He used to find worrying futile, counterproductive. He’d survived by planning more meticulously, by doing his homework better, by being more prepared than whomever he was observing, chasing, fighting. And then—Zofia had her six-month postnatal checkup. That was all it took for irrationally intense worry for his child to take over.

“She’s supposed to be able to turn from back to stomach and stomach to back. Be able to get up into a sitting position by either holding me or the doctor. She’s supposed to babble, find a lost toy, pass an object back and forth between her hands. And Piet—she can.”

A little sister. At any moment his mind could return him to his place beside the hospital bed, holding Zofia’s hand while contractions racked her body.

Normal life, Piet. You promised never to infiltrate another criminal organization, no more death, no chaos, no running.

He remembered exactly how she looked when she said it so well.

My body had decided. One more child. After trying for so long, and believing it would never happen again. My age, that’s what I thought . . . but it wasn’t that. Calm. Never having to live like that again. I relaxed, Piet. Another child, I don’t know, it sounds almost corny, but it feels like this baby is . . . a symbol of all that. Of your promise. Of our new life.

“You never worried like this about Hugo and Rasmus.”

“I know, Zofia.”

“And she’s much more advanced and tougher than they were.”

“I know that as well.”

The crushing anxiety that the doctor might discover something else. Something they hadn’t seen. And it wasn’t because she was the first girl or the baby of the family. It was him. Realizing that nothing can be taken for granted. Everything is finite. It would have been much easier to keep living with the lies, living with them until he could no longer remember where lies end and truth begins. Until he no longer knew who he was.

“Piet—we’ll see you tonight.”

“Give her a kiss from me.”

“She’s sending one right back.”

A ten-minute drive. That was it. Then he was in Enskede with its suburban houses with yards and two cars in the garage. Their home. This was where they’d moved when Zofia was pregnant the first time.

It was hot in the car even with the windows rolled down. Unusual in this country, high temps, high humidity, and only the first week of June. No use wiping your forehead with your sleeve because it was already wet. He parked in front of the rusty gate and lingered for a moment. This was the best part of his day.