Dr. Sturgis rubbed his temples. “I know Lars Lundqvist. He’s… eccentric. He once nominated his cat for a literature prize because it walked across his keyboard and produced a string of letters he thought resembled James Joyce.”
That night, the family gathered in the living room. George Sr. had sold a rare baseball card. Mary had baked fifty casseroles for the church auction. Meemaw had counted out a stack of twenties wrapped in a rubber band. They presented the pile of cash to Sheldon.
Finally, he looked up. His face was not one of joy, but of profound, almost terrifying, seriousness. “Mom,” he said, “I have been nominated for the Nobel Prize in Physics.”
Meemaw smirked. “So instead of a Nobel, we get burnt bread.”
Dr. Sturgis rubbed his temples. “I know Lars Lundqvist. He’s… eccentric. He once nominated his cat for a literature prize because it walked across his keyboard and produced a string of letters he thought resembled James Joyce.”
That night, the family gathered in the living room. George Sr. had sold a rare baseball card. Mary had baked fifty casseroles for the church auction. Meemaw had counted out a stack of twenties wrapped in a rubber band. They presented the pile of cash to Sheldon.
Finally, he looked up. His face was not one of joy, but of profound, almost terrifying, seriousness. “Mom,” he said, “I have been nominated for the Nobel Prize in Physics.”
Meemaw smirked. “So instead of a Nobel, we get burnt bread.”