License to Thrill by Dan Gutman

FAMILY !
    â€œOoh, can we go?” Pep asked.
    â€œThose places aren’t real Indian villages,” Mrs. McDonald told them. “It says in the guidebook that they’re just tacky souvenir shops.”
    â€œOoh, can we go?” Coke asked.
    About an hour from Albuquerque, the speed limit slowed down to 35 miles per hour and a few storespopped up here and there. And then this appeared at the side of the road. . . .

    â€œThat’s right!” Dr. McDonald said, slapping his forehead. “I forgot all about it. This is the Great Divide!”
    Dear reader, if you recall The Genius Files: Mission Unstoppable , you know the McDonalds first crossed the Continental Divide heading east through Utah. It’s an imaginary boundary line that begins in Alaska and continues all the way down through South America. Now they were crossing it again, heading west.
    â€œRivers on the west side of this line flow into the Pacific Ocean,” Dr. McDonald reminded the others, “and the rivers on the east side of the line flow into the Atlantic Ocean.”
    â€œThat’s cool,” Pep said.

    â€œI read somewhere,” said her brother, “that when you flush a toilet in the northern hemisphere, the water swirls in the opposite direction than a toilet flushed in the southern hemisphere.”
    â€œThat’s one of those urban legends,” his father told him. “It’s totally not true.”
    â€œIt sounds like it could be true.”
    â€œTrust me, it’s not.”
    â€œWho cares which direction toilet water swirls?” Pep asked. “And what does that have to do with the Continental Divide?”
    Nothing, of course. But you know what, reader? Sometimes people talk about nonsense. Especially people who have been cooped up in a car for four weeks.
    Clustered on the road around the Continental Divide were several “Indian Villages” selling rubbertomahawks, purses, belts, hats, and “kachina dolls,” whatever they were.
    â€œPull over, Ben!” Mrs. McDonald shouted.
    â€œWhy, Bridge?” he replied, hitting the brakes.
    â€œI have to go to the bathroom,” said Pep.
    â€œI want to get a snack,” said Coke.
    â€œWe need to buy some T-shirts for Coke,” said Mrs. McDonald.
    Reluctantly, Dr. McDonald pulled over.

    Indian Market was a pretty standard souvenir shop, stuffed with bins full of cheap trinkets that most people regret buying as soon as they get home. Dr. McDonald refused to have any part of such nonsense, and he said he would wait in the car while the rest of the family wasted their time and money. Pep went inside to use the bathroom. Mrs. McDonaldchecked out the T-shirts. Coke walked around looking at the knickknacks. Several employees eyed him suspiciously, as storekeepers do when teenage boys enter their place of business.
    Most of the employees didn’t look like Native Americans at all. But one of them did. He was an old man sitting in the corner, carving a piece of wood with a pocket knife. Next to him on a table were some painted wooden dolls, decorated with feathers and outfitted with brightly colored costumes.
    â€œI am Hopi,” the man said to Coke. “Every year our spirits—the kachinas—come down to the villages to dance and sing. They bring rain for the harvest and give gifts to the children. We carve these dolls in the likeness of the kachinam. You want to buy one?”
    â€œNo, thank you,” Coke said politely. “But they are very beautiful.”
    He started to walk away, but the old man grabbed him by the elbow.
    â€œWait,” he said. “There is something I need to tell you.”
    Coke rolled his eyes. The last thing in the world that he needed was a kachina doll. But he didn’t want to be rude to the old man.
    â€œWhat?” he asked, pulling his arm away.
    â€œForty-nine minutes and eight seconds,” whisperedthe man. “Twenty-eight minutes and