The toothpick tumbled from between Grady’s lips. His mouth dropped open, but no sound came out.

A huge saucer, rimmed with flashing lights and gleaming chrome-bright under the full moon, hovered in the air over Central Park. It kicked up flurries of whipping snowflakes around it, though no method of its flight was immediately identifiable.

“What,” Grady breathed, a puff of frost accompanying the word, “the Hell. Is that.”

Standing beside him on the balcony of the Delaney household, one Louis H. Callaghan hissed in response. He gripped the icy railing in both fists and Grady watched as his knuckles bleached as white as the snow around them.

“I knew it!” Louis announced, though he didn’t sound particularly pleased. Grady glanced at his face and saw that his pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing the electric blue of his eyes. He looked like a predator on the prowl -- or perhaps more like a particularly excited cat. “For all of your teasing, it seems that my deductions and theories were correct after all.”

Grady nodded and reached into his pocket for another toothpick. “Great. Yeah. That sure is swell, and to be honest, I’m still kinda processin’ it.” He blinked. “All right, I’ve processed it. So now what?”

“Now,” Louis said, then paused in a way Grady knew was for dramatics, “we retreat to the bunker for further strategizing.”

“Wait, are you talkin’ about that shitty little room you set up in the basement?”

Louis tugged on Grady’s sleeve. “Let us hurry, there is no time to waste.”

“Fine, but I ain’t the one who’s gonna herd all the cats in there.”