At some point, I found myself at the motel.
I stood in front of the blinking neon tubes that outlined the shape of the flamingo on the motel’s sign: The Flamingo Motel in Roswell, New Mexico. A few years earlier, my mom had told me a story about this motel.
“I remember once when I was a teenager,” she said as we drove past the broken down adobe structure, “I was walking down the street and right there – right in front of that sign – I saw a spaceship. It was up in the sky, not far, and perfectly clear. I was scared.”
“Really?” I asked, excited. “Were you alone? What was going on?”
She wrinkled her forehead, concentrating. “I may have been on acid,” she said.