It was later, after he’d whispered to Zofia to call the boys in sick tomorrow and tell the school they’d be gone for the rest of the week, which was the last one of the semester, after he’d gone to the bathroom and almost drowned in the mirror wondering who the hell was staring back at him, after he’d closed the apartment door and was on his way out of the building into what looked like rain, that Hugo caught up to him.

“Hey, you?”

Hoffmann stopped, turned around.

“Yeah?”

“I know.”

“Excuse me?”

Hugo pushed Piet’s arm.

“I know it’s you, Dad.”

“I think you . . .”

Now he shoved harder, more angry than eager.

“Just stop it. I knew it didn’t make sense. I knew something was wrong. Then in the apartment—I saw how you moved. Held yourself. I know how you walk, Dad. You walk like me. With your feet and arms like so . . . we walk the same way.”

And Piet Hoffmann could no longer hold back his fear. It just came, couldn’t be denied.

“It is me, Hugo. First, promise me one thing—don’t say anything to Rasmus.”

His eldest son seemed to be considering it, silent and still.

Then he nodded, just as Zofia did when she was lying in bed with her husband’s hand pressed over her mouth.

“Why, Dad? Why do you look like that? Sound like that? And why are we here?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Hugo sighed deeply, but not because he too was scared. Because he was serious.

“Dangerous, Dad.”

“What?”

“It’s dangerous. For us. That’s why we’re here.”

Hoffmann grabbed Hugo’s hand, pulled him closer.

“Not dangerous, Hugo. But you might say that . . .”

“Dad—just stop.”

Piet pulled him close enough to hug him and whisper in his ear.

“Yes. You’re right. It is dangerous, Hugo. That’s why you’re here. And that’s why you have to help me and go back to the apartment. Until it’s not dangerous anymore.”

A hug that turned into them staring at each other.

Then Hugo swallowed, lowered his eyes, and looked at the ground for a moment. Finally, he turned around without saying goodbye.

Piet Hoffmann hadn’t felt this alone in a very long time.

PART
3

Chapter 16

Thump. Thump.

Someone hopping. Onto him.

Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

A little girl. She’s jumping on his stomach. Her clothes are dirty, and she’s laughing and singing. Happybirthdaytoyooou. Happybirthdaytoyooou. Singing loud and clear and off-key. But it’s beautiful.

And then the thuds get heavier. Muted, hollow.

The little girl is knocking on a door, hitting it with every ounce of strength she has, knocking that won’t stop and intensifies in strength, explosions in the same rhythm, bang, bang.

A gun.

Bang, bang. Bang, bang.

The explosions are like volcanic eruptions, furious, roaring.

So close that he can see them, too.