“Birdie, honey.” Mom lifts Birdie into her arms. “We’re going up to Nana’s house. What do you want to take from home to Nana’s?”

“Take ME.”

“Yes, of course we’ll take you. But what else?”

“Doughnuts,” Birdie says, showing Mom the few doughnut crumbs left in her hand.

“Henry, James,” Dad shouts to us over the sound of the helicopter, “this is the plan. We move as fast as we can to the back door of the house. You have ten minutes to take whatever you want that you can carry. And I do mean ten minutes. I wouldn’t be surprised if the cellar is already flooding. Then we exit through the back door up to Nana’s house.”

“What about the meteorite?” I ask.

The big stone from the sky sits there unchanged and unbothered by the noise of the helicopter or the crowd. Snowflakes melt on its shiny black surface, and water continues tumbling down the hill below it.

“I don’t think it’s going anywhere,” Dad says.

What I’m really asking is if I’ll be able to get back to the meteorite again, but I’m not sure Dad can answer that question.

When we get to the house, I look around my room. What should I take in the ten minutes my father gave us? The glass of water I poured last night is still on my nightstand, and my bed is unmade because I left in a hurry this morning.

I drink the water in the glass. Then I pull my covers up on the bed and smooth them out. The only things that are not mine to lose are the book about dowsing and the book about water from the Lowington library. I put them in my backpack and add my homeschool notebook and pencil.

“Five minutes,” my father calls out.

I open the top drawer of my dresser and stuff as many pairs of socks as I can fit in my backpack. Nana has a shelf on her cookstove that’s good for rising bread and warming up socks.

I check my room again and grab one more thing—my pillow. Whenever my father comes back from an overnight trip to drill a well in another county, he always says there’s nothing like putting your head on your own pillow at night.

James runs past my room. “I got Birdie’s blanket,” he calls out to me.

When James says that about Birdie’s quilt, I remember Lilygirl. Birdie wasn’t carrying her this morning. I hurry into Mom and Dad’s room. Lilygirl isn’t on Birdie’s crib mattress. I run into the kitchen and she’s not in Birdie’s high chair. She’s not in the living room, either.

“Two minutes,” Dad hollers.