{"product_id":"starstuff-ten-science-fiction-stories-to-celebrate-new-possibilities-isbn-9781536236392","title":"Starstuff: Ten Science Fiction Stories to Celebrate New Possibilities","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn a thrilling follow-up to \u003ci\u003eTasting Light, \u003c\/i\u003eten best-selling and award-winning masters of the form use the possible—and the premise of hope—to explore how science and technology can reshape our world and defy assumptions.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt once a collection of hard science fiction for curious middle-graders and an antidote to despair in the face of dystopian uncertainty, these ten horizon-bending stories may seem unreal, but all follow the rules of physics and biology as we understand them today. These tales of space junk, multiverse navigation, an asteroid named Doomsday, and bees and marmots in space pulse with honesty and optimism. Whether home is a planet, a moon, a space station, or a fleet starship, relatable protagonists of different genders, classes, nationalities, ethnicities, and orientations face challenges—some harrowing, some hilarious—true to their moment in time and space. Brisk plots, resonant themes, and scientific rigor define these forward-facing stories by leading middle-grade authors. Taken together, the tales champion youth agency through characters who approach science in adventurous ways, underscoring that we are all, indeed, made of the same luminous stuff.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eWith stories by:\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWilliam Alexander * A. R. Capetta * Maddi Gonzalez * Carlos Hernandez * Kekla Magoon * Jenn Reese * David Robertson * Wade Roush * Eliot Schrefer * Fran WildeA science-fiction short story collection that showcases the possibilities of the near and distant future.\u003cbr\u003e—Kirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe science and technology are consistently plausible throughout, and if the authors aren’t (yet) household names, they, as well as their casts of characters, are broadly diverse of nationality, ethnicity, and sexual orientation.\u003cbr\u003e—Booklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis diverse set of intentionally hopeful science fiction stories collectively represents ways that optimism, genius, and activism can change the trajectory of a possible future for a better world. There is significant variety here in formatting, tone, and pace in the ten offerings, resulting in an overall buoyant read.\u003cbr\u003e—Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books\u003cb\u003eWilliam Alexander\u003c\/b\u003e is a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebest-selling author of unrealisms for middle-grade readers and a contributor to \u003ci\u003eTasting Light: Ten Science Fiction Stories to Rewire Your Perceptions.\u003c\/i\u003e His novel \u003ci\u003eGoblin Secrets \u003c\/i\u003ereceived the National Book Award, and his novel \u003ci\u003eAmbassador \u003c\/i\u003ewon the Eleanor Cameron Award for excellence in juvenile science fiction and was a finalist for the International Latino Book Award. He served for three years as the faculty chair of the Vermont College of Fine Arts program in Writing for Children and Young Adults. He lives in Vermont. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eWade Roush \u003c\/b\u003eis a technology journalist and audio producer who focuses on how science and technology are changing our lives and what we can do as individuals to steer that process. He is the host of the podcast \u003ci\u003eSoonish\u003c\/i\u003e and the editor of the hard sci-fi anthology \u003ci\u003eTwelve Tomorrows\u003c\/i\u003e, published by MIT Press, and a co-editor with A. R. Capetta of \u003ci\u003eTasting Light: Ten Science Fiction Stories to Rewire Your Perceptions\u003c\/i\u003e. He holds a PhD from MIT in the history of technology and lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.PREFACE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe legendary planetary scientist Carl Sagan noted in \u003ci\u003eCosmos\u003c\/i\u003e that the heavier elements in our bodies—nitrogen, carbon, calcium, iron—are pure starstuff, made in the interiors of imploding stars. In that sense, the periodic table of elements is both perfectly ordinary and mythically huge. The building blocks of your own teeth were forged in the heart of a dying star. So were the elements of apples that those teeth bite into. You can taste a supernova. \u003cbr\u003eScience fiction blends vast ideas with everyday things—and both the vast and the everyday are transformed when they mix together.