“It’s not food, that’s why,” I tell her. “It’s a story.”

“Where are the interstellar adventures of S. Hawkins heading these days?” Gramps asks.

I open my book to the last few pages I was working on and set the book in between us for Gramps to see. “Well,” I begin, “S. Hawkins has just landed on planet Earth.”

Keep going.

“And she can’t remember how she got there, or that she was on a mission.”

Gramps nods as he turns the page, examining my drawings. “Can’t remember, huh?” he asks. “Where’d you come up with that idea?”

“I don’t know,” I answer, only now realizing I do know: the idea came from Gramps. Dewey is listening, watching me with intense focus.

What happens next?

“Well,” Gramps smiles slowly. “I certainly recognize this character,” he says, pointing at the panel where S. Hawkins sees the dog, and then he reads, “The first being I meet in this strange new world . . . I shall call it ‘Earthling.’ ”

He chuckles. “This is great stuff, kiddo. Great stuff.”

“Really?”

“Posilutely!” He passes the book back to me and says, “But what happens next?”

“That’s what Dewey just asked!”

“Smart dog.” Gramps reaches out to pet Dewey’s face and she leans into it, closing her eyes.

Keep telling the story.

“Well,” I say, with my pencil hovering over the blank page. I start to sketch out the scene as it pops into my mind:

The dog/Earthling leads S. Hawkins into the woods—the fastest way to get to the top of the mountain. Along the way, Earthling shows her the different trees and animals.

“Flora and fauna,” Gramps says, watching the story take shape. “Good.”

Rabbits—Earthling tells the special agent that one rabbit’s name is Dango.

I look up from the drawing. Everything is still and quiet, except the breeze making little ripples on the surface of the pond. I add a lake to the drawing of the forest.

Fish, Dewey says, reminding me to add fish to my scene. And just then, there’s a tiny splash, bubbles rising to the surface.

Next, a bird swoops down to the ground in front of us and picks up a long pine needle in its beak, flying up to perch in a tree branch right above our heads, where it is building a nest.

“How about that?” Gramps says, clearly seeing the same things I am. He gestures to my sketchbook. “Better get this all down,” he tells me.

I scribble my pencil furiously against the paper.

Look!

Dewey’s head pops up from Gramps’s lap, at attention.

There, on the trunk of a tree with a big leafy nest, two squirrels climb and chase each other.

“How is this happening?” I say out loud. “Where are they all coming from?”

“Don’t ask me,” Gramps replies. “Ask your sidekick there.”