“I was born and raised in the United Kingdom, in the town of Nottingham. So no, I am most certainly not a representative of the natural dialect of New York City, if there is one. But I did not call to waste your time, Henry Bower. I rang to communicate that the entire team of the meteoritic collection here at the natural history museum, myself included, naturally, appreciates your apparent consideration for this unique find and will employ all that we have to offer in the way of science and information.”

“You read about the reward?” I ask Miles Morgan.

“Yes, I did. I read that a substantial sum is being offered by a private collector.”

“But you want to take the meteorite for your museum?”

“Not at all. I’m a scientist, not a thief.”

“Would you like to come see it?” I ask, surprising myself.

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone, and while I wait for Dr. Miles Morgan to answer, I turn toward the kitchen just in time to see Nana swallow the last of the water from the canning jar I set by the sink.

Chapter 12

Earth is nicknamed the Blue Planet because seventy percent of it is covered in water.

—Kimberly M. Hutmacher, Studying Our Earth, Inside and Out

I DROP THE PHONE and it spins around on the waxed linoleum kitchen floor.

“Nana! That was my rock water. The water coming out of the ground.”

“Oh, gracious, I thought it tasted different. Sweet and salty at the same time. Reminds me of when my father collected sap and we boiled our tea with it. I’m afraid I didn’t leave any for you, Henry. Drank it right down.”

“That’s okay, Nana, I can get more, but I don’t know if it’s good for you to drink.”

“Dad said there was no water better than spring water, coming right out of the earth. Never hurt a fly.”

I grab the phone off the floor.

“Sorry, Dr. Morgan. I dropped the phone.”

“I concluded that, based on the clatter in my ear. Thank you, Henry. I would like to accept your kind invitation. I can arrive tomorrow around twelve noon if that is convenient.”

“That would be great. Do you know where we live?” I ask Dr. Morgan.

“It says in the paper that you live on Bower Hill Road in Lowington, Maine.”

“That’s right. We’re the first house at the top of the hill after you pass the cemetery and the granite quarry and the gravel pit.”

“And will there be signs for these attractions?”

“Signs? No, but you can’t get lost because the water is flooding the road past us.”

“That’s a comfort, I suppose. I look forward to meeting you and your family. I will ring off now and make my travel arrangements. Thank you, Henry Bower,” Dr. Miles Morgan says, and hangs up the phone before I can answer.