“Hold the boat to the quay,” I said to Vee. I jumped up on to the jetty, walked a few paces toward the shore, jumped down onto the beach. At the water’s edge I took off my shoes.

The water felt colder. The wind was getting up.

We slid the little white boat up the beach. When we returned to our own boat Vee’s hands were empty.

We sat on the sofa, Elsa and I, drinking our martinis as we watched the news on NRK, desperate for anything that could help our case. The announcer introduced a dark-haired woman, who began to hold forth about immigrants in heavily accented English.

“Tasteful,” I said.

Elsa sighed heavily. “So there’s this stupid thought I have about Licia, and I can’t shake it.”

“Tell me your stupid thought.”

Our eyes met for a moment. We were on edge, worn out, could barely look at each other. She reached for my hand instead.

She said, “Did I ever tell you about driving her to that house church in the eastern suburbs? I mean, God knows why she asked me and not you, because it was four days before Franklin was born and I could barely walk. But anyway . . . I have this image of Licia standing there in the parking lot in her oversized woolen coat, folding and unfolding her hands, staring up at the open walkways that led to the apartments. And I had the window open and the snow was gusting into the car. I asked if she had her inhaler, and she nodded and smiled the most beautiful smile and said, “All I need is to remember to breathe.”