My eyes felt swollen, and my pulse throbbed in my temples. Something was stinging the skin on the back of my neck. It took all of my strength just to push myself up to sitting. Below me I could see the elementary school grounds and the houses that spread out between Greenwood Street and the Canisteo River. I knew where I was sitting - smack in the middle of the “C” on the world-famous living Canisteo sign.
I reached back and gingerly touched the spot on my neck that was stinging and found it raised, scabbed over. There was something hard under the surface of my skin. Then last night’s events came flooding back to me. Bright light … floating … pain … large black eyes staring down at me surrounded by light.
Damn aliens had tagged me again.
I forced myself to stand, my wobbly knees protesting the walk downhill through the cross-country trails I ran when on the team as a teenager. I had to get back home, get out the exacto knife, and remove the tag. Not that it would help, they’ve tagged me three times before. But why make their job easier, right?