I had one very simple rule for the trip—"No Politics."

  This was not supposed to be a thinking man's vacation. This was a "turn-your-brain-off-and-enjoy-the-ride" kind of trip. A gentle amble through the desert to see some stars and mug for a few selfies with the Little Green Men. No questions, no writing, no late-night ponderings, and absolutely no existential dread.

  I needed an escape.

  I'd been working for seventeen days straight with nothing to break up the monotony but ugly arguments with my fiancé and even uglier nightly headlines heralding the end of the American Age (and probably the world) as we know it.

  Bleak days all around. And between the three of them, my nerves were stretched so tight a cricket breaking wind might snap them.

  I wanted to relax for once. Take it easy.

  Just me, some aliens, and my little blind dog for company.

  It may seem odd to pick a place like Roswell, New Mexico for a relaxing weekend away from home but, despite its international fame for extraterrestrial happenings, Roswell is still just another rural little American desert down far removed from the hustle and bustle of city life.

  I pictured myself lounging in one of those old-school motor lodges, the kind with neon signs that buzzed and flickered against the darkening sky. The desert wind would whisper through the scrub trees while I soaked in a hot tub, condensation dripping down an ice-cold Modelo before a stroll into to town to swap stories with the cowboys and truck drivers in some wood-paneled bar where everyone knew each other's names.

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  That's the kind of old-fashioned elbow-rubbing that appeals to a down-and-out citizen journalist with a few days of freedom to kill.

  And then there was the alien angle, of course.

  I've always had an interest in aliens—or, at least, the possibility of aliens—ever since I saw a UFO for myself back in my impressionable teenage years.

  Not that I become some kind of alien nut. It didn't become my all-consuming obsession or anything like that. But… you see something weird enough, something that really does defy all rational explanation, it has a tendency to stick with you. Sometimes, even years later, you can't help but stare up at the sky on dark nights an wonder… what if?

  And what better place to ask what if than Roswell, the UFO Capital of the World.

  So I didn't just want to escape. I wanted to hear some stories.

  I wanted to ask some local rancher if he'd ever seen any strange lights buzz his livestock in the middle of the night or if the old hippy in the tea shades had ever had a psychic vision of strange new worlds while tripping balls out in the badlands. I wanted to find some people like me… people still nursing that little spark of wonder despite all the despair plastered across the headlines.

  They would talk and I'd listen, nodding along, not reaching for my notepad or trying to fact-check their stories against government records. No deep dives into conspiracy theories or cross-referencing witness statements.

  Just some good old-fashioned bullshitting under the stars.

  Hell, maybe I'd get really lucky and even spot something myself—a strange light zigzagging across the horizon as the sunset painted the desert sky in watercolor strokes of orange and purple.

  Wouldn't that be something?

  Just a little glimmer of light in the darkness. A little transcendental something to keep keep some of that beautiful mystery alive so I could point up at it and say "Huh. Would you look at that?" Then take another sip of beer.

  A new reason to keep an eye on the sky when everything here on Earth feels so God damn filthy.

  That would be nice.

  So I packed up a suitcase full of mostly clean shirts, a fresh pack of cigarettes, and my little blind dog and loaded of the Challenger.

  It was February 9th, 2025 and I was bound for Roswell.

  And wonder lay ahead.