“I did my oral report on her last year,” I said. “She’s kinda my hero.”

He cracked a smile. “Really? Not Sally Ride? First woman in space, you know.”

“Valentina Tereshkova was the first woman in space,” I said, shaking my head. “Sally Ride was just American.”

He laughed, in kind of a weird way—like a seal barking. “Well, you Americans usually claim everything you do as first, don’t you?”

“Besides,” I said. “Sally Ride couldn’t have made it up there if Katherine Johnson hadn’t done the math.”

“But you want to sit behind a desk when you could be exploring the stars?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.

Sure. I was perfectly content behind a desk.

Most of the time.

“I can be up for adventure,” I said. “But Katherine Johnson found the answers. She was like . . . a detective. She could find anything.”

Dr. Lacamoire just looked at me, as if he were making some kind of decision in that very second. I just wasn’t sure, standing there in the Moose Junction library, what exactly it was. I didn’t know that Dr. Leo Lacamoire was looking for something, desperate to find it, on a quest of his very own—

No. I didn’t know any of that, not then. All I knew was that this guy was quite possibly out of his mind.

“Anything,” he repeated.

That anything said a million things.

“Well, I should—I should get going,” I said, inching toward the door.

“See you later, Abby,” said Harriet, handing Dr. Lacamoire an index card with a login code on it. “Stay dry.”

I ducked out the door and ran home, both because Jade had stolen the only umbrella we had and because I had the creepy-crawly feeling that the mysterious astronomer was watching me go.

That night, as Dr. Leo Lacamoire sat on the computer and pulled up archives, digging for a single photograph in a mountain of history, looking for things that were long ago lost, I helped Dad make dinner. I was just starting to set the table when the doorbell rang.

“Got it,” yelled Mom, emerging from upstairs. “Man, that smells good, you two.”

“Fried chicken is a gift from the Lord,” said Dad, washing his hands. “We’re unworthy.” When Mom cooked, everything was perfectly measured: a teaspoon of this, half a cup of that. She wouldn’t dare make dinner without a cookbook splayed open on the counter. Dad liked to crank up the Beatles and do dashes and sprinkles and handfuls; most of the time, we didn’t even use recipes. Blair hated it. She’d ask him how much butter was in something and he’d say “a chunk.”

Mom pulled open the door. Standing there, absolutely drenched, was Simone.

“Oh, gosh! Get in here, out of the rain,” said Mom as Simone stepped in, shivering.

“Thank you. I’m sorry to intrude. Looks like you’re about to eat,” said Simone.

“Not a problem,” Mom assured her. “Is there something I can help you with? Usually we ask guests to call the office if there’s an issue. . . .” Mom had a cell phone that got office calls when nobody was manning the station.