The next few hours pass in a blur, like a distant memory or a night of heavy drinking. You don’t remember what happened so much as you remember how you felt: overwhelmed, incredulous, thrilled.

Before you know it, you’re back on campus, with instructions to carry on as you have been and await further instructions. WE MUST BE CAREFUL, the voice had said. IT IS NOT YET TIME.

“This is so surreal,” Alex says, shaking their head. “Like, we didn’t imagine that, right? We saw a UFO last night? Like an honest-to-goodness alien spaceship? And now we’re just…sitting in my office again?”

“It’s so weird,” you agree. “I know exactly how Ellen felt.” You’re not sure exactly when you started calling her “Ellen” in your head, but it feels right. Like she’s your friend. Like you’re in this together.

I feel like I am going to come apart at the seams, she writes on November 12, 1975. The most momentous discovery in human history is happening, and yet around me no one has any idea. How am I supposed to care about campus gossip or the price of gasoline when this is happening? How much longer can this carry on before everything comes to light? How can everyone be so blind?

As if to illustrate her point, she has tucked a yellowed copy of that day’s student paper between the pages.