There were 10 trucks and cars parked in the meadow that night. While everybody else was outside, leaning on their bumpers, hands on their door frames, chatting excitedly as they listened to the radio, these three would not leave their vehicle. One man, middle-aged, slightly balding hair rimming his round shiny skull, sat in the driver’s seat, staring with thin-lipped concentration at the dashboard. By the driver’s-side door was a tall, broad shouldered fellow in overalls and a checked shirt. With a mop of thick, black hair, he intermittently glanced at the driver and then up at the night sky above. Pressed between them, with her hands on her lap, was a woman. In a thick woolen skirt and a light blue cardigan, she stared at her hands. They listened to the radio. But they were not listening to the same station that the other cars parked in that meadow were tuned in to. “Any signal yet?” the man in the overalls asked, his voice low and husky. The driver shook his head, never shifting his gaze from the dashboard.
