The hall mirror seemed to stare at him. He had to turn away. And there it was. Wedged in between the wooden frame and the mirrored glass. A note with no words on it, just a big red heart in the middle. It moved him still, after all these years. Zofia liked to leave small notes for him here and there, sometimes on his pillow when he pulled back the covers, or in his suitcase when he was unpacking in a hotel room somewhere, alone again. Or in the fridge when he picked up a tub of butter. At one time those unassuming messages of love had felt like a demand, and he’d wanted to escape them. Now he longed for those little notes. Felt disappointed when they weren’t around.

He liked them so damn much. He liked her so damn much.

Rasmus was sitting at the far end of the short side of the kitchen, that was always his spot no matter where in the world they lived, no matter what house Dad dragged them to. The eight-year-old looked up as the sound of steps made their way from the hall to the kitchen, but he didn’t stop playing with his action figures, especially the one with a very round stomach and a red hat and blue legs and yellow arms.

“Hi, buddy.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“What are you up to?”

“Playing.”

“I see that—but what are you playing?”

“With my new action figure.”

“Yeah, and . . .”

“Dad—you don’t get it.”

Hoffmann looked at the plastic figure with a red hat and blue legs as it jumped away from all the others lying on the kitchen table, watched it do somersaults and mumble something. He realized his son was right. He didn’t get it at all.

“Mr. Potato Head.”

“Huh?”

“That’s another action figure I have, Dad. Up in my room. This isn’t one of those—but it’s like a Mr. Potato Head. I’ve never had one of these before. Cool, right?”

“Very cool.”

The flour was in one of the cupboards on the wall, the salt on the kitchen counter, eggs, milk, and butter in the fridge. Pancakes. The safest bet.

“You hungry, Rasmus?”

“If you make them in the waffle iron. I want checkered pancakes.”

The waffle iron. Checkered pancakes. That started last year. Hoffmann still didn’t understand why, or where it came from, but if that’s what he needed to do to keep them fed, then that’s how the pancakes would be made. He found the iron in one of the bottom cupboards and opened the window, shouted loudly.

“Hugo?”

The dull sound of a foot kicking a ball on the other side of the hedge and then a ten-year-old celebrating when it landed in a homemade goal.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Are you hungry? Pancakes?”

“Checkered?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m hungry.”