Since it’s September, the newest edition of Guinness has just been released. Thank goodness I have that to read because the view outside the car window is scraggly trees, brown grass, and endless cacti.

I’m halfway through the animal section—the mantis shrimp wins the award for the STRONGEST SELF-POWERED STRIKE BY AN ANIMAL with a kick equal to 340 pounds of force—when Dad says, “Hey, Milo, how about you read some of those records out loud?”

“Or Mom could do it,” I suggest.

“Nope,” Mom says from the front seat. “Mom was up late painting roach wings, and she is currently sleeping. It’s your turn to entertain our driver.”

“Safety laws frown upon reading and driving at the same time,” Dad says. “Come on. At least just read page ninety-six.”

Translation: Dad doesn’t really want me to read from the Book. He’s just wants to talk about the “real” Iron Man, Richard Browning—the guy who invented a flight suit and got into Guinness.

“Whoa, Dad. Did you know the largest yo-yo was almost twelve feet tall?”

Dad ignores my comment. “How fast did Browning fly again?”

“And that yo-yo weighed four thousand six hundred twenty pounds!”

“What was his flight speed again? Can you remember, Milo?”

I flip some more pages. “Can you believe the tallest toothpick sculpture is almost seventeen feet?”

“Milo,” Mom says. “Just tell your father what he wants to know. You’re interrupting my beauty sleep.”

Dad pats her knee. “You don’t need that, honey. You’re already stunning. I bet Richard Browning would think so too.”

“Milo!” Mom says.

There’s no escape. I resign to my fate. “The real Iron Man, Robert Browning, flew eighty-five miles per hour in a body-controlled jet-engine suit.”

“Really?” Dad says like he is shocked. He’s not. Dad knows everything about Browning. “And how did he power that suit?”

“With six kerosene-fueled micro gas turbines,” I quote from memory.

“And I bet it could go even faster than that.” Dad knows it could. “Don’t you think?”

“If only it had a parachute.”

Richard Browning is actually really cool. He worked on the flight suit for years, but he only recently got into Guinness. And now he is Dad’s hero—maybe it’s because they’re both engineers and marathon runners. Or maybe it’s because Browning has done what Dad has always dreamed of: Richard Browning has earned a world record.

Because I am an excellent son, as I flip through the pages of my new Guinness, I also listen to Dad talk about Browning and how there will be a day when flight suits will be as common as cars. I supply the appropriate “uh-huhs” whenever he pauses.

When Dad starts talking about all the flight-suit prototypes, my nose starts to twitch. A tickle builds inside my left nostril. I force it into the loudest, most intense sneeze of my life.

Seriously that could have been a record.

In the front seat, Mom bolts upright.

Success!

“Whew.” I scratch my nose. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you, Mom. It’s just something really irritated me.”

Mom slowly turns to glare. “Something is very irritating to me too.”

“Now that you’re awake though, you should hear what Dad was just saying about how we’ll all have our own flight suits someday. Go on, Dad. Tell her.”

Mom crosses her arms. “Milo’s fortunate that we don’t have a flight suit right now. Or that’s how he’d be getting to Shotwell Stadium.”

Dad sighs. “If only we were so lucky.”