Klauson kept trying to arrange sleepovers and day trips to the mall in Billings, to a rodeo in Glendive, but I would back out at the last minute. Irene and I hadn't seen each other much since our robot-hug at my parents' funeral in June. The paper called it a hotbed for specimen recovery.
Within weeks scientists, "paleontologists," Irene would remind us, sounding like our fucking science book, had swarmed all over the Klausons' cattle ranch.
"My dad's already called some professor he knows at Montana State," she told a few of us who were clustered around her locker. Irene said she was the one working the shovel when they first found it. She and her dad had been out building on their new corral and branding area. Sometime in late September Irene Klauson came to school with the kind of smile kids wear in peanut-butter commercials. Excerpt: The Miseducation Of Cameron Post
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