Sun Shades

The last reporter has left the building. Everyone else has gone home, even the janitor. I slump back in my deck, eyes blurred. Too many screens, too many questions; too much of anything at all. My hands won’t stop shaking even as I pull my glasses off and rub the bridge of my nose. There are only so many ways you can say ‘this isn’t possible’, only so many ways to spin the truth into acceptable sound bytes that won’t terrify everyone.

Every since I looked out the window earlier, everything has been insane. But somehow I survived it.

I think I understand a little how the Flat-Earthers can lie to themselves. You have to believe the story a bit to sell it. But it’s all lies. The sun isn’t working, and that makes no sense. I’ve had a dozen conspiracy sites email me, and for all I know it could be an alien craft between the earth and the sun. Every satellite claims there is a cloud that doesn’t exist.

I don’t keep anything to properly drink in the office. I’m considering starting or just bursting into tears when the door opens.

A woman I don’t recognize enters, pulling a boy behind her. He is eleven, and looks rather indignant at being dragged into an office. I open my mouth to inform them that the building is closed. But that’s when the boy spots me. And grins.

“Hi,” he says happily. “I’m –.”

“Doctor Cheu doesn’t need to know who you are,” the woman snaps.

“Really?” The boy twists free of the woman’s grip and stares at her in shock.

“Very really, yes.” The woman turns to me. “What happened to the sun was an accident. It is being fixed right now.”

“What?” I say.

“Well,” the boy says, “I found out that @torrentialmonsoon wears sunglasses you know, and big sunglasses hide you from the sun and that makes the sun sad you know! But!,” and the flings the word out excitedly, “the sun hurts eyes too, only I fixed it so it couldn’t and then I got in trouble.”

He lets out a huge, put-upon sigh.

I stare at the woman. “A storm wore sunglasses?”

“It’s complicated. A cloud was put in front of the sun so sunlight wouldn’t necessitate sunglasses.” The woman pauses. “This was noticed,” she says dryly.

I want to ask how, but the grin on the boy’s face somehow got rid of worry and my want to drink as well. No one has ever smiled at me like that. I don’t think anyone will again. “And it’s been fixed?”

She nods. “The –.” She catches herself. “We thought someone should tell you, so you can explain it as something other than aliens.”

“It could be aliens,” the boy says. “I bet I could find the best aliens ever!”

“Yes. You could. But you’re not going to,” the woman says. Her gaze flicks back to me. “There are going to be some abnormal weather patterns over the next few days you can use to explain this.”

“Going to be,” I repeat slowly. “What are you?”

“We’re friends,” the boy says, utterly certain of that statement.

The woman gestures, and the boy heads to the door. They walk through, but end up somewhere than the hallway. The door closes on the boy protesting that he didn’t do an oops at all.

An oops.

Changing how the sun works as some kind of – of accident.

I shut down my computer, turn to the office window and open it. The half-moon hangs in the sky, as bright as it always is. I let out a sigh of relief, close the window, close up my office.

I’m halfway home before it begins to hail.

Abnormal weather patterns, the woman said. I make a mental note to put snow tires on my car first thing tomorrow morning. And then try, as hard as I can, to forget that entire encounter.