48

Now it's midmorning. You stop to refuel the Land Rover and refill your water jugs in the swift current. You hear a familiar humming and whirring. Is this even possible? You swear it must be your imagination, except that Brett also detects the distinctive tones. She holds up a hand and points at a grove of stout ginkgo trees a short distance from the river.

It sounds nothing like rushing water. Nor like any Cretaceous creature. No. This is the hum of civilization, the whir of a machine—and not just any machine, but the unmistakable sound produced by a device that you would recognize anywhere.

You set your water jugs in the Land Rover before approaching the grove quietly on foot. Thankfully, you have the presence of mind to switch on your GoPro, which is clipped to the duckbill cap you now wear constantly, except when you're asleep.

The thick trunks of the ginkgoes and the dense, leafy canopy darken the ground, making it difficult to see. You pause to turn on your microphone and say a few words, noting the time, date, and your location before pointing it so as to better capture the hums and whirs. The noise grows more insistent, rising in pitch. You draw closer. Brett's right behind you. Peering around a massive tree trunk, you behold—and film—a break in the forest where something large and rectangular shimmers, struggling to gain solidity in the middle of a sunlit game trail. Its arrow-straight sides gleam metallic. No, this cannot be anything found in nature. There comes a silver flash and a rumble like thunder. With a whiff of ozone, an RV bursts into view.

You gape in astonishment. The RV, jacked up on oversize wheels, looks familiar, though you can't quite place it. "Great googly moogly. This. Is. Impossible."

New Neighbors