Stolen from Dobson

ames Fleming had never left North Carolina. Thirty-four years in Dobson, work, a few beers, later. After last call at the Angry Troll in Mount Airy, he and Tom were in the pasture behind the barn when the sky made a sound that was not a cow. He woke up strapped to a white table. Seven-foot greys in purple jumpsuits. Screens. Four slabs. Tom screaming on the one beside him. James kicked one in that egg head, came off the table in pieces of strap, and swung until a staff of light put him on the floor. They caged him with something that looked like an iguana had stolen a hobbit’s toga. He is not a hero yet. He is stolen from Dobson, and the night is just getting started.