Bones by John Wilson Page A

wide, flat valley bottom. We slow as the road levels out, and we pass small farms and stands of willows. I can’t imagine being happier than this, cycling along on a beautiful summer day beside Annabel. I’m trying to imagine this moment lasting forever when Annabel powers off, yells “Race you,” over her shoulder and leaves me in her dust.
    I’m panting and sweating when we eventually pull in among the cars, campers and tour buses in the parking lot of the Royal Tyrrell Museum. We chain our bikes and join the tourists going through the main doors. We explain that we have an appointment with Dr. Owen and are directed through the exhibition hall to where he will meet us, beside the huge T. rex skeleton that is one of the museum’s treasures. As we wait, I stare up at the skeletal jaws lined with curved, razor-sharp teeth, some of which are as long as my hand. “He seems to be smiling,” I comment.
    â€œWhat makes you think it’s a male?” Annabel asks.
    â€œUm, he’s really big?” I suggest.
    â€œThat doesn’t mean anything,” Annabel says. “There are many species where the female is considerably larger than the male. The male triplewart seadevil is a tiny stunted creature that can only live as a parasite attached to the much larger female.”
    I feel like a tiny stunted creature when Annabel comes out with stuff like this. She’s not only smarter than I am, she’s smarter than everyone I know put together. “What’s a triplewart seadevil when it’s at home?”
    â€œIt’s an anglerfish. They can live in depths of six thousand feet in the ocean.”
    â€œAnd how many decimal places can it recite Pi to?” I ask, teasing Annabel about her obsession with learning the endless number.
    â€œOh, female triplewart seadevils are known to recite Pi to over one million three hundred thousand decimal places. Though the males can only manage five or six.”
    She says this so seriously that it takes me a minute to realize I’m the one being teased. “Okay, you win, but I doubt the male T. rex was a helpless parasite.”
    â€œProbably not,” Annabel agrees, “and this one, male or female, is impressive.”
    â€œActually, the female T. rex may well have been larger than the male.” We turn to see a short, bearded man wearing a shirt and pants that seem to be mostly bulging pockets. “You must be Sam and Annabel,” he says, stepping forward and holding out his hand. We shake. “I’m Dr. Robert Rawdon Mallory Filbert Owen, the museum’s director of dinosaur research, collection and exhibition,” he says with a grin. “Quite the handle, eh? I always give my full name. It seems such a shame to waste it, but everyone calls me Dr. Bob. I’m so glad your mom could set up this visit.”
    His welcome is interrupted by the opening chords of Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water.” Dr. Bob looks sheepish and digs into one of his many pockets. “First thing I ever learned to play on the guitar,” he says, dragging out a cell phone and stepping away. “Excuse me.”
    â€œDr. Bob plays classic rock?” Annabel says, her face breaking into a broad grin. “Cool!”
    â€œSorry about that,” Dr. Bob says, stuffing his phone away in a pocket. “Technology is convenient, but it does make it hard to escape. Have you had a chance to visit the excavation site yet?”
    â€œNot yet,” I say. “We were going to go down yesterday, but the rain made it too slippery.”
    â€œRain is unusual here in summer, and it does make moving around in the coulees difficult. We didn’t have anyone on site yesterday anyway. The team is back working at the dig today. In fact, I was planning to go down to see how things are going after I’ve finished here with you. You’re welcome to tag along.”
    â€œSure, thanks,” I say. I