“He’s studying for an arithmetic test,” Sønstebø said.

“Signe has to go home and write an essay,” Daddy said.

I had forgotten all about the essay, even though Norwegian was really my favorite subject at school.

“I can give you a lift down,” Sønstebø said.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Are you sure?” Daddy asked.

Sønstebø looked at him in wonder. “Sure? Yes.”

“But do you think . . . maybe it’s not worth the risk?”

“I’m tired,” I said. “I want a ride.”

I remember that I didn’t understand what they meant, but I didn’t ask the right question: What wasn’t worth the risk—wasn’t getting a ride home worth it? Because I was so tired—now I could really feel it, my whole body ached. The walk up had been too much, far too much, and there was no point in our not accepting the ride. Why should we have to walk down, when there was a car?

“No . . .” Sønstebø said, looking at Daddy. “Maybe you’re right. It’s not worth the risk, we might run into somebody . . .”

“But I’m so tired,” I said.

“I want for us to walk, Signe,” Daddy said. “It will be nice.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think it will be nice.”

Then Sønstebø laughed. “Quite a girl you have there!”

And Daddy blushed, even though he usually liked it when I spoke my mind.

“I don’t want to walk,” I said. “Why can’t we go in the truck? Why isn’t it worth the risk?”

“It will probably be fine,” Sønstebø said. “I can drive you part of the way.”

“No,” Daddy said.

And then there was something about him that made me understand that he wouldn’t listen to me, that I would have to walk the whole long way down. Daddy nodded at Sønstebø, and Sønstebø got into his truck, started the engine, and drove away. I was tired and cold, it had started to sleet, the drops of pee were sticky on my thigh, and shouting didn’t help anymore. I just wanted to go home.

Maybe it’s not worth the risk. The words got stuck in my head, made me heavier, I remember. It’s not worth the risk—the two of them might be seen together. The words weighed on me as we walked home, weighed on me when we met Mommy again and Daddy behaved as if nothing had happened.

I was freezing cold and worn out, and he didn’t appear to notice. But Mommy brought me up to the bathroom and filled the tub while I peeled off my clothes. They lay there on the floor, all dirty and damp. She put bubble bath in the water, where it foamed up right away; the soap formed a soft, white carpet on the surface that I could sink under and hide myself in.

The water was too hot, scorching hot, and I gasped. I could feel the blood rushing to my face, how I turned red and sort of blotchy.