\u003cbr\u003eThe stories in this hard science fiction collection may seem wildly unreal compared to everyday life in the 2020s, but all of them follow the rules of physics and biology—at least as far as we currently understand those rules. Our sense of the universe and how it works is constantly evolving to fit the new discoveries we make. These stories explore how science and technology change our world and challenge our assumptions.\u003cbr\u003eChanges and challenges are sometimes terrifying. Plenty of recent science fiction offers a steady stream of climate despair, collapsing societies, postapocalyptic combat, and radioactive kaiju. Starstuff is different. These stories are hopeful vaccines against a pandemic of dystopian expectations.\u003cbr\u003eThe world is changing, and not all of those changes are awful. Our understanding of the world will also change. New possibilities will always explode from the collapse of worldviews that no longer fit, just as calcium and carbon spread through the universe after stars go nova. The ten stories in this book are part of that expanding wave of possibility. They feature kids of different classes, genders, nationalities, ethnicities, and orientations who call out problems, find solutions, and help transform the planets, moons, space stations, and fleets of starships where they live.\u003cbr\u003eAll of us are made of the same extraordinary stuff.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e- - - - - - - - - -\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eTo-Do List for the Apocalypse\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJenn Reese\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s an asteroid headed straight for Earth, on a head-on collision course, and yet my parents still decided to get a divorce.\u003cbr\u003eAt least with the asteroid, the end of the world will come pretty quick. Kaplow! Boom! I like that idea better than the slow, ongoing apocalypse I’m living through now.\u003cbr\u003eToday is October 13, 2032, aka “moving day.” I’ve been dreading it for months, and it’s finally here. Mom is shoving the last box into the back of the car. It won’t fit. Dad is standing in the shade of the garage, watching, his arms crossed, and calling out suggestions. Mom hated when he did this, even when things were good. Now I watch her eyes narrow into slits and her nose flare. If Dad keeps this up, she’ll start breathing fire. I can’t blame her.\u003cbr\u003eI grab my multi-tool and pull out the knife. “Here, Mom. We can open the box and tuck the stuff into the gaps.”\u003cbr\u003eMom looks at me and the flames in her eyes cool to embers. “Good idea, River.” She holds the box, and I slice the tape. Together, we find spots for spatulas and sauté pans and a beat-up kettle that Mom needs for her morning tea. It has to be that kettle. No other kettle will do. I’ve tried explaining that hot water is hot water no matter how you make it, but Mom is stubborn. I end up wedging it into the footwell in the passenger seat. Me and that kettle are going to be best friends by the time we get to California.\u003cbr\u003e“You could have fit the box if you rearranged the ones in the back seat,” Dad says, and this time even I glare at him. His eyes are red, and he doesn’t want us to go, but Mom’s new job starts in January. I’m the one who should be crying. I’m leaving all my friends, all my summer camps and clubs, my entire life.\u003cbr\u003eWhich is pointless because of the asteroid. Because everything is about to change.\u003cbr\u003eTO-DO LIST\u003cbr\u003e1. Invent a time machine.\u003cbr\u003e2. \u003cbr\u003eGo back six months and stop Dad from \u003cbr\u003echeating on Mom.\u003cbr\u003eThe car is packed. Dad pulls me aside and hands me a massive book. I stare at the cover and see the word atlas.\u003cbr\u003e“It’s got every road, so we can always find each other,” he says.\u003cbr\u003eI let him hug me, but all I’m really thinking about is where this book is going to fit in our overstuffed car. Who gives people books when they’re about to road-trip across the country? Who uses books to navigate in a world with universal, free Wi-Fi and up-to-date GPS systems in every car?\u003cbr\u003eDad, that’s who.\u003cbr\u003eI climb into the passenger seat with the atlas. Mom raises an eyebrow, and I roll my eyes.\u003cbr\u003e“We can ditch the tea kettle if you want to stow that by your feet,” she says.\u003cbr\u003e“No way.” Me and the tea kettle are already ride or die.