Dr. Miles Morgan is nothing like Mr. Ronnie. He sits at Nana’s kitchen table for an hour and doesn’t ask a single question about the meteorite. He doesn’t ask how big it is. He doesn’t ask where it is. He doesn’t ask to go see it. He’s most interested in Nana’s baked beans and biscuits. After eating two biscuits, then two more, covering them with so much butter you can hardly see the biscuits, Dr. Morgan takes a small leather notebook and a fountain pen out of his briefcase.

“Would you be so kind as to share your recipe for these delightfully flaky scones?” He holds a biscuit up between two fingers.

“These biscuits? I just take some flour…,” Nana starts to explain.

“And how much might that be?”

“Why, enough to leave room in the bowl for shortening and milk.”

“Ah, and the shortening?”

“Crisco. Don’t you have that in New York City?”

“Yes, we most certainly do. And how might you measure that?”

“I add enough of the Crisco and milk so it doesn’t stick to the bowl. And some salt. Just a few shakes. With the baking powder.”

Dr. Morgan stops writing and closes his notebook. He takes another biscuit.

“I see. You are a natural cook. That is a rare thing,” he tells Nana.

“Is that your science notebook?” I point to the leather book. “I have a homeschool notebook.”

“No, this is my daily planner. It helps me keep track of those many tedious appointments and meetings,” the curator says.

I take my notebook out of my backpack, open it to the pages about the meteorite, and lay it on the table next to Dr. Morgan’s plate. No one has ever read my notebooks. It’s like the Honor Box. Mom trusts what I write in it.

“You can read my notebook if you want,” I tell him. “This is the only one I have left. Numbers six, seven, eight, and nine were on my bookshelf at home when the water washed everything away.”

Dr. Morgan takes one more bite of his biscuit, puts it down on his plate, and starts reading my notebook. At some of the pages, he nods his head, at others he puts his finger under a line of my writing like he’s really thinking about what’s written there.

While he’s reading, Nana pours him another cup of coffee. He scoops three teaspoons of sugar into his cup and sips it as he reads.

“Hmmm.” He hums to himself, reading, and when he’s done, he closes the notebook and lays his hand on the cover.