Gwen found it in the garden, half-buried under the tomato plants.
It was big. Bigger than a football. Bigger than a watermelon. It was warm and white and covered in tiny golden speckles, and when Gwen pressed her ear against it, she heard something.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Like a little heartbeat.
"This," said Gwen, "is a dinosaur egg."
Her mom said it was probably a rock. Her dad said it was definitely a rock. Her big brother said, "Rocks don't have heartbeats, but okay."
Gwen didn't care. She carried the egg inside — oof, it was heavy — and she set it on her bed, right on top of her softest pillow.
And she sat on it.
Not all the way. Just enough. The way she'd seen birds do on TV, all puffed up and patient, keeping their eggs warm.
Day one. Day two. Day five.
Gwen sat on that egg before school. She sat on it after school. She sat on it during breakfast and almost during bath time, but her mom said absolutely not.
"Gwen, come play!" called her friends from the yard.
"Can't," said Gwen. "Sitting."
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The egg got warmer. Gwen could feel it through her pajamas, through her jeans, through her dinosaur-print shorts. Warm like a mug of cocoa. Warm like a hug.
Two weeks went by. The golden speckles started to glow, just a little, just at night, like someone had sprinkled the egg with tiny stars.
Her brother peeked into her room. "Whoa," he whispered.
"I know," said Gwen.
Three weeks. And then—
Tuesday morning. Gwen was sitting on the egg, eating toast, when she felt it.
CRACK.
She jumped up so fast her toast flew across the room and stuck to the wall — peanut butter side, of course.
A line ran down the middle of the egg. Then another line. Then a whole web of lines, glowing golden, spreading and spreading.
"MOM! DAD! IT'S HAPPENING!"
Everyone came running. Her mom. Her dad. Her brother, still holding a toothbrush.
The egg rocked left. It rocked right. A chunk of shell popped off and skittered across the floor.
And out came a nose.
A tiny, scaly, green nose, with two little nostrils that went sniff sniff sniff.
Then a head. Then two round eyes, golden like the speckles, blinking in the morning light.
Then the whole shell crumbled apart like a broken bowl, and there it was.
A dinosaur.
It was the size of a cat. It had soft green scales and stubby little legs and a tail that curled like a question mark. It looked up at Gwen. It opened its mouth.
"Mrrrrp?" it said.
Gwen's dad sat down on the floor. "That's not a rock," he said.
The dinosaur wobbled toward Gwen on its wobbly new legs — left, right, left, bonk, it bumped into her knee — and it climbed right into her lap. It was warm. So warm. It curled its tail around her wrist and pressed its nose into her hand.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
That little heartbeat. Right against her palm.
Gwen wrapped her arms around it, soft and slow. She could feel it breathing. She could feel it choosing her.
"Hi," she whispered. "I'm Gwen. I sat on you for a really long time."
The dinosaur closed its golden eyes.
And it purred.
Her brother looked at the shell pieces all over the floor. He looked at the toast stuck to the wall. He looked at Gwen, holding a dinosaur in her lap like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"So," he said. "What do dinosaurs eat for breakfast?"
Gwen grinned.