\u003cbr\u003eWe stop at a charging station in Potts Grove, Pennsyl-vania, to get road trip slushies and stretch our legs. I dump Dad’s atlas in a recycling bin, then notice Mom watching me. She doesn’t say a single word as I get back in the car.\u003cbr\u003e“Your turn to pick the playlist,” she says.\u003cbr\u003e“I picked last time.”\u003cbr\u003eShe shrugs. “So pick again.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe trees in Pennsylvania have stopped producing chlorophyll and are showing off their carotenoids, a fact that I relay to Mom with great relish.\u003cbr\u003eMom laughs. “You’re going to wow ’em in California, kid.”\u003cbr\u003eI look out the window and watch the red and orange and yellow trees speed by. Maybe the trees aren’t showing off. Maybe they’re getting ready for the asteroid. Maybe when it hits, everything will be on fire, not just the trees.\u003cbr\u003e“Maybe we won’t make it to California,” I say.\u003cbr\u003eShe doesn’t realize it’s wishful thinking on my part. She says, “Don’t worry. There are some very smart people working on the asteroid. They’ll find something else to try. I have faith.”\u003cbr\u003eWhen Mom says she has faith, she doesn’t mean in a “higher power”—she means that she believes in science, and in humanity. She teaches psychology and she spends her free time doing “citizen science,” which is when regular people without training get to help scientists with big projects. Whenever a volunteer opportunity takes her to an observatory, she calls it “going to church.” I think I know what she means. My friends and I went to a robotics conference at Princeton once and it was so cool that I thought my head was going to explode. Totally worth it if it had.\u003cbr\u003eMe and my friends used to do that sort of thing whenever we could, back when my parents were still together and I was on the robotics team and lived in New Jersey and the world wasn’t about to end.\u003cbr\u003ePennsylvania becomes Ohio, then Ohio blends into Indiana and Illinois and Iowa. Mom and I don’t talk about Dad. I can tell she’s trying to cheer me up, because she asks me all about my latest robot and my Dungeons \u0026amp; Dragons characters and my video game progress. I wonder if I’ll finish any of those games. My friends and I can play online, but it won’t be the same.\u003cbr\u003eWhen I get tired of talking, we listen to the news. Everyone listens to the news now. That’s what happens when the world is about to end.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere are two clusters of asteroids called Trojans orbiting the sun out by Jupiter, one group racing ahead of the planet and the other group lagging behind. The Lucy probe, a little piano-size robot with big solar panel ears, launched in 2021 and grabbed data from four asteroids in the lead group. Then Lucy looped around Earth for a speed boost and is now headed for the Trojan called Patroclus in the trailing cluster.\u003cbr\u003eBut out there between Earth and Patroclus, Lucy spotted something strange: an asteroid heading toward Earth and traveling much faster than an asteroid should. Lucy grabbed what data it could, but it wasn’t much. The mysterious asteroid, named something respectable by the scientists but quickly renamed “Doomsday” by all the news outlets, was on its way.\u003cbr\u003eHere’s the part where things go from bad to worse to “We’re all going to die!”: the faster an asteroid moves, and the bigger it is, the greater the damage it can cause if it hits something. Like, say, if it hits Earth. Just ask the dinosaurs how much they enjoyed the asteroid that almost wiped them out. That asteroid was probably several miles wide and traveling over sixty-five thousand miles per hour. It was BIG and it was FAST.\u003cbr\u003eAnd Doomsday makes it look like a Ping-Pong ball.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe’re most of the way through Nebraska when notifications start lighting up the car’s vid screen. Something big is going down with one of Mom’s citizen-science groups. The car starts to read them aloud, but Mom pulls into the closest charging station and grabs her phone to read them faster.\u003cbr\u003e“Doomsday’s trajectory has shifted,” she tells me.\u003cbr\u003e“It’s not going to hit Earth?”\u003cbr\u003e“No, sorry,” Mom says, her brow furrowing. “It’s still headed for us. But a normal asteroid should not be able to change course. We knew Doomsday was a strange duck, but it’s even stranger than we imagined. You up for a side trip to Colorado, kiddo?”\u003cbr\u003e“What for?”\u003cbr\u003e“Doomsday is going to pass in front of Aldebaran, the brightest star in the constellation Taurus. We’ve got a chance for an occultation.” Her eyes light up. I haven’t seen them do that for months.