Part of him hoped Caddie wouldn’t make an appearance at dinner that night. Immediately he felt guilty for thinking such a thing. Of course he wanted Caddie there. But only if she behaves herself, he admitted. Suddenly his mind flashed back to when Caddie was three or four. Carol had wanted to take Caddie to dinner with them at a restaurant that, while hardly gourmet dining, was several notches above fast food. Ben had protested. “What if she acts up?” he’d said. “She’ll bother the other diners.”

“She’s a child,” Carol had argued. “Of course she’s going to act up. And we’ll deal with it.”

There had been a big argument, and ultimately Ben had lost. They’d taken Caddie, and she had acted up, refusing to eat what they ordered for her and throwing a tantrum. Ben, mindful of the annoyed glances from other patrons, had begged Carol to leave. “She’ll never learn if we give in to her,” Carol had said. And so they’d stayed, Ben trying to eat his steak while Carol, with great patience, calmed Caddie down and got her to at least try her spaghetti.

Spaghetti, he thought. She wouldn’t eat it for me then, and she won’t now. It was ironic, in the most obvious yet painful of ways. He had been unable to understand his child then, and he was unable to understand her now. Then again, he reasoned, Carol couldn’t handle her now either. The problem of Caddie had grown too big for both of them. Or perhaps Carol had just run out of patience. Or maybe now she cares what other people think, thought Ben. What was acceptable at three was, at sixteen, more difficult to defend against the reproachful looks of strangers.

As quickly as it had brightened, his mood soured. He hated that thinking about his daughter had this effect on him. Yet it did, and he couldn’t help it. She was like the equation he couldn’t solve, the missing piece of a puzzle that eluded finding.

A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. “Come in,” he called gruffly, his irritation tinting his tone.

The door opened and a pimpled face looked in. “Dr. Ransome?” the boy said.

Ben tried to remember the young man’s name. Already it had escaped his memory. Crete? he thought. It was a city. Then it came to him. “Rhodes,” he said, trying to sound welcoming. “Come in.”

Rhodes entered the office and walked timidly to a chair. He looked at it for a moment, like a dog unsure of whether it was allowed on the furniture. Then he sat. He rested his hands in his lap, worrying them together. “Angela said you wanted to see me,” he said.

“Are you interested in salps?” Ben asked him.