I was 16, and it was the spring of 1956. I remember the new leaves were beginning to sprout on the elm trees near where we lived in Oklahoma. I recall how happy we were that the road outside our home had finally been paved – it was now a lot quieter when cars drove past (and less dusty, too). And I remember that the high-school ‘sock hop’ dances had begun, where DJs played Elvis Presley’s first hit ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. But what I remember most from that spring was my first unsettling encounter with the impossible. It started with a game. My friends and I decided to play hide-and-seek on our bicycles. One of us rode off to hide and, after some time, the rest fanned out throughout the neighbourhood trying to find him. This was in a small town on the northwest edge of Oklahoma City, which consisted mainly of small suburban homes with fenced yards, car garages and sheds, as well as trees and bushes that provided ideal camouflage. It didn’t take long until we decided that searching was hopel...
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