My mother and I sat at the kitchen table. I watched her patiently stitch together my scarecrow costume. Our annual Halloween eve tradition, one that I always looked forward to.
Then I heard the radio click off in the other room. Seconds later my father barged into the kitchen, his face drained of color.
“Martians!” he whispered, his voice quaking. “They’ve taken over.”
He heard the man on the radio say so.
“Run for your lives!” he cried, bolting out the back door.
My mother didn’t budge. She didn’t know if aliens had landed, but she did know my father.
