I'm sitting at the breakfast table reading my morning horoscope, which I don't believe in but read every day. Today I have three out of a possible five stars, and my horoscope starts, "Pay more attention to the way you look." Jeez, I just got up. I brushed my teeth but not my hair. Of course I'm not dressed yet. I haven't unpacked my suitcase. We're back in Castro Valley, California after a week away. We saw the total eclipse, shivering in a field in Idaho as the sky dimmed and a black sun burned, we saw bison at Yellowstone, placid and majestic, and last night we heard a story from the Uber driver who brought us home from Oakland airport at midnight. "I was almost kidnapped by Satanists," he told us, matter of fact. "I was twelve." He was walking home alone at night, the devil worshippers were in a maroon Chevy with the windows blacked out, they kept blocking off his path until he ran to a house in his sleepy California suburb and pounded on the door. It wasn't clear at all how he knew they were Satanists, but forty-plus years later he was still sure of it. The story came late in the drive and didn't seem well rehearsed. "Did they catch the guys?" my husband asked. The driver seemed surprised, like he'd never thought about it. "Nah, I don't think so," he said after a minute, as if maybe they had and he just hadn't heard. Stuff like that happens all the time, you know. We had a neighbor who claims he was kidnapped by aliens and can describe the inside of their UFO. Maybe it's where I live, Wigleaf, but I just can't make things up.
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