My son had a baseball game. I kissed my wife goodbye, saying I would meet her there—she had a meeting. I took my cup of coffee and we got on the road. I should have known it would be a bad day. The ride over was fine except for one thing: I spilled my coffee.

We got to the baseball field. My son joined his teams; I sat in the stands. Everything seemed normal, but I had spilled my coffee. Someone pointed it out and I explained what had happened to them. The crowd around us got very loud. I thought it was something exciting in the game, so I didn’t pay attention. I don’t care for baseball. I went on with my story. Someone yelled.

“He’s got a little boy!” That’s when I looked. An alien spaceship had landed on the pitcher’s mound and some strange puke colored thing had my son. I yelled, vaulting over people to get to him, but they were boarding the ship. I called to my son. It was too late. They disappeared and so did he. My life wasn’t the romantic comedy I thought it was—it was a science fiction tragedy.