She smiles. “He knows that, sweetie. But you can tell him if you want.”

After breakfast, Dad and I set off. “Let’s take the subway,” he says. “That’s part of the whole fun. When I was a kid, I used to ride the subway all the time.”

He’s wearing blue pants and loafers and a collared shirt, but no jacket or tie. His sleeves are rolled up, so I can see his forearms, which are strong and hairy. Some of the other men on the street, walking toward the station, wear business suits; my dad looks like a different kind of person now.

We take the B train downtown—it makes a huge screeching noise, pulling up to the platform. Everything seems louder underground. I guess it must be rush hour. There are a lot of people trying to push their way on, but my dad finds me an empty seat and stands next to it, holding on to one of the bars. He sways with the train as we roll through the tunnels; it’s a long ride. I read my book and my dad manages to read his newspaper one-handed; he keeps folding it over very carefully.

At one point he taps me on the shoulder with it and says, “Hey, look. We’re about to go over the water.”

We come out of a tunnel and I squint as sunlight pours into the subway car. The train rumbles over a bridge, and my heart jumps like when you go down too quickly in an elevator. I can see boats on the river below—it’s funny how flat the water looks. There’s a park on the other side, in Brooklyn, and some kids playing on a swing, and then we’re rolling over city streets again. Suddenly I feel very happy to be here. I love my dad and we have all day together. Maybe I can persuade him not to go to London.

At Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn, we get out and switch to the Q train. After that it’s just a few stops. Then we walk from the station—it’s windy but sunny, too, and you can smell the ocean in the breeze blowing up the avenues. Even with all the traffic, I hear the amusement park before I see it: electric beeping sounds and music playing over a loudspeaker. My dad puts his hand on my hair, and I sort of push against him, to show I don’t mind.

We ride the Thunderbolt, which is really just a roller coaster. First you go straight at the sky, right at the sun. The Atlantic Ocean is behind you, and Brooklyn, and streets and cars and houses, and the boardwalk and the beach are somewhere below you, but most of the time I have my eyes closed, trying not to throw up. After that, we spend about five minutes just calming down, then we play Skee-Ball. My dad plays, too, and scores high enough to win a prize. He seems pretty pleased about that and lets me pick out the prize. There isn’t anything I want, it’s mostly kiddy stuff, but finally I pick a bright bead necklace to give Mom.