“I have a daughter, but she’s grown. She lives with her mother.”

Rat fishes her MP3 out of her knapsack and hands it to Morgan. “Put it on,” she says. “And don’t give it back to me, no matter what.” He looks puzzled, because the battery’s dead, but complies.

As they pull up to the immigration booth and Charlie rolls down his window, Rat complains, loudly, “Daddy, Morgan won’t give me back my MP3! He’s had it all morning!”

She tries to grab it, but Morgan ducks down, hands hugged tight to his ears to keep the buds secure.

“Children, will you please—Quiet, you abominable brats,” says Charlie, with almost frightening sincerity. “Jane, do you have the passports?”

The woman takes their four maroon EU passports out of her fake-crocodile handbag, and the official hands them back with barely a glance.

The station wagon moves through, and trundles onto the ramp of the ferry. Rat can hear Morgan beside her letting out his breath. She squeezes his hand.

“That was easy,” he says, happily.

“Easy?” says Charlie. “Easy for you, perhaps. I nearly had a heart attack. I’ve never been so nervous in my life.”

“You didn’t act it. You two were valiant,” says Rat. “You’ve really saved our lives.”

“Never mind that,” he replies. “Do you suppose the bar is open yet?”

They have left the car, and are standing in a great throng of passengers waiting to climb the metal stairs to the upper deck.

Rat offers Charlie what’s left of Florian’s money—120 plus. It’s more than the total car fare, but he slips it into his wallet without demurral, and Rat doesn’t think it would be diplomatic to ask for change. They are now officially broke, except for a handful of coins.

“Do they have a McDonald’s on this boat?” Morgan inquires. He has a thick cough by now, his forehead is worryingly hot, but nonetheless he is in good spirits.

“Can’t remember offhand,” says Charlie. “But they’ve certainly got some serious amusement arcades.”

Rat feels as if it’s been years that she and Morgan have been subsisting in this antiseptic fluorescent-lit no-man’s-land of fast food, computer-game arcades, and soda-pop dispensers. She can’t even remember what it feels like to sleep in your own bed or pee in your own bathroom and not behind a bush or in a roadside service station. No wonder Morgan’s come down sick.

Never mind. Four-and-a-half-hour crossing and they’ll be free. She looks at the back of her hand once more. Don’t get your hopes too high, you’ll probably hate each other. What kind of father would never have wanted to lay eyes on his own child all these years?

“Let’s get out on the deck,” she says to Morgan. “We need some air. Good sea air to clear your lungs.”

“I’m hungry.”