Zola walked along the sunlit garden path. Something red gleamed between the pebbles.
She picked it up. Her eyes grew wide. "How does that work?" she whispered, as the tiny legs tickled her palm.
The grandmother knelt beside her and opened the thick book. She pointed to a picture of the beetle. Zola traced the drawing with her finger.
"What does it eat?" Zola asked, pointing to a leaf with tiny holes in the picture. The grandmother smiled and flipped the page.
They walked to the park. Zola collected three acorns from the grass and held them in her palm.
One acorn dropped from her hand and fell through the air. "Why do they fall like that?" she asked, frowning at the ground.
Back in the kitchen, Zola lined up the beetle, the acorns, and a blue feather on the table. She looked up at the grandmother.
The grandmother stroked her chin. "You're being a scientist," she said. Zola tasted the word — sweet like honey.
"What's a scientist?" she whispered. The blue feather drifted down from the table and landed softly on the beetle's shell.
The next morning, Zola carried the brass magnifying glass into the garden and crouched down to watch something move.
A snail left a silver trail across the dirt. Zola leaned in closer.
"Hello there," she whispered to the snail. It paused and stretched its little eyestalks toward her. Zola giggled.