But there’s only one that’s plastered with NASA mission stickers. And that’s Noah Digman’s. Jay, Kate, and I drive around town in the Wagon, craning our necks as we look for Noah’s NASA sedan. We check his typical hangouts: the camera store that sells telescopes, Game Stop, even Taco Bell to see if he’s circled back to get those burritos. But we have no luck. And at this point, we’ve each texted him about 14,000 times. No response. “Okay, before any of us get panicky, let’s think,” Kate says. But she already sounds panicky. “Where the hell would he go? Is there some science convention he forgot about?” “Maybe he went to the library,” I say. “Like, the real library, in town.” It wouldn’t be the f irst time he’s run off to f ind a book, just to make sure that something he’d read on the web wasn’t complete crap. One of the things I love about Noah is that he loves proving know-it-alls wrong, especially Internet know-it-alls.
