All books start with a spark. That spark could be an idea, an image, a feeling, or a wish. And if that spark is nurtured and loved (and turned upside down and shaken a few times), it grows into a book.

The spark for this book was three words:

Mina was quiet.

I wanted to write a book about a quiet girl and her lightning dragon. But I didn’t want it to be the story of a quiet girl who learns how to be loud. I wanted it to be the story of a quiet girl who discovers she’s strong, exactly as she is.

I was a quiet girl. And it took me a long time to discover you can be quiet and strong.

But stories don’t grow from sparks to full-fledged books on their own. I’d like to thank my incredible agent, Andrea Somberg, and my amazing and inspiring editor, Anne Hoppe, for nurturing this spark. I’d also like to thank the fantastic team at Clarion Books and Houghton Mifflin Harcourt: Amanda Acevedo, Dana Cuadrado, Lisa DiSarro, Candace Finn, Sharismar Rodriguez, Jackie Sassa, John Sellers, Tara Shanahan, Karen Sherman, Tara Sonin, Rachael Stein, Dinah Stevenson, Kiffin Steurer, Veronica Wasserman, and all the other awesome people who fanned the flames. Thank you to Brandon Dorman, whose gorgeous art graces the cover of this book. And love and thanks to my husband, my children, and all my family, for being my strength, my inspiration, and my joy.

Chapter

One

Turtle had stopped moving last week.

He’d warned Mayka and the others a year ago, when he first began to slow—​but he moved so slowly anyway that she hadn’t believed him. Not really. She’d always thought they’d have one more afternoon. On the mountain, there was always another afternoon. Another sunset. Another sunrise. Until there wasn’t.

She still visited him every day and talked to him as if he could hear her. He had moss growing on him over the faded markings on his shell, the way he liked it, but this morning, Mayka had had the idea he’d also like flowers. Yellow ones, like tiny suns. She decided to plant them in a circle around him, even though she knew he couldn’t see them.

Kneeling next to him, she plunged her hands into the dirt, fingers first, using them like spades to dig a hole. She then picked up a flower, cupped its roots in her palms, and gently placed it in the hole. As she scooped dirt around the plant, she wondered what it would feel like to cry, like Father used to. When he was sad, tears would drip down his soft cheeks, curving through his wrinkles. She remembered she used to reach out and catch a tear on her finger. He’d tell her they tasted like the sea, which seemed miraculous to her.