Leo and the Paper Astronaut Club

Leo was eight, and eight is a very good age for starting a club. All week, his bedroom workshop with cardboard rockets had been busy with tape, scissors and glue.

Tonight he was folding a paper astronaut. The first one tore. The second had one arm longer than the other. The third looked more like a sock.

Aunt Yasmin leaned in the doorway and set down a gift: a folded map inside a paper rocket. “For your club,” she said. “Open it when your astronaut is ready. And remember: crease, check, crease again.”

So Leo went slowly. On the seventh try, the helmet was round, the boots were neat, and both little arms were even.

He sat up in bed in his star pajamas and held the astronaut in his cupped hands. The lamplight made the paper shine like a tiny moon.

Then the paper astronaut blinked. “Hello, Commander Leo,” whispered a small voice. “I am Nova. Where are we flying tonight?”