I love the chocolate and vanilla whoopie pies for sale in the front counter and how the whole store smells like the pizza they make. And it’s fun to read what people tack up on the community bulletin board. Right in the middle of the bulletin board there’s a poster I didn’t see the last time I was there. I’ve never been so surprised by something on the bulletin board.

POTLUCK BENEFIT SUPPER FOR

BOWER FAMILY

WHO LOST THEIR HOUSE

IN A FLOOD FEBRUARY 8

At the bottom of the poster it tells when the supper is and where it’s being held.

“Is this a whoopie pie day for you, Henry?” Mrs. Gaucher asks me from behind the counter.

“No, I didn’t bring my money. Dad’s just getting gas.”

Then I see a can on the counter. It’s a big coffee can with a plastic top, and in the top someone cut a slit. There’s a piece of paper taped around it that says,

Donations for Bower Family

Alice, Harlan, Henry, and Birdie

Lost their home in a flood

“There’s a can for us?” It comes out as a question even though it’s very clear what the can says. I’ve seen donation cans before but they’ve never had my name on them.

Mrs. Gaucher nods.

“Just the town pulling together,” she says.

I tell Dad when I get back in the truck.

“There’s a poster for a supper and a donation can for us in the store.”

“Is there?” Dad says. He sounds only about twenty percent surprised. “I guess you know you’re in trouble when there’s a can with your name on it at the store.” But he doesn’t seem all that bothered by the news.

On the way home, I have one more thing to think about—the can with our name on it at the store. There was part of a dollar sticking out on top, like someone had pushed their money in but couldn’t get it down the rest of the way. How much money is in there and who are all the people who put it in?

Chapter 16

A sandhill crane has a voice like no other bird. Its call sounds like a bugle.

—Lynn M. Stone, Sandhill Cranes

THE MINUTE JAMES walks in the door I give him the three postcards Miles Morgan brought and tell him the whole story of the visit, from the curator’s phone call to the card he gave me before the blue rental car drove out of sight.

James examines the three postcards. One is of the thirty-four-ton Ahnighito, one is of a whale swimming underwater, and one is a photo of the Museum of Natural History building.

“Maybe one day there will be a postcard of your meteorite,” James says.