I want to show Amy something special, even if it’s only special to me. It’s not somewhere I go anymore, so I’m surprised when we get there so quickly. But my legs are a lot longer these days.

“This is it,” I say.

“A fire station?”

It looks exactly the same, but so different, like everything from that time in my life.

I remember Dad in his uniform, lifting me from the ground up to the fire engine’s steering wheel, the steps in between like mountains.

I remember open days when he would climb impossibly long ladders while I sat on Mum’s shoulders and cheered with the crowd below.

And I remember that framed raffle ticket, lying in its broken frame on the carpet.

“This is where my mum met my dad.”

I tell Amy the story, and, when I’m almost done, she says, “That’s so romantic.”

“It was. But I don’t know where the ticket is now. Mum probably threw it away.”

Amy’s quiet for a while, then she says, “Or maybe they kept half each.”

“I doubt that. Dad couldn’t leave quickly enough. One day he loved us, and then…”

“I’m sure he still loves you.”

I stare straight ahead because I’m not sure, and Amy can’t be either. That’s only what people say to be kind, so I don’t argue. Instead, I say, “I’m sorry if this is weird.”

“It’s not weird. Thank you for telling me.”

A sense of fear races through me, then fades. I can’t shake every last doubt that Amy is hiding something, but I want to. And days like this will help.

“So what now?” she asks, but I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

She can tell because she smiles and says, “It’s my turn to show you something. Come on.”

She holds my hand, and I don’t pull away as I follow her. It’s not a warm day, so there aren’t many people around, but she doesn’t lead me to the normal places in the park. We go past the bandstand and the cafe and the lake. We walk until I’m sure we’re going out the other end. Then she turns right, taking a path I’ve never seen before. The trees are closer together here, and the birds sing over our silence. Amy crouches, points, and whispers, “There’s one,” and, when I follow her gaze, a squirrel runs across the grass in front of us, then another, and another. When I look closer, they’re everywhere.

“How many are there?” I ask.

Amy shakes her head. “No idea. Mum and Dad used to bring us here all the time. My brother called it Squirrel Park.” A couple of them run over to Amy, who whispers, “Sorry, lads. I don’t have anything for you, today.”