Once, years ago in Africa, I survived a plane crash. In some ways, that was the least traumatic of a series of traumas during that time in my life, but I’d never mentioned it to the children. Part of it, of course, was not wishing to unleash a flying phobia in them; but part of it stemmed from my reluctance to speak to anyone of the years I’d lived in the north-central African country of the Republic of Chad. I’d met their father there when both of us were working with an international aid organization. Daniel, a man of African heritage who’d been raised in France, had died when Rorie was seven; we’d moved back to the States shortly afterward. At the time, I’d told her a partial truth: we were leaving so I could study another kind of medicine. Beau was born after we left and had no firsthand knowledge of the continent where he was conceived.

The few people who know about the crash probably assume I’m afraid of flying. I’m not; the crash I survived had been frightening as hell, of course, but it also occurred in a tiny prop plane flown by a drunken expat American idiot. A large commercial jet, such as the one in which we now flew, bore very little resemblance to the rickety mess I’d climbed aboard that night in N’Djamena. Still, since that night, I’ve had to conquer a residual flare-up of nerves during every takeoff. It’s a major drag, given how much I fly, and I’d had no idea Rorie had picked up on it. Kids know way more about their parents than you might believe; it’s just that usually they find the knowledge boring.

Rorie plucked idly at the dog-eared edge of an airline magazine in the seat pocket in front of her. “Are we going straight to Declan’s?”

“He’ll be at his lab when we get there,” I said, returning my attention to the interior of the plane. “We’re going to meet him later near the Plaza de España.”

At the words Plaza de España Beau sprang to attention.

He put down his iPad, rustling in his canvas carry-on until he produced his red notebook. Beau never goes anywhere without his red notebook; he’d acquired it at age four and promptly announced he would become a writer. Riffling through the pages, he settled on one and tilted his notebook to allow me a better view. It was a drawing, lopsided and off-kilter but recognizable nonetheless as one of Spain’s many regional coats of arms.

“That’s excellent work,” I said. “Did you do that the last time we were at the plaza?”

“No,” he said, smiling at his drawing. He produced a pencil and adjusted the shading. “I did it from my rememberings. I can’t wait to show Declan. He says maybe one day he’ll take me to the Alhambra.”