After a time, you can tell them at a glance.

The simple lost souls, who took a wrong turn in Youngstown and ended up 20 miles off the turnpike. The runaways, thinking to find a new life in a small, pure town that existed only on the TV screen. The occasional small-time thief, trying to hide from the pressure in Pittsburgh. The few with the wide-eyed big-city stare, looking to ramp down the insanity.

Like me. Chris Russell. Did my stint as an engineer for Lockheed-Martin. Got in on the dot-com thing and came out pretty well. Well enough to escape, anyway.

I came here, to Tucker, Ohio, to build a modest house on the tree-choked acres my parents had left me. I was done. Done with government BS. Done with venture capital BS.

Instead, you've traded it for the BS of drunken customers who pay with rubber checks, I thought as I finished wiping down the glasses in the Tucker Bar and Grille. My little establishment. My hobby.

But it was OK BS. I could live with it.

When she came in, at first I couldn't tell. She was pretty in a thin and lithe sort of way. The beauty of taut skin stretched tight over fine bone. Her hair was short and dark. Her eyes were a rich deep brown. Mahogany. She carried a big canvas bag and wore sensible jeans and t-shirt. Lost? Nope? Criminal? Doubtful.

It didn't matter. She looked good. My heart skipped a few beats. It had been too long . . .

No. Stop that.

"What can I get you?" I asked.

"Oh, um . . . you probably don't have Sierra Nevada . . ."

"On tap."

"Here?"

"Yeah. I'm an idiot."

Her mouth quirked up in a quick grin, but she let it go.

She sat and sipped. Outside, the rich orange of sunset was fading to night. The place started to fill up, as much as it does. Half a dozen or so, with only me to tend. I got busy in the kitchen. Trying to think of some way not to let her slip by.

When I passed again, she and touched my arm. "The Lights," she said.

And suddenly it clicked.

Ten years ago, before I came, ABC had tried to make the Tucker Lights into the Tucker Terror. And there were lights. Every June, there'd be pretty colors in the woods for a couple of days. ABC tried to make a big deal about the lights starting when Jimmy Hargreaves' house burned down in '82, and that he'd worked on the Manhattan Project or the Philadelphia Project or something like that in WW2, but nobody was buying it.

Ah. She was a Light-chaser. We still got a few of them.

"Yeah," I said. "Probably tonight." So eloquent. Such the ladykiller. Idiot.

That was when her husband came in. Had to be. He scanned the bar and locked on her. Where she was slim, he was big, the look of a high school quarterback gone to seed. Veins bulged in his forehead.

He grabbed her arm. "Come on. Time to go."

She pulled away. "Leave me alone!"

"Let's go." He tried to drag her.

"Hey," I said. The man's crazy blue eyes fixed on me. I tried to smile. "Be civil," I said. "Keep it down, or take it outside."

He let her go. "Fine, fine."

I drifted off into the kitchen. I knew how this scenario played out. She would go back with the asshole, get a few fresh bruises, and live with it. They always did.

They talked. I caught a few words as I passed by. Something about the Lights. Something about Lawrence Livermore. Something about a Device.

I started orbiting them a bit closer.

He began pawing through her bag. She looked up at me and shook her head.

When he was done with the bag, he put his hands on her.

I pulled the mini Louisville Slugger out from under the bar. The one drilled out, with the lead. He never saw it coming. It made a satisfying crack. He slumped off his stool and fell with a heavy thud on the floor.

What had I done?

As if on cue, the Lights started their dance. All reds and yellows. Bright and close. Brighter than I had ever seen them.

She grabbed my hand. "Come on! Let's go!"

I left the bar's open-mouthed patrons (and my possible murder conviction, my mind added.) Across the street was an empty lot that backed up to woods. The lights flickered and danced just beyond the edge of the trees, casting long shadows on the street.

She pulled something out of her purse. A little aluminum box with an old-fashioned dial indicator and a pushbutton. A Dymo-taped label on it said ALTARNIA.

We ran towards the Lights. Across the street. Into the forest. The Lights were right in front of us.

She held out the little box and pressed the button.

Bang! The lights disappeared, revealing:

A road, black and impossibly smooth, stretching towards a graceful city of curved spires that sparkled in muted pastels in the night. Above, a sky set with a million brilliant stars. A sign at the side of the road: Tucker 5 mi. Republic of Ohio Spaceport, 15 mi.

She pulled on my arm. "Come with me."

"I . . . what is . . . I don't even know your name!"

"No time!" The scene flickered. She pulled harder.

The scene flickered again. She handed me the little aluminum box and hugged me tight. "Kim Thorens," she said. Then she whispered something else.

She took two steps back. The cityscape flashed away. Blinding yellow light took its place for an instant. Then I was standing alone in the dark wood, holding a small aluminum box, still warm from her touch, thinking about what she had whispered.

"Tomorrow," she'd said. "Tomorrow."