Raymond cupped a whiskey with one hand; an unlit cigarette dangled in the other. He was two drinks and four cigarettes in before conspiracy wackos found him.

 

"Hey, Mister, they keep Hitler's brain in a jar there?" said a long-haired boy wearing a tie-dyed shirt.

 

"No, it's Roswell aliens. The old man watches 'em get probed," said his friend. Raymond needed to leave. He downed his drink and pocketed his cigarette.

 

"Get out! This man's a goddamn veteran and doesn't deserve to be harassed," barked the bartender, flexing his muscles. The boys thought better of continuing their questions and ran.

 

"Sorry, Ray. We get a few every once in a while." He poured him another whiskey. "On the house."

 

"Thanks, but I gotta go. The missus will worry." Raymond steadied the tremor in his hands as he rose from the bar. He limped to the door, his muscles stiff and movements jerky.

 

Mrs. Raymond Baxter wasn't waiting for him. When he'd returned from Vietnam, a broken man, his wife, Sheila, had been there. While his fractures had mended and shrapnel scars had faded, some wounds wouldn't heal. Eventually, she left. Raymond thought he'd have been better off if the shell had just killed him.

 

* * *

 

The following day, Raymond put on his uniform, aligning his badge with the pocket before he met the jeep waiting out front.

 

"Morning, Ray."

 

"Morning, Duke."

 

The rest of the trip was silent as they took unmarked desert roads to the warehouse. Raymond added plumes of smoke to the dust trails falling behind them.

 

The Nevada Test and Training Range, Area 51 to civilians, was a top-secret military base. Raymond was hired to guard the warehouse because he knew how to take orders, keep his head down, and his mouth shut. Raymond was pleased the pay was steady, and they left him alone.

 

Raymond began his morning rounds after clipping a small transistor radio to his belt. The area was filled with wooden crates stacked floor to ceiling, each carefully labeled. Elvis's singing kept him company and helped drown out the incessant buzzing in his ears that had plagued him since his return.

 

He imagined what lay inside each box. If the conspiracy theorists were right, they held alien artifacts. Yet, poring through inventory logs in the office, Raymond found only space debris and military over-expenditure. If someone needed a thousand hammers, he'd be ready.

 

As Raymond limped around a corner, the music was replaced with static. He slapped the radio, sending a shooting pain into his hip. When the song died, it was replaced by high-pitched ringing. Raymond shot his hands to both ears to muffle the noise and moved further down the aisle. The sound grew stronger, and when he dropped his arms, he found it emanating from one of the boxes.

 

As he moved closer, Raymond noticed it was warmer than the rest. He instinctively checked to see if anyone was watching. His curiosity helped dull the noise drilling into his skull. He pulled down the three-foot cube. It landed with a thud, splitting open the brittle wood casing to reveal a lead box covered in sawdust. Ray knew he'd be in trouble, but he could swear something was talking to him, encouraging him to open the box. Inside lay a pock-marked rock, dull gray with streaks of iron, no larger than his fist. He lifted the stone, and the ringing stopped.

 

Raymond searched the inventory catalog and identified his find as the Allende Meteorite. In his palm, its warmth radiated up his arm. His mind swirled with images of constellations, comets, and the vastness of the cosmos. He felt less alone. He decided it would do more good with him than moldering alone in obscurity, so he pocketed it. He packaged the empty lead box and concealed it amongst other crates to disguise his theft.

 

* * *

 

Raymond brought what he called 'his little star' to bed. He needed its calming presence. His nights were usually punctuated by screams and thrashing. Sheila had once begged him to take the meds those headshrinkers were pushing. He'd seen what it did to his buddies, walking zombies, all of them. He'd refused.

 

"Sssssleeep," said his star with soft susurrations. Raymond did just that.

 

The following day, Raymond awoke energized. He leaped out of bed. His eyes were bright in the mirror. The tremors and jerks that had plagued him were gone. He had an appetite, and after a rasher of bacon and a thick slice of toast, he felt ready to take on the world. Perhaps he'd call Sheila and win her back. He whistled happily on his ride to work.

 

* * *

 

As the months went by, he found himself restless. Afraid to bring his star with him but feeling weaker without it. It whispered of power, infinite love, and belonging. The cavernous warehouse now made him claustrophobic. He took to wandering the desert, looking up. At night, his little star offered to take him home.

 

One day, his legs faltered, entering the warehouse. The misstep shattered his ankle.

 

"You look like hell, Ray," said Duke, driving him to the hospital. The shock kept the pain at bay. Raymond ran his fingers through his hair, and clumps fell out. Buzzing in his ears started up, and just as they parked, Raymond vomited.

 

The doctors kept him for evaluation. Raymond denied being anywhere near testing sites. He heard words like "radiation," "osteoporosis," and "leukemia." He couldn't sleep and craved the company of his star.

 

"I'll rest at home," Raymond told his doctors. They refused to discharge him. His head throbbed, and after he waved off his nightly pain meds, he stole a wheelchair and escaped.

 

* * *

 

It was midnight when Raymond crawled up the stairs and into bed. He cradled the warm meteorite to his chest; it glowed faintly.

 

"I'm ready," he said with his last breath, his body going slack and his soul ascending to the stars above.