Claartija wiped her nose again and went back to the onions. The potatoes were simmering in the pot. Douglas walked in freshly shaved and dressed in a clean polo shirt. He’d returned early that morning.

Hello, he said.

Claartija greeted him with a wave of the knife. He poured a mug of coffee for himself and blew on the porcelain. He shot Kevin a questioning look, and Kevin shrugged in return.

I see you’ve been enlisted, Douglas said to Claartija.

I volunteered.

Onions no less.

Her choice, Kevin remarked.

What are you making?

House fries, Claartija said.

Home fries, Kevin corrected.

Whatever, she muttered.

Douglas looked at Kevin. Why don’t you get her a sweater?

She prefers the blanket, Kevin said.

Claartija rolled her eyes.

Douglas shook his head and left the room. A minute later he returned with a mustard-colored cardigan and set it on the stool beside her.

Here, he said, it’s better than that blanket.

She looked at the sweater.

Ach, she made a face. I can’t wear that.

We’ll find you something more fashionable later. He held it up with two hands. Go on, he urged.

She shook her head but put the knife down anyhow and allowed him to slip the sweater up her bare arms. Kevin watched in amazement, surprised she’d let him—but even more astonished at Douglas.

The sweater was much too large. Claartija waited impatiently while Douglas rolled each sleeve to the wrist. Kevin watched from across the room and felt all at once—unexpectedly—a pang of jealousy. Was it the attention Douglas was paying the girl, or the ease with which he acted around her? He couldn’t tell, but seeing them together in the sunlight, he felt the slightest bit…left out.

Douglas stepped back and inspected the girl.

Not bad. He made an appraising face.

It’s awful, Claartija protested and muttered something in Dutch. Then they both turned to Kevin at the same moment.

Kevin felt his face go hot. He picked up a skillet and turned to the stove. Claartija sighed and took the knife back to her onions. When Kevin regained his composure, he glanced over at the girl. She was sniffling again, and the yellow sweater really didn’t look so bad. Douglas, leaning against the fridge, wore the tiniest smirk of satisfaction across his face.

Twelve

By eight that morning the recovery operation resumed again. Sea King helicopters thudded across the waters. Naval ships appeared once more offshore. The divers went down, the ROVs, searching again for the black box, the flight data recorder, for thus far only the voice recorder had been found. In a hangar on the mainland, workers fit together recovered bits of the fuselage on a giant jig. All over the island, ground searchers started their rounds once more. If anyone had entertained hopes of a lone survivor before, the storm dashed any such speculation: for nothing could have survived such a gale, such waves. The storm spread wreckage in a fan shape one hundred miles from the crash, and evidence had been pulverized into a fine particulum. Calls came now from eighty miles down the coast, where someone had found an airplane meal washed ashore, the molded entrée plate completely intact: beef bourguignon and a flowered carrot still perfect in its plastic wrap.