Adam cranked the telescope wheel until his knuckles turned white. Then he froze. Between Orion's belt and the Big Dipper, a silver dot blinked—*zip, blink, zip*—ignoring the steady march of the stars. A giggle escaped him, sharp and delighted.
He scrambled backward, nearly tripping over the garden hose, but his eyes stayed locked on the impossible traveler weaving through the dark. It stuttered and changed direction—no star did that.
Adam dragged the heavy telescope across the damp grass, the metal legs leaving wet silver streaks, and aimed it toward the blinking light as it dove toward the old oak tree. A soft *hum* vibrated against his cheek, then the light vanished behind the branches.
He held his breath and counted to five. One. Two. Three. A single leaf trembled on the oak and fell. Four. Five. The darkness swallowed the spot where the light had been.
Just as Adam reached for his flashlight, the blinking light reemerged from the oak tree—lower now, pulsing a cheerful red rhythm. It hovered over the swing set, and the empty chains began to sway on their own.
Adam tipped his head back, jaw dropping. A tiny metallic glint caught the moonlight—flat, rectangular, with broad wings unlike anything in his star books.
Adam fumbled with the focus knob, the metal clicking softly, as the object filled the lens with two solar wings and a spinning camera eye. A faint radio chirp crackled through the earpiece—like a robot whispering a secret code.
He leaned back against the warm brick of the house, mouth open in a silent shout, watching the satellite drift silently past the moon. The blinking slowed to a steady glow. It was heading east.
Adam didn't move until the satellite became just another star, marching steadily toward the eastern horizon with its solar wings catching the last of the twilight. He patted the cold tripod leg once—a quiet goodbye to his new neighbor.
He dragged the telescope back inside, leaving the back door wide open. The kitchen window reflected the night sky, and Adam stood on a stool, pointing at the blinking dot he could no longer see.
He promised the stars he would return before sunrise. The kitchen clock ticked. Somewhere beyond the oak tree, the satellite kept marching east, wings catching starlight, whispering its secret code into the dark.
Adam fell asleep with the window open. The stars kept marching. And somewhere between the constellations, his new neighbor blinked back.