Cedar is in LA with Colleen and Wade. They took their first grandchild there on a theme-park binge when she turned eight, forgetting that one time is a precedent with eight-year-olds. It’s now a ritual every grandchild counts down to, plans for, mapping out their days at Disneyland, Knott’s Berry Farm and Universal Studios, sleepless in anticipation of dragging Colleen and Wade, older with each trip, on this punishing regime of shuttle buses, endless queues, overpriced fries and unrelenting California sun.

At the entrance to the cleared area, a woman has arrived, with a boy who is holding a kite. They’re grandmother and grandson, from the look of it. She recognises Simon, and waves.

He waves back and calls out, ‘Not a lot of wind today.’

She shrugs, points to the boy and says something I can’t quite make out.

‘Neighbour,’ he says to me. ‘A couple of houses along.’ He checks his watch. ‘Breakfast.’

While the house is four storeys, that fact overstates its grandness, as its footprint is small. Compact, as we say in the realty trade. A compact footprint. Modest, intimate. But the house is not those things, as the cumulative effect of the four storeys is a large enough place after all. Its layout defies Alaskan realty descriptors, perhaps most regular realty descriptors. It’s one of a thicket of similar vertical houses arranged as if they were all dropped here, in odd clumps and at odd angles to each other, with narrow driveways threaded between their corners.

The TV is on when we get back. The TV is always on. Simon and Faye’s helper Jonalyn is emptying the dishwasher, crouching down lifting plates up to the counter, her feet in old Hello Kitty slides, her sleek black ponytail gathered in a simple elastic. In the Philippines, she has a son Cedar’s age and a daughter two years younger, living with grandparents. We’ve shown each other photos. She skypes them most days, helps with their homework.

‘Good walk?’ she says over her shoulder, mostly to me.

‘Yeah.’ I’m out of water and ready for another drink. ‘It was good to see the neighbourhood. No sign of Lacy yet?’

‘Not yet.’ She stands up and sets the final plate on the stack. ‘Faye has had breakfast. She’s going soon, I think. To the conference.’

Lacy is learning about the brutality of jetlag for the first time. In time-zone terms, she has lived her entire life between Honolulu and Los Angeles, between Hawaiian and US Pacific Time. Until yesterday, the only reason she had a passport was a trip to Vancouver and Whistler before Cedar was born. Last night, in the hours when sleep should be deepest, she was wide awake, staring at the ceiling, head full of who knows what.

‘There’s filtered water in the fridge,’ Jonalyn says when I move towards the kitchen sink, unscrewing my bottle top. ‘Nice and cool. Let me.’