“Who’s there, Harry?” his wife inquired from the kitchen.“It’s nothing, dear. Just a man seeing about my boat. I’ll be back again after breakfast,” he called back.
“But you just came back! Where are you going now?” she protested but Harold had closed the door and was already stepping into a 1947 Buick that was sitting in his drive, shiny and black.
Harold studied the man from the corner of his eye as they drove in silence to a nearby diner. He’d take a quick peek every few seconds and make an observation. Black suit covering a crisp white shirt. Very thin material, shiny but not silk. His hat was still on, black also. Skinny, and kind of pale. His eyes were little dark almonds. Hairless; maybe a little under his hat but his face was smooth.
“Do you love your family, Mr. Dahl?” the stranger asked as he suddenly met Harold’s glance.
The abrupt question startled Harold and it took him a few seconds to answer, “Of, of course.”
“Splendid,” the stranger said robotically.
They arrived at the diner and went to a corner booth where Harold ordered coffee.
“Let me get down to brass tacks, Mr. Dahl,” the man in black began. “Yesterday was June 21st. I know what happened. To you, to your son, to your poor dog. I know about the craft and the debris. I know you were out taking pictures this morning.” The man spoke like an automaton for five more minutes, shocking Harold with details of the incident that he had told to no one.
“Forget it,” he concluded, “If you love your family, June 21st never happened. It never happened.”
Harold was speechless. He just nodded his head.
“Splendid then, let me take you home to your lovely family, Mr. Dahl.”
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