Mom puts a hand on her cheek, like she’s checking her temperature.

“I don’t think so. Why?” she asks.

“Just wondering,” I answer.

I remember the phone call from Dr. Morgan.

“A scientist from the museum in New York City is coming tomorrow. Around twelve noon. To see the stone,” I announce.

Birdie gives me a pebble from her pocket.

“Throw stone,” she tells me.

Out of habit, I bring the pebble to my nose, but all I can smell are the onions Nana is cutting up.

“Isn’t that something,” Dad says. He goes in and out of the house, bringing kindling and firewood from the woodshed, armload after armload. Then he fills the pans of water on the stove. After that, he looks around like he’s not sure what to do next.

“He grew up in Nottingham, England,” I add.

I want to ask Dad what the plan is now. All the floating pieces of our house can’t be put together to rebuild our home. The rock-wall basement Dad laid stone by stone is probably part of the streambed now. I have socks but no shirts except the one I’m wearing. Dad and Braggy’s old bedroom opens into a long hallway, not a kitchen like at home. And since the bedroom is upstairs, I won’t be able to hear the sounds of the wood stove being filled before I go to sleep, or the crackling of the firewood burning during the night.

We’re all out of order. Our family on Bower One instead of Four, higher up the hill than Lincoln and Braggy, and no dry land past Bower Four for me and Birdie to build our houses on when we’re older.

“Henry, would you stir these beans for me?” Nana asks.

I stand at the cookstove and stir the simmering beans with Nana’s long-handled spoon while she adds the salt, pepper, ketchup, and salt pork, but I turn so Nana can’t see my face. For once, I’m not happy to be here.

Mom hasn’t moved from the couch.

“I wish I’d taken your mother’s rings and dishes and Birdie’s crib mattress,” I hear Dad say to Mom. “I really thought we’d be back to mop up the water and dry out the house.”

I can’t hear what Mom says.

I wish I’d taken the rest of my clothes and my books and my rock collection.

I especially wish I’d found Lilygirl.

Nana leans over and starts to whisper in my ear, “You know, Henry, you all can—” but I stop her.

“Please don’t say it, Nana,” I tell her. “I know what you’re going to say, but please don’t say it.”