“There in Nottingham, England, where you grew up, the stone came, and then the water. But then the flooding stopped, right? How long did it take? And what made it stop?” I ask.

My parents hold their breath, too, waiting for the curator’s answer.

“Yes, the flooding did cease. The precise timetable is unclear to me. However, new tributaries formed that flowed into the river Trent and that remain to this day. The water carved its own path through the moorlands and through city streets as well, which are still underwater, like the mythical Atlantis.”

“Why can’t you figure out what it’s made of?”

Dr. Morgan takes a newspaper clipping out of his briefcase and holds it up for us to see. There’s a photograph of me standing next to the big rock with my hand stretched out.

“When this article was brought to my attention, I had to use my magnifying glass to see what many may not have noticed. Is that not a magnet in your hand, Henry?”

Which is not exactly an answer to my question. It’s a question to my question.

“Yes, I wanted to show how the magnet was attracted to the rock. To prove that it was a meteorite.”

“That’s when I knew I would be paying a call on a fellow scientist.”

I shake my head. “I’m not a scientist. I’m only ten years old.”

“I beg to differ. Now, I was hoping it might be an opportune time for me to pay my respects to this stone of yours, Henry. One visitor greeting another, one might say.”

Chapter 14

Fusion crusts on freshly fallen meteorites vary enormously. Often smooth, crusts can also be decorated with spattered droplets, or strings and rivulets of molten material. Rounded pits and depressions resembling thumb prints in a ball of clay are found on the surfaces of many meteorites.

—Alex Bevan and John de Laeter, Meteorites: A Journey Through Space and Time

DAD SQUINTS out the window at the thermometer nailed to a porch post.

“Please take my coat, hat, and winter boots for the walk,” Dad says to Miles Morgan. “It’s twenty-eight degrees out there and the wind is blowing.”

The curator opens his briefcase again, takes out a thin silver camera, and puts it in his inside jacket pocket.

“No thank you, Mr. Bower, though I do appreciate your kind offer of winter apparel. However, I wish to go as I am”—and again the curator holds his arms out to his sides—“when I pay my respects to the stone in question. Will the young lady who fancies red be accompanying us?” the curator asks Birdie.

“Want to go to the big rock?” I translate for Birdie.