“Viktoria is all right,” said Henrik very quietly. “Frightened, but all right. I spoke to her from the car. Said that Cal, you would collect her. The next train leaves in eleven minutes, so you will leave in five.”

I looked at Elsa. Elsa nodded.

“Okay,” I said.

“Licia, I could not reach,” said Henrik. “Though I did try. Several times. And of course your telephones are switched off.” He stepped forward again, held me by the shoulders. “You have no landline, Cal.” There was a critical edge to his smile.

I looked at Elsa. She looked back at me. She had her phone in her right hand, my phone in her left. She was turning her phone over and over, her fingers fluid and nimble, though her eyes remained fixed on my face. I smiled. Are you okay, love?

Elsa nodded at me. She blamed herself for switching off. I could see it.

I turned to Henrik. “I mean, we decided we didn’t necessarily need—”

He cut me off. “Licia’s telephone rings, but she does not answer her telephone.”

“She’s at summer camp,” said Elsa. “So she’s miles away.”

Henrik made to speak.

“What, Dad?” said Elsa.

He turned to me, smiled. “I mean, this explosion . . . probably nothing—right, Cal?”

Elsa switched her phone out of airplane mode and dialed Vee’s number.

The explosion didn’t look like nothing. On-screen the town hall stood shrouded in smoke. Papers swirled in the breeze, though outside our apartment the air was still.

In his windowless room off our bedroom little Franklin, tiny Franklin, slept his own restless sleep. Elsa stood on the threshold, watched the stuttering rise and fall of his chest through the bars of his wooden crib.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.”

We had brought the crib with us from D.C. The first piece of furniture we had bought. Both girls had slept in it. Now it was Franklin’s turn.

“Hey.” I stood behind Elsa, wrapped my arms across her chest.

She said, “Oh man, the way my dad says probably nothing, like it’s the end of the fucking world.”

“He tried to apologize,” I said.

“And I have no idea what conversation he had with Vee, but you can bet he was happy to leave her thinking this was a major terrorist event. Even Franklin looks stressed to me. And I don’t think I can blame my father for that.”

She was right. Something had left Franklin fearful and tense. His tiny fists clenched and unclenched, his elbows tight at his side.

Elsa leaned gently over Franklin, slipped a hand behind his back and another behind his neck, drew him up and in to her breast as she quietly roused him from sleep.

“Sweet child,” she said. “My sweet, sweet baby.”

Franklin clung to her gratefully, chuttering and fretting at her, anxious for milk, for comfort, for love.