Skylar had arranged her face in an empathic look as the doorbell tinged and they entered the shop. And undeniably, with Blair being there, his celebrity was like throwing glitter over the crowd. Everyone was pleased to see him and started smiling; the noise level in the room went up with a jolly frisson; the large group of mums started sidling toward him, brandishing books they wanted signed, and he put on his toothy grin and started being charming for everyone. Skylar joined in.

“Where’s Carmen?” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “Where is she?”

Skylar shrugged. “Probably scrubbing out some extra toy mice for the windows,” she said. “Bless.”

Blair was still looking around, not listening.

“She should really read Live the Life You Love,” said Skylar. “There’s an exercise in, like, chapter fourteen . . .”

“She’s fine how she is,” growled Blair. He grabbed a glass of wine off a tray—didn’t hand one to Skylar—and then turned around full beam to an excited, flushed-looking woman who had decided to buy six of his books for all her relatives (after the television broadcast had gone out, the store had such a steady stream of customers he practically had his own corner) and took out the Sharpie he carried in his jacket pocket. Skylar stood by him proudly as he signed, keeping a hand on his jacketed elbow and giving the woman a very quick burst of side-eye when she asked for a selfie. Just in case.

CARMEN WAS VERY concerned, partly because she couldn’t quite square what the odd little boy had said about her own dreams—surely it was just a coincidence. Because she was in the shop all day, looking at the train. Of course it had gotten into her subconscious.

But of course mostly because Mr. McCredie was sitting by the fireside, photo in his shaking hand, eyes wet.

“What is it?” said Carmen. “Please. Please tell me.”

Without answering, he simply handed over the photo.

Carmen started at it for a long time. It was soft, creased with age, a black-and-white two-by-one-inch head and shoulders of a young man, fair and square-jawed, his hair Brylcreemed back in an old-fashioned style.

Carmen looked at the picture, then looked at Mr. McCredie—his light hair and pointed chin. She looked at the picture again, then turned it over.

In faded blue fountain pen was written just one word, “Erich,” and the date, “1944.”

Carmen looked back at Mr. McCredie.

“Do you know when I was born?” he said.

She shook her head.

“1945.”

“This is your dad?”

He tilted his head, and suddenly the nose and the profile were unmistakable.

“So the Arctic explorers . . . ?”

He shook his head. “Old Mr. McCredie raised me.”

Carmen blinked. “Is that what you call your dad?”

“Well, he was there. He loved my mother. They didn’t have any other children. I think . . . I think they probably couldn’t. He . . . maybe couldn’t.”