I was probably sixteen when I handled my first “real” ancient object, something that was nearly three thousand years old. My professor grabbed it from a turquoise-lidded Tupperware box that just seemed to be lying around his living room. He snapped the tape back and slowly unfolded the bubble wrap, and then handed it to me. It was a cuneiform tablet, small and rectangular, like a Trisket. But when I held it, I was enthralled. It was covered in writing. Tiny grooves, where one could feel each indentation made by the stylus, length-wise, width-wise. The impression felt coarse, but the clay was smooth. That simple touch was like a time machine, transporting me thousands of years to the past. And by the time I had said goodbye, walked to the driveway, and shut the car door, I was sure: I wanted to be a historian.