Sprawled on the hide-a-bed in the living room of his apartment, he plucked a handful of tissues from the box on the mattress beside him and crammed them against his face just in time to absorb an explosive sneeze. He was covered in mentholated rub from his nose to his belly button, and while his forehead was hot to the touch, the rest of him was racked with chills. He wondered when Mike Wallace would burst through the door, wanting the story. It was time to alert the masses to impending doom. Did you actually see these aliens, Mr. De-Angelo? Call me Nick. Of course I didn’t see them. They must have gotten me when I was sleeping. The imaginary interview was interrupted by the jangling of the telephone, which, like the box of tissues, was in bed with Nick. Hoping for sympathy, he dug the receiver out from a tangle of musty flannel sheets and rasped out a hoarse hello. “Still under the weather, huh?” The voice belonged to his younger sister, Gina, and it showed a marked lack of commiseration.
