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bag of flour sitting in our kitchen. Gram hadn’t used but a smidge of it making those dumplings, so there was plenty left.
    What if . . . ?
    What if I mixed up the starlight with flour and made biscuits?
    Wish biscuits!
    Careful, so careful, I carried my cup home and managed not to spill a drop. When I got there, Pa was away and Gram’s light still shone beneath her door, so I didn’t have to trouble myself too much with being quiet. I took out the flour, a big bowl, and a baking sheet. We didn’t have much lard left, so I let that be, hoping the sort of magic one would find in pure starlight would keep it from sticking to the pan too badly.
    I poured and stirred until I had a mixture that looked something like the glitter paste my art teacher made. With a big spoon, I heaped four dollops of dough onto the baking sheet.
    There was one little hitch, and I didn’t realize it until I was sliding the biscuits into the oven: ovens run on electricity, and electricity costs money. It was one thing to fetch wishes for the good of others, but it was another to fetch wishes to your own detriment. I was already using some of our precious flour. Should I run up an electric bill that we couldn’t pay, too?
    But, you know, sometimes the little voice inside you whispers, and even though it may not make a lot of sense at first, it hits you all of the sudden—
There might be something to that!
Just such an idea came to me then.
    I took my finger and ran it along the inside of the cup, catching the dregs of the starlight. Then I touched my finger to the oven’s heating element. It turned red and hot so fast I hardly had time to pull my hand away! Quickly, I slid the pan in and shut the door.
    About fifteen minutes later, the smell of wish biscuits lured Gram from her room.
    â€œWhat are you cooking at this hour?” she asked.
    I beamed. “Wish biscuits.”
    She raised an eyebrow. “I never would have thought of that.” I think she was impressed.
    â€œHope it’s all right, I used some of the flour.” I nodded toward the bag.
    Gram looked at the flour and cocked her head. “This flour? Dilly’s flour?”
    â€œThat all right?”
    â€œFine, honey, except that there’s not one handful less than there was after lunch.” She gave the bag a squeeze. “It was this bag you used?”
    I nodded. “What other flour do we have?”
    She conceded my point with a bob of her head. “Well, ain’t that something. Miracle flour. Seventy-nine years in this town and Sass still has the power to surprise me.”
    Gram hovered over me as I eased the biscuits from the oven. They were as perfect as any bread you ever saw. Golden brown on top, fluffy white down below, and perfectly round.
    â€œBee-u-ti-ful!” Gram gushed.
    It would have been one of life’s perfect moments, had my stomach not grumbled right then.
    â€œWhy are you frowning?” Gram set a hand on my shoulder. “We’ve got miracle flour! I don’t know about you, but I’m having fry bread.”
    Â 
    Seeing as how Gram and I were up late snacking on fry bread, I didn’t get as much sleep as I might have. I was late rising and late leaving, so I had to rush to the library to meet Jura, like we’d planned.
    JoBeth Haines, town librarian and police dispatcher, smiled as I walked in.
    â€œGenuine! Good thing you stopped by! The new
Georgia History Today
just came in.” She slid the magazine over the counter, along with the
Sass Settee,
our biweekly newspaper. “My column’s in the
Settee,
you know. ‘Police Beat.’ Page three.”
    â€œThanks, Missus Haines. I can’t wait to read it.”
    I gave the
Settee
’s headlines a quick glance: PACK YOUR UMBRELLA, SAYS WEATHER BUREAU! and
SASS-Y CHILI RECIPE FEATURED ON COOKING CHANNEL!
    I looked around the library. It didn’t take long, seeing as how the place was half the size