\u003cbr\u003eI’m up for any side trip that delays our arrival in California, but I don’t tell her that. I don’t want the light to go out of her eyes because of me.\u003cbr\u003e“Sure, Mom. Me and my best friend, Kettle, are up for anything.”\u003cbr\u003eMom laughs and gives the nav system the new coordinates.\u003cbr\u003eI’ve never gone with Mom to an occultation. She’s offered before but I always took a pass. Mom is cool and all, but sitting out in a park or a stranger’s yard with a telescope and a laptop in the freezing cold never sounded like much fun. Guess I’ll get a crash course now.\u003cbr\u003eAnd hopefully not an actual crash, because the car beeps every time Mom exceeds the speed limit, and it’s beeping a lot.\u003cbr\u003eTO-DO LIST (Updated)\u003cbr\u003e1. Invent a time machine.\u003cbr\u003e2. Go back six months and stop Dad from cheating on Mom.\u003cbr\u003e3. When Mom invites me to stuff, sometimes say yes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOccultation is a weird word. When I was younger, I thought Mom was traveling to all these random parts of the world to read tarot cards or summon the dead in some spooky séance scenario. But to “occult” something just means to eclipse it, which is what the asteroid is doing to the distant star. Occult can also mean knowledge that is hidden, or secrets in general, and I guess I can see how that works. When Doomsday passes in front of Aldebaran, the star will disappear, if only for a moment.\u003cbr\u003eIt’s just funny how occult makes you think of ghosts and magic, but occultation is all about science and data.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe closest operation base camp is in the dingy community center of a tiny town named Hasten and its surrounding parking lot. Mom weaves between a chaotic cluster of people to a parking spot and practically leaps from the car. I scramble to keep up with her.\u003cbr\u003eThis place is hopping! Doomsday’s course change took everyone by surprise. Most of the people trickling in look discombobulated, like they dropped whatever they’d been doing and just took off without a second thought. I see one person in a business suit like she left right in the middle of a meeting. I hear a man say he left halfway through getting a tattoo.\u003cbr\u003e“We were so lucky we were driving across the country at exactly the right time,” Mom says for the one-\u003cbr\u003ehundredth time. “Everyone is bringing equipment. There are going to be hundreds of us. We’re so lucky!”\u003cbr\u003eThat is not a word I would ever use to describe what’s happening, but I let her have it. We report in and get assigned equipment—a big ol’ telescope and camera system that connects to a laptop. Mom hauls it to the parking lot and joins a bunch of people all aiming their telescopes at the target field and making sure they know how to use the software on the laptops. Normally there would be one or two practice sessions like this in the days leading up to the event, but there’s no time. Doomsday is calling the shots.\u003cbr\u003eI remind Mom that our car is already stuffed like a burrito, and there is no way we’re getting all this equipment in there.\u003cbr\u003eThis slows her down for only a second. “No problem!” She checks with the field coordinator, and within five minutes, we’re stacking boxes that hold our entire lives inside the community center. I make sure to leave the kettle in the passenger footwell, but Mom grabs it.\u003cbr\u003e“What if we forget it? What if someone takes it?”\u003cbr\u003eMom looks at the kettle, then at me. “Then I will remember it fondly when I buy a new one.”\u003cbr\u003eSometimes I don’t understand her at all.\u003cbr\u003eBut then we’re back in the car and driving again. Every observer has an assigned location, and we’ve got to get there and find a place to set up within the next few hours.\u003cbr\u003eI look out the window and nothing is familiar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach telescope gets assigned to a specific “track,” and the array of telescopes can cross multiple states. Imagine a gigantic comb with each telescope being an individual tooth. We’re trying to catch the asteroid’s shadow somewhere in the comb. It won’t hit all the teeth, but hopefully it will hit a few.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe’re lucky, and we get assigned to a neighborhood in Colorado that’s only an hour away. The organizers probably took pity on us and our overburdened car.