Bones by John Wilson Page B

glance at Annabel, who nods. “What exactly is the skeleton that you found there?” she asks.
    â€œExactly?” Dr. Bob says. “That’s a tough one to answer. At first we thought it was a large ornithomimid dinosaur, because the hands were grasping and very lightly built. We even hoped for some feather impressions, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. It’s more complex than we thought. It might even be a completely new species, though we mustn’t count our chickens before they’re hatched, eh?”
    Dr. Bob and Annabel laugh out loud. I nod, not really getting the joke.
    â€œCounting chickens?” Annabel says.
    I shrug.
    â€œThe dinosaurs were birds.”
    â€œOh, right,” I say.
    â€œNot strictly speaking,” Dr. Bob says, “but very closely related. Anyway, would you like a tour of our setup here?”
    â€œYes,” Annabel and I say at the same time.
    â€œExcellent. Follow me.” Dr. Bob leads us over to a door marked Staff Only and ushers us through. I glance back and say a silent goodbye to the smiling T. rex .

Chapter Two
    The back rooms of the Tyrrell are a different world from the areas the public sees. There are no perfectly mounted skeletons posed in front of paintings of ancient landscapes, or computer terminals where you can build your own dinosaur. There are offices, rooms cluttered with camping equipment, drills and hammers, and a large warehouse filled with steel shelving crammed with wooden boxes and white, oddly shaped packages.
    â€œThis is an exciting time in dinosaur study,” Dr. Bob explains, waving his arms around with enthusiasm. “Amazing discoveries are made every day all around the world—China, Argentina, Africa and even here in Alberta. We’re digging fossil bones out of the rock faster than we can study them. We need all this shelving to store everything until we can get around to examining it. Sometimes, that’s years.”
    â€œBut they don’t look like bones,” I say, hoping I don’t sound too stupid. “They’re mostly large white lumps.”
    â€œGreat observation!” Dr. Bob exclaims. He slaps a pillow-shaped lump covered in black writing. “The bones are often fragile, and we find them in awkward places—hillsides, cliffs, quarries. And with the short summer work season, the priority is getting specimens dug out and protected. We dig out the bone and the surrounding rock and wrap it in burlap sacking and plaster of Paris. It’s like the cast a doctor would put on if you broke your leg. A doctor would treat you the same way we treat dinosaur bones. We’re dinosaur doctors.” Dr. Bob laughs at his own joke.
    I force a smile and ask, “So what’s in this one?”
    He leans forward and peers at the writing. “Ah, this is a thigh bone from one of the horned dinosaurs, maybe even Triceratops .” He chuckles. “ Dr. Bob rocks, like Triceratops ,” he reads. “Sometimes our students like to write on the cast. Not the best poetry, but if it doesn’t interfere with the scientific information, I don’t mind.”
    â€œWhere’s the rest of it?” Annabel asks.
    â€œAnd there you have hit the nail on the head,” Dr. Bob says. Our confusion must show on our faces, because he continues, “Most people think dinosaur skeletons come out of the ground complete. Not so, and I’m afraid it’s our fault.” He falls silent as if he regrets a horrible mistake he’s made.
    â€œHow is it your fault?” I ask.
    â€œYou think all our skeletons out there”—he waves his arm in the direction of the display halls—“are complete?”
    I’m not sure if he expects a reply. He goes on before I can decide. “They’re not. They’re composites, casts of bones from several different individuals. And where we don’t have a bone, we make it up.”
    Dr. Bob smiles at the