I rang the doorbell. From the wooden floors inside the apartment I heard footsteps. A gap between the door and the threshold. I heard my breath too, panting and heaving, though I was only three flights up. My nerves. The windows were out all along the street. There were glass fragments under the soles of my shoes.

The door swung open.

“Hi,” I said. Because I couldn’t remember her name. Julie’s mom.

“Hello,” said Julie’s mom. Immaculate in three-inch heels and a two-piece suit, her asymmetric bob artfully mussed. In her left hand was Vee’s gaming headset.

“Cal,” I said.

Julie’s mom smiled coolly, offered her right hand.

“Nora. Did we meet already?”

“We did.”

Her eyes would not fix on my face; there was something unsteady about her stance.

Behind her stood Vee, lit up with nervy energy, shoes in one hand.

Relief flooded my veins. “My little girl.”

“Hey, Dad.”

Julie’s mom passed the gaming headset to Vee.

Vee hunched her shoulders as she stepped across the threshold onto the tiles outside the apartment, bending away from me. And when I reached down to hold her she slipped from me and headed down the stairs in her socks.

“’Bye,” she said without looking back. “Thank you so very much for having me.”

“Vee,” I said. “Your shoes.”

“I’ll put them on downstairs.”

“Now, please, Vee.”

Julie’s mom put a hand on my arm.

“Your daughter is a brave girl. A bomb goes off and she does not lose her head.”

“If we can be certain it was a bomb.”

“Did you not see the glass in the street?” The look she gave me told me she was in no doubt.

“Proud of you, honey,” I called after Vee, who ignored me and continued on down.

“Hey,” I said. “Wait.”

Vee didn’t turn around.

“Have a safe day,” I said.

“You too,” said Nora Gundersen as she closed and locked the door.

Vee heard my footsteps behind her, quickened her pace. When I got to the lobby she was standing there, hunched and shaking, trying to fix the laces on her sneakers.

“Hey, Vee. Vee. It’s all right. It’s okay.” I tried to take her in my arms. “My love,” I said. “You’re safe. You’re safe, okay?”

She shook me off. “Who are they trying to kill, Dad?”

“We don’t know that anyone is trying to kill anyone, Vee.”

“It was a bomb,” she said, her voice soft and matter-of-fact.

“It was certainly an explosion.”

“It was a bomb.”

“If your plaits weren’t screwed down so tight I would ruffle your hair.”

“Just don’t, Dad.”

I could feel the resentment dripping from her. I was speaking to her as to a child.

“Okay,” I said. “Sorry.”

“You never listen. You . . . you impose your version of what happened.”

I could see that she meant it. “I’m listening now. I promise. Okay?”

“Okay.”