“Every year thousands of meteorites land on Earth. Some come from the asteroid belt, some from Mars and the moon, and some, a very rare type, from comets. I’m not sure, but I think it’s possible that a rock could come from a place no one knows about and have special powers. When a person actually sees a meteorite land, it’s called a fall. And meteorites are finders keepers. If you find one on your land, it belongs to you.”

“Hey there, can someone tell Rock Boy we have work to do here on Earth?” a man grumbles.

“ROCK BOY IS RIGHT!” Uncle Braggy shouts to the crowd. He is louder without a microphone than I am with one. “This boy knows more about building a stone wall than me, and that’s saying a LOT. And he’s been breaking rocks open with a sledgehammer since he was old enough to stand,” Braggy adds, exaggerating the truth more than a little.

“I can verify that fact!” Mrs. Kay shouts from the back of the crowd. “Henry Bower is quite an expert when it comes to the identification of rocks and minerals. If he says it’s a meteorite, I believe him.”

“Very interesting facts, Henry.” The newswoman looks annoyed and reaches for her microphone. “But maybe we can ask your parents about the flood now.”

I gently pull the microphone back to my mouth.

“We HAD a fall. You know the article that was in the paper? About the reward for a piece of the meteor that was seen over Northern Maine? I saw the fireball from my bedroom window three nights ago. It fell right in our field and I think it’s what’s causing the flood.”

I hand the microphone back to the newswoman.

The newswoman looks interested now instead of annoyed. She directs the camerawoman to start recording.

It’s still snowing and cold enough that white puffs come out of people’s mouths when they talk. Birdie gives me the chocolate-frosted doughnut, her second favorite, with a big smile. My parents stare at me, and Mom leans toward Dad and whispers in his ear. Mr. Ronnie edges closer to the front of the crowd. His green hat, which says picker palace in black letters, is speckled with big flakes of snow, and they stick to his green-and-black-plaid wool coat. Snowflakes land on his wire-rimmed glasses and fog up the lenses.

“How big is this rock of yours?” he asks me.

I stretch my arms out wide.

“Big,” I say.

“Big hat,” Birdie says, and my father’s eyebrows go up.

“You don’t say, Boss?” my father says.