“Thanks.” She grins, all suggestion of shyness gone. At this age, she seems to transform from moment to moment. But it’s an illusion: the person Thora will come to be is in there. All he can do is help her emerge.

He stands up. “In the meantime, I was planning a class trip to the Odysseum.”

Thora looks up, breathless. “The adventure museum?”

He nods. “What do you think?”

The joy on her face is almost enough.

The Odysseum is on the other side of the river, tied up in a knot of conference centers and autobahns. As Santi leads a straggling group of children across the Hohenzollern bridge to the boom of the cathedral bells, he reminds himself why he is doing this. For Thora, he thinks with determination, as two children try to pry one of the padlocks from the fence and a third hangs back to poke at a dead pigeon.

“Keep up!” he yells, clapping his hands. By the grace of God, he shepherds them safely down the steps, through the playground scattered with fiberglass models of the planets, into the humming lobby of the museum. He pays for admission and ushers them one by one through the turnstile. “Meet in the cafeteria at three,” he manages to tell them before they scatter like loose marbles. Among them he sees Thora in a mustard-yellow scarf, running off on her own. Part of him wants to trail her through the museum, be there to answer her questions, but he knows nothing would be so likely to put her off. He needs to let her find her own way.

Instead, he wanders on his own hyperbolic path through the exhibits. He has been here so many times that if a bomb hit the museum, he could reconstruct it room by room: the curving walls of the faux-planetarium, dotted with lights that correspond to no Earthly constellations; the empty spacesuits lined up like celestial knights. He catches his distorted reflection in the mirror of an astronaut’s helmet. Thinking of Thora’s drawing, he smiles. Behind him, made tiny by the curve of the gold-coated plastic, an alien figure appears.

“Hello, Thora.” He turns. “I like your scarf.”

“It’s itchy.” She tugs at it discontentedly. “My dad knitted it.”

Santi tries to imagine the trembling, muscular philosopher knitting. He blinks. “My mother does crochet,” he offers.

Thora looks baffled.

“Ah yes, I should have explained. Scientifically speaking, it’s necessary even for ancient people like myself to have mothers.” He gives her a tired smile. “Don’t you want to explore the museum?”

“I already have.”

He looks at her in surprise. “That didn’t take you very long.”

She shrugs. “I wish there was more of it.”

Her curiosity, scraping against the limits of her world, hurts his heart. “Did you have any questions?”