“Kelvin! If you’re still awake, why are you whispering to the window?” Mom called from the hallway.
“I’m not whispering,” I whispered anyway. “I’m asking the stars a question.”
Mom’s shadow paused. “Stars don’t answer, honey. They just shine.”
That was exactly the problem.
Tonight, one patch of sky looked wrong. A corner above our maple tree was dimmer, like someone had smudged it with a thumb.
I pressed my forehead to the cool glass. “Who stole the sparkle?”
A soft *tap-tap* answered from the sill.
Something the size of a lunchbox sat there like it belonged: a tiny, shiny craft with a bubble window. A sticker on the side read: **HELLO, EARTH FRIEND**.
The window slid open with a polite *pffft*. Out floated a tiny robot astronaut. He had button eyes and a helmet like a clear bowl.
“Good evening,” he said, his voice like a music box. “I am Peep-7. Mission: Safe learning tour. Passenger: Kelvin?”
My heart hopped like a frog. “How do you know my name?”
Peep-7 pointed at my science notebook on the desk. “Label. Also, you talk to the sky. That is a strong sign of curiosity.”
I should have been scared, but Peep-7 held out a tiny checklist titled **SAFETY FIRST**, with boxes for **SEATBELT** and **NO TOUCHING MYSTERY BUTTONS**.
“Okay,” I said, before my worries could catch up.
Peep-7 beeped. “Three stops. Three lessons. Return before your blanket cools.”
I climbed in. The craft smelled of clean metal and peppermint. A strap clicked across my lap.
“Fact,” Peep-7 said, tapping a screen. “In space, there is almost no air. That is why we wear helmets and why sound does not travel well.”
“So if I scream, nobody hears it?”
“Correct,” Peep-7 said. “So we will not scream. We will breathe calmly.”
The craft hummed.
