Insects buzzed in Angie’s ears. The air was cooling, the way it did during her afternoon soaps.
Something outside announced itself with a booming jet plane noise. Ted ran through the living room, onto the patio. The object he found was small, less than two cubic inches, but heavy.
After toing and froing past the telly, he showed Angie a piece of debris clutched in an oven mitt. It was a burnt toast color. “Space junk. Like the magazine picture.”
“Sure ’nuff.” She motioned Ted away. “Better save it. Call up the museum to collect it later, after my shows.”