I glanced back the way I’d come. Chewie had picked a particularly bad place to cross Poller Road. It was a tight, blind corner, and because the curve was well-cambered, everyone took it too fast. Chewie would have had to be a kangaroo to get out of the way in time.

All very interesting, but I still had a dead extraterrestrial on my hands. So what to do? Call the cops? Call Dad? That was the same thing, really. The first thing my father, ol’ By-the-Book Kernigan, would do would be to call the cops. And the E.T. would be whisked away to Roswell or Area 51 or that warehouse where they’d stored the Ark of the Covenant, and that would be that. Then, according to every movie ever made, the government would go back on any promises and deny everything, and I’d never find out what it was.

No way. Not quite yet, anyway. Not until I had some pictures, at least.

But first, I had to finish my deliveries. Keep it cool. No deviation from routine. Nothing to see here. Move along.

I glared at the grass for a few moments more, not really seeing it, as I worked things through. Then I started the truck and maneuvered it around so that the lift gate was close to the, uh … Sasquatch? Um, no. Wasn’t that Canadian? Or maybe Pacific Northwest, anyway.

But I still wasn’t completely convinced it was dead, quickie medical exam notwithstanding. So bitey and stabby parts were still a concern. I grabbed a large spanner from behind the driver’s seat and, stretching out as far as possible to stay out of range, prodded the body—first tentatively, then with increasing force. Nothing. I felt around until I had an arm, then lifted and dropped it. The limb flopped like dead weight.

Okay. Either dead or thoroughly incapacitated.

I lowered the truck’s lift gate to horizontal, leaped up, and raised the rolling door on the storage area, then rolled out the pallet jack and threw an empty pallet and a tarp onto the pneumatic arms.

Lowering the whole assemblage to ground level, I proceeded to wrap the body in the tarp. It was, as I’d expected, heavy—easily two hundred and fifty pounds—and limp, which made the whole process slow and frustrating. But finally, I had made a Bigfoot burrito of sorts.

Another few minutes of swearing, and the burrito was stored at the front end of the cargo area, out of sight—unless you were looking for it.

Two deliveries. Parker’s and Kirby’s. Then I was done until Monday. There would still be the confrontation with my father about the accident, but I could honestly say that I hadn’t seen anything and didn’t know what I had hit.

Lawyering. Love it or hate it, everyone did it.

Chapter Two: Bigfoot Burrito

Chapter Two: Bigfoot Burrito