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bent down to retrieve it from the grass. “So, I’m a writer—my mind wanders.” His father waved hishands like magic wands, the football almost small in his huge grip. “And my creative curiosity asks a question: ‘Forrest, what about Dorch? Where did that name come from?’”
    Landon’s dad paused with the ball cocked back. Landon could feel his father’s excitement, and he had to admit that it made him curious too, a name like Dorch. He assumed it wasn’t just a variation on “dork,” which is what several kids in his Ohio school had called him.
    His father threw the ball, a wayward lob, but Landon was able to get his hands on it and pull it proudly to his chest.
    â€œDorchester.” His father stood up straight and saluted. “Yes, Dorchester. And , not just Dorchester, but the guards of Dorchester castle, the sons of the sons of the sons and so on . . . bred for what?”
    Landon held the ball and waited.
    His father flung his hands high in the air. “Stature.”
    Landon wrinkled his brow. “Stature? You mean a statue?”
    â€œNo: stature, size. Height.” His father held a hand level with the top of his head. “Girth too.” He patted the beach-ball bulge of his stomach and its impressive girth with both hands.
    Landon looked down at his own hefty gut. In football his weight would be an advantage.
    His father waved a hand to get his attention. His face grew serious and he said, “Enter the problem which I’d like you to help me solve.”
    â€œWhat’s the problem?”
    â€œ Return to Zovan is nearly seven hundred pages long, probably halfway finished.”
    â€œHalfway?” Landon couldn’t imagine anyone reading afourteen-hundred-page book. That would be like the Bible, or the dictionary, or . . . something.
    â€œYes,” his father said. “A very good start with tremendous momentum. As I said, my main character is about to reach Zovan and meet his uncle, who we shall now name Bretwalda. But , a writer has to be inspired , and a writer has to be honest about whether he is truly inspired and . . . well, Dorch inspires me. Don’t you get it?”
    Landon didn’t know what to say. He bought some time by turning the ball over in his hands, searching for just the right grip on the laces, like he’d seen Peyton Manning do on YouTube videos.
    â€œI want to write a historical novel about Dorchester Castle. I can see it. I can taste it.” His father paced the grass before he turned his attention back to Landon. “I am inspired, Landon, but will it sell? You read as much as anyone . . .”
    â€œI read kids’ stuff, Dad,” Landon said, begging off and throwing the ball.
    His father nodded excitedly as he muffed the catch, but he didn’t bend down for the ball. “And that’s what this would be —it’s middle grade historical fiction based on our forefathers. Can you imagine the excitement of the librarians? You see, people love the past, but they love it when you can bring it into the future. It’s like Percy Jackson. It’s mythology, only today . Brilliant.” His father paused and then asked, “So, yes or no?”
    Landon looked pointedly at the ball. “Well, how would you bring the story about Dorchester into today?”
    â€œTime travel, of course. You remember the Magic Tree Housebooks, right?” His father picked up the ball and cocked his arm.
    â€œSure,” Landon said.
    â€œMore brilliance.” His father didn’t throw the ball but instead looked up at the clouds, contemplating the genius of a tree house for time travel.
    When his father’s eyes remained cast toward the sky, Landon looked up too, expecting to see a cloud in the shape of a dragon or a magic tree house or a castle.
    Then he thought he heard something. A word?
    Was it “catch”?
    Landon looked toward his father the instant before the