was going to attack, was there any way she could direct them to him first?