The rain pattered softly against the glass outside as Leo knelt beside the battered alien ship, heart pounding in his chest. Zorp hovered near, worry written in every trembling limb. The ship, up close, was a marvel: gleaming with rainbow lights along its seams, panels etched in swirling patterns, its hatch slightly ajar. A thin wisp of turquoise smoke drifted from a cracked vent. Leo resisted the urge to touch the hull; something about it felt alive, humming under his fingertips.
Zorp chirped anxiously, gesturing at the hole in the side, then at Leo’s nearby model rocket set—the one his dad helped him build for the science fair. Zorp hopped closer to the models, tilting his head, then mimed holding a tool and twisting. He looked up, hope flickering in those glowing eyes.
Leo scrambled to his closet. He rooted through piles of old art projects and half-forgotten toys, finally pulling out his battered toolbox. He brought it over, laying it open between them. Zorp poked at the wrenches and screwdrivers, settling on a roll of shiny silver duct tape with a triumphant chirp. Together, they knelt by the ship. Zorp tried to fit the tape over the cracked vent, but his tiny fingers struggled, sticky edges clinging every which way. Leo gently took the tape, tearing off a strip and smoothing it in place. Zorp beamed, giving a victorious wiggle.
A sudden crash echoed from downstairs—his mother, home early?
Panic fluttered in Leo's stomach. Zorp darted behind the bed, eyes wide. Leo hurriedly pulled a blanket over the alien ship and tried to look casual just as footsteps thudded on the stairs. His door creaked open.
“Leo? Why is your window open—and what’s that smell?”
His mother’s voice was sharp, suspicious. She stepped in, taking in the tools on the floor, the half-hidden, lumpy shape under the covers, and Leo’s guilty face. Her eyes narrowed. Leo's heart pounded, mind racing for an excuse.
Behind him, Zorp trembled, pressed flat to the carpet, watching everything with luminous, frightened eyes.