Velma laughs at Braggy’s joke, then comes over and gives me a hug.

“Thank you, Henry, for finding the water. I really appreciate it. When your father and uncle get the line connected to the house, I’m going to spend a week in the bathtub.”

I think Braggy’s exaggerating is rubbing off on Velma, but I don’t say that. Braggy could be right that if you look at things a certain way, they seem bigger. After all, if a millions-of-years-old rock lands in your hayfield, how could you ever think the world was small?

“You’re welcome,” I answer, and go outside. I want to see it up close and put my fingers in the second water I dowsed for.

Chapter 27

Meteorites are not cut into thin segments just to make them more beautiful, however. Scientists often remove small pieces of meteorites to distribute this rare research material among many laboratories, ensuring wide access to the samples. In addition, nearly all scientifically important characteristics can be seen best by cutting into meteorites.

—American Museum of Natural History, New York City

IT’S FORTY SUNRISES and forty sunsets and forty full Earth rotations since James got hit by the brick.

I read in the S encyclopedia that the solstice marks the turning point, and after that, the days begin to grow longer. But I can tell that without looking at a calendar. I see the tiny black flecks Mom calls snow fleas appear in the few melting puddles of snow left in the yard. I feel the heat in the sun that rises over Bower Hill Road.

The meteorite is also the same, but different. It’s camouflaging itself the way wild hares turn white in the winter and brown in the spring. Old, dead leaves blow up against it, filling in around the crater. The big rock is a favorite perch for the sandhill cranes, and the stone is spotted with bird poop. Squirrels run up the rock and eat the seeds out of scavenged pinecones, leaving the rest in little heaps. When I rub away the dirt and poop that collect on the rock, I can still see the shine of the surface, but from a distance the stone blends into the field and woods around it.

It’s warm enough that ladybugs hatch in the house, and the sap runs in the big sugar maples. Cool nights, warm days, Mom says, make the sap move. She’s boiling it down on a potbelly stove on Nana’s porch. The stovepipe juts out so the smoke rises away from the house.

“Fly away, Babygirl,” Birdie tells her baby doll, and throws it up in the air. Its yellow dress puffs out for a second and it drops to the ground.

James adds stovewood to the fire. His shaved hair is growing back.

“Henry, did you ever memorize that scientist’s phone number?” he asks.