But at 11:45 PM on a Tuesday, while trying to finish a frustrating history essay, Max saw something that proved him wrong.
Suddenly, a voice boomed from the shadows, "It’s past your bedtime, kids."
Max jumped, nearly knocking over a trash can. Standing there was old Mr. Henderson, the neighborhood's strictest—and quietest—neighbor, holding a very bright, very normal yellow flashlight. "Mr. Henderson?" Max gasped.
Mr. Henderson smiled, a little sheepishly. "My grandson loves puzzles. We’ve been trying to see if we can signal him from this high point. He lives on the other side of town."
A soft, green light was pulsing from the top window of the Watchtower. Pulse. Pulse. Long pause.