The song ends and it is announced over the loudspeaker that it is time to light the trees. Normally at this moment, Wilson lifts Isabelle onto his shoulders so that she can see the trees light up over the heads of all the people. All around him, he can see children sprouting up from the crowd as their fathers shoulder them, and he looks again at Isabelle, wondering what he should do. He should be like Ruth, he thinks, and lift her as though nothing is wrong—but, he thinks, what if she does not want to be lifted? He can imagine crouching down before her so that she can climb onto him, and Isabelle shaking her head or merely looking away, and he can imagine the pity that would be on Ruth’s face then. But what would be worse than if Isabelle rejected his offer would be if she accepted it just to spare his feelings. Isabelle would do that, he thinks; he does not want pity from his daughter any more than from Ruth. And it wouldn’t surprise him if she didn’t want to be lifted; he’s not sure what she wants, these days, except to be silent. No, he thinks, he’s not going to force anything; he isn’t going to take the chance. He doesn’t have it in him.

The church bells begin to ring loudly; Wilson looks up at the steeple. It is white and looming, stark against the orange city sky. He squeezes Maggie’s biscuit tight in his fist, and then he becomes aware of a pulling at his pants. He looks down in surprise; Isabelle is by his side, looking up at him. His heart aches then; it aches because he knows that somewhere inside this silent girl with untamed hair is his daughter, and it aches with guilt at sometimes forgetting that. She is Isabelle, he thinks. Of course she would want to see the lights go on, of course. He squats down; Isabelle swings her leg around his neck, and then he stands, quickly as he always does, to thrill her.