Logan woke up an hour earlier than usual the next morning.
“Aliens,” he reminded himself.
He flung back the covers and leaped into his slippers.
“Must thwart the aliens.”
He tugged off his pajamas and pulled on the T-shirt, jeans, and socks he had taken off the night before.
Bubba climbed down slowly from Logan’s bed, stretched, yawned, then farted.
“Oh, man, Bubba,” Logan said, waving the air away from his nose with his hand. “That’s brutal.”
His mom was in the kitchen, in her robe and slippers, holding a steaming mug up under her nose.
“What are you doing up so early?” she asked.
“What do you think?” he said. “I’m going on alien patrol.”
“At six thirty in the morning?”
“I’m going to stake out Sandwiches. I have a hunch the alien will come back for more dogs.”
His mom nodded her sleepy head. “Okay. But don’t go anywhere but Sandwiches. And don’t talk to anyone you don’t know.”
“Yeah, I know, Mom,” Logan said as he stuffed binoculars, his digital camera, and a clipboard into his backpack.
“You must eat breakfast first, Logan. And I haven’t packed your lunch yet. I haven’t even gotten a hug yet.”
Logan walked over and gave her one. He didn’t put his all into it.
“That was sad,” his mom said.
“Sorry, Mom. Real hugs will have to wait till the extraterrestrials are apprehended.”
“Sit, son,” his mom said, standing. “I’m making you some eggs and toast.”
Logan dropped into the chair. “You don’t get how important this is, obviously.”
“Eating is important. You’re growing. And you can’t fight aliens on an empty stomach.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s true. I happen to know that all FBI agents eat a substantial, nutritious breakfast every morning before going out to hunt down extraterrestrials.”
Logan glared at her, his pale brown eyes narrowing, his freckles gathering around his nose.
His mom glared back with the same pale brown eyes. She had the freckles, too, though hers were fainter. She didn’t get outside as often as her son.
“Do any of your clients work for the FBI?” Logan asked.
“You know I can’t breach client confidentiality,” his mom answered as she flicked on a burner. “But yes.”
“FBI agents need life coaches?”
“More than anybody,” his mom said, opening the fridge and removing a gray carton of eggs. “And don’t forget about the guy I dated in college who worked for the FBI’s special ET task force. The ETTF.”
“How did you know he worked for the ETTF? Don’t FBI agents take vows of confidentiality, too?”
“I have ways of finding things out,” his mom said with a grin. “Over easy?”
“Over fast. I’m in a hurry.”
“Okay, but the yolk might break, and you don’t like it when the yolk runs.”
“I’ll risk it,” Logan said.
“If you want speedy, why don’t you help by getting out the bread and start making your sandwich?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“That does it. Hit the floor! Fifty push-ups!”
Logan knew she was joking, but he fell onto his palms on the floor anyway.
“Get up, nut job, and make your sandwich,” his mom said.