“My idea is to use Francisco Gómez’s story,” Mattie suggests, gluing foil stars inside an old shoebox that I painted black. “We can use the same diorama but tell the story of Tima and Yuí. Mrs. Ellingham doesn’t need one more project on some old Greek myth. Let’s tell one of our stories.” She pulls The Seed Sower out of her backpack.

“You keep this,” Frank had said to us before he drove back to Northern Madrone. He handed his book to me. “These are your stories. You are both half Colombian. Descended from South American people—Indigenous people, African slaves, Spanish invaders. The stories of Colombia are your stories, even if you don’t know them yet.”

Mattie and I shifted and squirmed as we stood in front of him. This felt awkward and momentous at the same time.

“You are my daughters,” he said. He had a tear in each eye. “Your mothers come first. They are your world. But I hope to be in your orbit somehow. I missed out on so much. And I might miss out on more. But I’m so happy that you both have so many people who love you. I will be going back into the jungle in December to do more research.”

“What if you don’t get that grant?” Mattie asked.

He shook his head. “Even without the grant, I must go back. Telling and preserving stories is my calling. That’s the way my needle points.” He put a hand on his chest as if the compass were next to his heart. “Learning about the lives of others and ourselves. It’s how we learn to be better humans. Through stories.”

I remembered Mrs. Ellingham saying something similar when we started our mythology project. Studying the stories of ancient civilizations helps us understand our own lives, she had said.

“Read these stories, hijas. Learn these stories.”

“What about the librarian? Are we going to get into trouble?” Mattie asked.

Frank laughed. “I’ll take care of Patricia Piper,” he said. “But no more stealing, okay?”

We shook our heads.

“And no more running away, okay?”

We nodded.

“We’ll figure out a way for us to keep in touch,” he said.

Then we all looked at each other awkwardly. The book was so heavy in my arms—how did Mattie lug it around with her all day? I held it out and let the book fall open to the last page. “The Sky Has Many Secrets.” Mattie came in close and I passed the book to her. Together we reread the lines of poetry. He studied the page, too.

“I wrote this poem long ago.” His voice was gruff. “After I found out about you, Mattie. And you, Mercedes. About my two daughters. I knew I might never meet you. But I always wanted to.”

He sniffled. I was kind of embarrassed for him—a grown man crying. Again.