Shy missed England. It was so much less stressful. People sat in their sitting rooms watching telly and eating toast soldiers and drinking sweet, milky tea. There was so much less walking. But her mother was from Manhattan and felt very strongly that New York City was the only real city in the world and that they needed to move there. It was her father who’d insisted on Brooklyn because it felt more authentic. Manhattan was just a giant tourist attraction. Her mother resisted at first. “Brooklyn isn’t really New York,” she’d said. When it turned out living in Brooklyn was so much more fashionable than living in Manhattan, and that they could buy a whole house with a garden instead of living in an apartment, Wendy gave in. As long as Shy attended private school.

Roy Clarke went into the large, open kitchen area, located the electric sandwich press, and set it atop the butcher-block island in the center of the kitchen.

“I’ll make you a cheese toastie if you tell me what you’re doing home so early.”

Shy had hoped her father wouldn’t notice. “I don’t know,” she told him honestly. “Mum was at school, talking to my teachers. I went out for lunch and kept walking. I just wanted to be home. I had Latin this morning.”

Roy knew it was wrong, but he liked that his daughter enjoyed his company and was willing to eat in front of him but not her mother. He made two sandwiches. They ate them directly off the kitchen counter, gobbling them up so quickly they didn’t have time to talk. Then he made two more.

Gold. Every time he blinked, there it was in 28-point bold italics, centered in the middle of his mind’s eye. That hadn’t happened with Black and White. It was a good sign. His American fans would love it, if any of them were still alive by the time he finished writing the book. If he were still alive. Or maybe Black, White & Gold? No, that sounded like a law firm. He didn’t do legal writing either. No courtroom dramas or anything too technical. Too much research. Too much room for error. Black and Gold and Gold and White White on White with Black or Gold. Blimey.

Shy never asked about his writing. Either she wasn’t interested or she didn’t want to nag.

“Hey Dad, do you want to go see a movie?” she asked him now.

“I thought you were ill.” He retrieved the cloth from the sink and wiped the sandwich crumbs from the counter.

“I feel well enough to watch a movie.” Shy dug an unopened can of Coke out of her schoolbag and cracked it open. Wendy refused to keep soda in the house. What did she think Shy subsisted on—air?