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her famous oat-bran pancakes and telling me about a game she played as a kid, something about hiding from monsters. As long as she was very, very quiet, she could hide anywhere and the monsters would never catch her. She says now it’s time for me to play. I ask her why. She puts a finger to her lips and whispers, “Because they’re here,” and then she starts counting, one, two, three … I tell her she needs to hide, too, but she doesn’t listen. The front door starts shaking, then blows open. An intense blue light fills the entryway. A big shadow writhing like a ball of snakes stretches across the floor. Mom keeps flipping pancakes and counting, ten, eleven, twelve … I scream. All that comes out of my mouth is a cloud of blue vapor.
    That’s when I wake up. There’s a huge wind. It’s likean invisible hand pressing against the walls and glass. I hear shingles peeling off the roof. My mind is too full of the dream to let me go back to sleep. I stay in bed and wait for Dad to get up while the hand shakes our house like a toy.
    I want to tell Dad about the dream, but I know it would be a mistake. All I’d get would be another Sphere of Influence speech. Even if things were normal I wouldn’t tell him. Mom and I, we talk about our dreams all the time. Even though they’re random and crazy she still thinks every dream, no matter how stupid, means something. Dad tolerates the discussions, but he never contributes. He says he doesn’t dream. How is that possible? I guess that means he doesn’t have nightmares, which is a definite bonus these days.
    I find him in the kitchen making breakfast. But it’s not oat-bran pancakes. We’re talking fried eggs in olive oil, which I hate, and bacon, which I love. He’s closed the curtains, shutting out the view of the backyard—and, of course, of the PODs. With the curtains closed, the house feels cold and small, but the breakfast smells are good. I sit down, my back to the window. The notebook is open on the table. Today’s entry reads:
May 18 / 8:57 a.m. – 120 PODs. Visibility down. Clouds may account for reduced inventory.
    “You hear the coyotes last night?” he asks.
    It was bizarre. We occasionally hear coyotes in the distance, but never like that. It sounded like they were yapping right outside my window. Maybe that was part of my dream?
    “How could I not? Dutch went nuts. He spent the rest of the night licking his balls.”
    “Maybe you shouldn’t let him sleep in your room.”
    “Maybe,” I say.
    He says, “This is the last of the eggs.”
    “Fine with me.”
    “You won’t be saying that in a couple of weeks.”
    “Yes, I will. I’ve been meaning to ask you, how do you make your eggs so rubbery?”
    “It’s one of life’s great mysteries.” He slides the greasy pile onto my plate. “I added extra rubber, just for you.”
    The olive oil gives the eggs a greenish brown color. Vomit comes to mind. He smiles and sits down across from me. It’s the first smile I’ve seen in forty-eight hours. There’s one egg and two slices of bacon on his plate. I have three eggs and six slices of bacon.
    “Do I really have to eat all this?”
    “It’s going to spoil if you don’t.”
    “You can have my eggs.”
    “I’m on a diet.”
    I stab at an egg. Thick yellow fluid oozes out. For some reason my stomach is churning. Every time I eat something I’m wondering if it’s my last meal. I don’t want the world to end when I’ve got a belly full of Dad’s oily eggs.
    “Josh,” he says. “We need to talk about our situation.”
    Here we go. I put down my fork. “A
situation
? It’s an
invasion
, Dad. Call it what it is!” Then I do it again. I drop the F-bomb.
    He stares hard at me for a moment. I’m not sure whichbothers him more, “invasion” or the swearing. He takes a deep breath and says, “If you feel the urge to use profanity in front of me, please choose a different word.”
    “A different word. Like what? ‘Banana’?”
    “I