How many stories start by describing the weather? “It was a dark and stormy night,” “The sun was shining down on us,” “Blah, blah, blah.”

Weather is boring. I’ll tell you what’s interesting—events are interesting. Things happening—that’s what’s interesting. I don’t want to read someone describing the “patterns the rain made on the windowpane” for a page and a half. Bo-ring.

So I won’t do that to you. Instead, I’ll tell you all about the things that happened—because, believe me, they were plenty interesting. Explosions, chases, romance—all the good stuff.

But you’ve got to promise to be patient. You can’t rush a good story. (And I’ll make a promise of my own—this is a good one.)

It all started about a month ago, though it feels like it’s been years. I was in Nevada visiting my grandpa, and bored out of my mind. Nevada is boring, you see. Nothing but stupid cactuses (is that a word? Maybe it’s cactii…) and sand around for miles, especially where Gramps lived.

But then everything went to hell.