\u003cbr\u003e“It’s a point of honor to get as close as possible to the assigned track,” Mom says, and the glint in her eyes is back. She won’t be happy unless we nail it.\u003cbr\u003eI pull up a map of our destination on the car’s vid screen. “Can’t we just pull off on the shoulder of the road?”\u003cbr\u003e“Nope,” Mom says, as if this is good news. “A stray headlight will ruin our chances of seeing the occultation. We need to find someplace off the road, or off the beaten path, where no one will want to come check out what the wacky telescope people are doing. I’ve had good luck asking people for permission to set up in their backyards.”\u003cbr\u003eOh, great. We get to ask strangers for a favor. My favorite.\u003cbr\u003eMy brain immediately starts tumbling down to darker, grumpier places. I think about Ling and Jeremy and all my other friends back in New Jersey. I should be back there with them, not on a pointless asteroid chase in the middle of the night, with half my stuff sitting unattended in a community center miles away. Some citizen thief is probably making tea with Mom’s kettle at this very moment.\u003cbr\u003e“So if they’re not sure where the shadow will hit, we could be doing all this for nothing, right? Most of us aren’t going to see anything.”\u003cbr\u003e“Citizen science isn’t about individual glory, kiddo,” Mom says. “If anyone is successful, then we’re all successful. That’s part of the magic. And besides . . .”\u003cbr\u003e“More data is always better,” I finish for her.\u003cbr\u003eThat phrase should be on our family crest. Except I guess we don’t have a family crest, since we aren’t a family anymore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur assigned track crosses through the middle of a residential neighborhood. There’s a high school football field not too far away, but it’s not close enough for Mom and her “point of honor” and might get foot traffic.\u003cbr\u003eWhich means it’s time to knock on strangers’ doors.\u003cbr\u003eI hate knocking on strangers’ doors.\u003cbr\u003e“This isn’t New Jersey,” Mom says, as if that’s supposed to make me feel better. “People are nicer out here.”\u003cbr\u003eI don’t understand how she can dis New Jersey like that. She lived there, too! It’s like all of a sudden, she hates everything about it. It wasn’t enough to leave—she wants to hit the memories over the head with a shovel and bury them in an unmarked grave.\u003cbr\u003eI knock on a faded green door with a no solicitors sign duct-taped near the doorbell.\u003cbr\u003eThe door opens a crack and a person says, “No solicitors!”\u003cbr\u003e“But—”\u003cbr\u003e“No.” The door slams shut.\u003cbr\u003eYeah, sure. People are nicer out here.\u003cbr\u003eThe next door is opened by a very frazzled man holding a baby with one hand and stopping a toddler from running past me with the other. His eyes say “Please, do not ask me for anything,” and so I don’t. I apologize for taking his time and hope that I haven’t just doomed the entire occultation project. Dad used to call me a big softie, and I guess that’s one thing Dad got right.\u003cbr\u003eMy gut twists when I think about him. All the good stuff and the bad stuff are coiled around each other. I don’t know how to untangle them, or if it’s even possible.\u003cbr\u003eI need to get working on that time machine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne time I was sleeping over at my friend Nicole’s house. We were in the basement, which was only partially fixed up, so it had that powerful, musty basement smell. And bugs. A lot of bugs. I’m generally okay with creepy-\u003cbr\u003ecrawlies, but this one long-legged centipede walked in front of the flashlight beam Nicole had left on the floor. Because the bug was so close to the light source, it cast a massive shadow on the wall. So one minute the group of us are talking about D\u0026amp;D, and the next minute it was all Attack of the Giant Insect. There was a lot of screaming, and some of it was from me.\u003cbr\u003eBut here’s the cool thing.\u003cbr\u003eThe farther that bug is from the light, the smaller its shadow is. And if the bug is far enough away, and the light is focused just enough, then its shadow shrinks until it’s almost exactly the same size as the disgusting centipede itself.\u003cbr\u003eSo, if you wanted to know the shape of the bug but couldn’t see it, you could just measure its shadow and you’d get pretty accurate data.\u003cbr\u003eThat’s how an occultation works.\u003cbr\u003eInstead of a flashlight, our light source is going to be a really bright, distant star.