Episode 1: When the Closings Began
by Sis Leah Muhammad
May 9, 2025 – Friday
They say it’s just a rough patch. That’s what the news keeps calling it. A “temporary contraction.” But it doesn’t feel temporary.
The Family Dollar by Salem Avenue was closed this morning. No warning, no sign. Just empty inside – shelves bare, lights off, and a hand-scribbled note taped to the glass: “Closed for Inventory.”
But I know better. The milk cooler’s gone. They don’t come back from that.
They always try to soften the blow with words, but I’ve lived long enough to know when a city’s heartbeat skips. Something is changing. Dayton feels… quiet. Too quiet. Like the world is waiting for something to fall.
May 13, 2025 – Tuesday
I heard that three schools closed today. “Low staffing,” they said. But it’s not just that. There aren’t enough bus drivers. Not enough cafeteria workers. Children being sent home with crackers and juice because the pantry is empty.
I was standing outside when the bus passed, empty. Not a single child inside. The engine echoed louder than usual, like it didn’t know what to do with itself.
One of my neighbors said her grandson hasn’t been to school in three days because he didn’t have shoes that fit anymore, and she couldn’t afford new ones. The SNAP reload isn’t stretching like it used to. Bread is $4.79 at Meijer—for the store brand.
And I know I’m not the only one watching the sky now.
May 15, 2025 – Thursday
I’ve been saving screenshots of the headlines.
- Ohio Medicaid Cuts Spark Protests Across Counties
- Harbor Freight to Close 50 Midwest Locations, Cites Economic Strain
- Cleveland Fed Warns of Prolonged Recession Conditions
I looked at those three side by side and just whispered: It’s starting.
I still have canned pears from last season. I’ve got powdered milk, peanut butter, rice in buckets. My emergency solar batteries don’t hold much, but it’s enough to run a fan when the nights get hot. I’m not afraid. Just tired.
And still… something about the way the wind moves lately makes me feel like there’s more coming than just layoffs and empty shelves.
May 18, 2025 – Sunday
It was early, maybe 5:45 in the morning, when I saw it.
I was out by the chickens, giving them frozen bottles to sit next to. They’ve been panting lately. It’s only May, but it feels like August. Climate’s all over the place now.
That’s when I looked up and saw the light. Bright. Round. Too low for a star, too quiet for a plane. It hovered over the treeline. I froze.
It didn’t move for about ten seconds. Then it shot upward so fast I couldn’t even track it.
Gone.
I stood there another fifteen minutes, holding my breath, even after it vanished.
May 20, 2025 – Tuesday
My phone was blowing up this morning.
Springfield group chats, local Facebook pages – everybody’s sharing videos. Same object. Same shape. Some say it’s a drone. Others say weather balloon. But one woman posted:
“This ain’t the south no more. They’re headed north.”
Detroit’s been reporting lights now. So has Erie. And someone said they saw something shimmer over the lake in Cleveland. Chicago’s next, I bet.
I wonder why now. Why here.
The news doesn’t say a word.
May 22, 2025 – Thursday
It was a hard day. Someone knocked on my door before 8 a.m.
A woman I don’t know stood there holding two children by the hands. No shoes. One of them had a split lip. I didn’t ask questions.
She said, “I heard you still got food.”
I opened the door wider and told her to come in.
I warmed up a pot of oatmeal. Opened one of my last jars of apple butter. Let her take a shower while her children sat on the floor and colored pictures from my old notebook.
No one should have to beg for breakfast in the richest nation on Earth.
May 25, 2025 – Sunday
I was outside again, watching my chickens, when I saw the shimmer.
Not a light this time – just a glow, almost like heat waves in the air, but colder somehow. It pulsed over the treetops. I swear the birds went quiet.
Then it was gone.
Later that night I saw a post:
“Lights over Columbus. We’re not alone.”
Some people are scared. Others are curious. And some are pretending not to notice at all.
But I see what’s happening. We all do.
May 28, 2025 – Wednesday
I went to Tractor Supply. No chick feed. No oyster shell. Half the aisles are empty. The cashier looked like she’d been crying.
I asked if she was okay.
“They laid off my mom last week,” she said. “And they’re cutting our hours starting Monday.”
She looked up at me and said something I won’t forget:
“It feels like everything’s closing in.”
May 30, 2025 – Friday
Today’s headlines:
- Congress Deadlocked on Emergency Aid Bill
- Power Grid Under Strain as Heatwave Approaches
- Eviction Rates Spike Across Midwest Cities
But the sky was clear.
Too clear.
Until it wasn’t.
At 10:17 p.m., I stepped onto my back porch and looked up.
There it was again. This time – closer. Hovering. Flickering in and out like it wasn’t entirely part of our world. Like it was peeking in from somewhere else.
I didn’t panic.
I didn’t run.
I just stared up and whispered, I see you.
And then it blinked once.
Like it saw me too.
June 1, 2025 – Sunday
It’s the first of the month, but no one is smiling.
Children used to ride past on bikes when the deposits hit. Now you see strollers being pushed with sacks of cans inside. A father came down the road carrying a cardboard sign that just read: “I Have Skills. I Don’t Have Food.”
The local news station’s closing next month. They didn’t say why, but we all know.
Meanwhile, the lights in the sky have moved on. Not gone, just spread.
There are confirmed sightings now in Chicago. Detroit. Pittsburgh. Even Buffalo. One woman said she watched something land in an old cornfield, but no one believed her.
I believe her.
I think they’re watching us fall apart.
Studying. Waiting.
And not because they hate us.
Maybe because they know they don’t have to lift a finger.
We’re doing the collapsing ourselves.
June 2, 2025 – Monday
My neighbor told me today that her cousin in Toledo saw one.
Same shimmer. Same movement.
I asked her what she thought it meant.
She said, “Maybe they’re coming to help.”
I don’t think so.
I think they’re here to witness.
Because as bad as things have gotten down here…
the sky is no longer empty.
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