They arrived like a glitch in a summer commute: a battered fan van plastered with stickers, neon script spelling "BAB" across its hood, and a small, otherworldly passenger pressed to the window like a child's imagination made flesh. The baby alien—no taller than a houseplant, with eyes that held more curiosity than fear—watched the world with the slow attention of something cataloguing a language it had not yet learned. Around it, the van's stereo played a looped aria, an old operatic recording warped into a lullaby; its soprano soared, then stuttered, then smoothed into something like breath.