\u003cbr\u003eAnd instead of a bug’s shadow, we’re going to measure Doomsday’s. Because it’s so close to us and so far away from the star, the asteroid’s shadow should be almost exactly the same size and shape as Doomsday itself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe people in the houses Mom approached were all Doomsday preppers, and those folks don’t let anyone into their house-bunkers. Their “precautions” make more sense now that an asteroid is actually about to pulp us, but I’m with the bulk of Earthlings who think we should just pretend the asteroid doesn’t exist and go on building our robots and playing our video games like nothing is wrong. Mom doesn’t agree with either of us. She thinks there’s still hope, and she’s willing to do her part to try to save the world. As far as I’m concerned, she’s just setting herself up for disappointment.\u003cbr\u003eWe’ve got one house left before we have to look outside our optimal location.\u003cbr\u003e“Here we go, kiddo,” Mom says. She stands taller, tries to straighten her rumpled fleece, forces her mouth into a smile. I’m probably the only one who can see how desperately she’s clinging to a rope dangling over a pit of sadness. It took her a long time to climb out of that pit after the stuff with Dad. I don’t want her to fall again.\u003cbr\u003eI tuck my hair behind my ears and put on my “I’m just a kid who needs your help” face. It works really well when I’m trying to sell candy bars to raise money for the robotics club.\u003cbr\u003eMom knocks on the door and it opens immediately.\u003cbr\u003e“Can I help you?” asks a kid about my age. She’s got long black hair and brown skin, and a T-shirt featuring the smiling cactus from the Cactus Rancher video game.\u003cbr\u003eBefore Mom can launch into her citizen-science speech, I jump in. “We’re trying to get some data on the asteroid tonight. Can we set up our equipment in your yard? We won’t make a lot of noise or anything. We just need it to be dark.”\u003cbr\u003eThe girl looks at me, her eyes narrowed. She looks at Mom and does the same thing. Then she shrugs. “Fine by me. Let me ask my dad.”\u003cbr\u003eShe leaves the front door open, disappears into the house, and returns a minute later dragging her father. This time Mom’s enthusiasm is unstoppable, and before I know it, two strangers are helping us haul equipment to the backyard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJamila, one of our two hosts, brings us camp chairs and water and blankets. Mom and Jamila’s father, Rahesh, hit it off right away, laughing at each other’s terrible puns while Jamila and I roll our eyes. Rahesh asks if we’re hungry and I try to say no but my stomach betrays me. He returns to the house and soon we hear a knife chopping and pots clanking. An incredible aroma wafts from the window and my gut yowls again.\u003cbr\u003e“Your dad isn’t traveling with you?” Jamila asks.\u003cbr\u003eThat is actually the question she leads with. Mom and I share a glance, and then Mom shrugs. She’s obviously more interested in setting up the equipment.\u003cbr\u003e“Who says I have a father?” I counter.\u003cbr\u003eJamila thinks about that. “Good point. So where do you live, then?”\u003cbr\u003eIt’s a perfectly normal question, but I have no idea how to answer it. Where do I live? Not in New Jersey, and not in California. I am a person without a home.\u003cbr\u003e“I guess I don’t live anywhere,” I say, losing my appetite. “Unless you count right here, which is where I’m living now.”\u003cbr\u003e“Should I go tell my dad you’re staying?” Jamila asks, and she looks really excited.\u003cbr\u003e“No, sweetheart,” Mom butts in. “River means we’re moving to Berkeley, California. We haven’t seen our new apartment, so it doesn’t feel like home yet.”\u003cbr\u003eThe sun is setting fast. The air is cooling even faster.\u003cbr\u003e“I moved once,” Jamila said. “My friends said we’d stay in touch, but we didn’t.”\u003cbr\u003eI’m suddenly tired. So tired I can barely move my arms or legs. And cold. And hungry. And there’s an ache in my chest that’s trying to break through my rib cage.\u003cbr\u003eMaybe that’s why I say, “I miss my friends. I wish I’d never left New Jersey. I wish I’d stayed with my dad.”\u003cbr\u003eThe smile drops from Mom’s face and the spark goes out of her eyes.\u003cbr\u003eKaplow. Boom.","brand":"MIT Kids Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304367673573,"sku":"NP9781536236392","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781536236392.jpg?v=1767737271","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/starstuff-ten-science-fiction-stories-to-celebrate-new-possibilities-isbn-9781536236392","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}