EON

A child becomes enamored of an invertebrate who is barely detectable with the naked eye.

While looking through her new microscope, a girl, who is rendered with graphite pencil and has skin the white of the page, discovers a wondrous creature: “Unlike the other teeny beings who wiggled and jumped, he ambled and plodded like a bear.” The magnified speck, whom the girl names Eon, is pink and endearingly piglike. Determined to care for the creature, the girl to take out some colored paper and make what she imagines Eon might need—“A chair?”—or simply enjoy: “A swing!” “A slide!” Each suggestion is accompanied by a cut-paper creation reminiscent of a dollhouse accessory. The girl researches her new pet (“He’s called a tardigrade, a water bear, a moss piglet! He’s a master of extremes—a microscopic superhero!”) and proceeds to paper-engineer the challenging environments that Eon can survive: “The coldest icebergs and the fieriest volcanoes,” and so on. When the girl comes to realize that Eon can’t thrive in her world, she sets him free with a wish that they’ll meet again. Her narration is light as she plumbs the scientific depths of Eon’s existence. An author’s note that elaborates on the artists’ techniques makes plain the lengths to which each went to create this book’s paper sculptures, appreciation for which has no age ceiling.

A higher-order if-you-love-something-set-it-free story.