“Are you defending it?” she asked, in a soft voice.

“I saw a nest yesterday,” he said. “A water ouzel’s nest. When the river disappears, we will lose the water ouzel.”

“There are thousands of them, thousands . . .”

“No, Iris. There are only a few.”

“There are thousands of rivers in Norway.”

“Many small rivers. But very few the size of the River Breio.”

“But do they know who did it? What did Svein say?”

“Svein? Are you on a first-name basis with him?”

“I mean Bredesen. What did he say? What do they know?”

“When the river disappears, the water ouzel will continue laying eggs there, in the old, dried-up riverbed,” Daddy continued, almost as if he was chanting. “But the roaring of the river will no longer drown out the sound of their young when they cry for food. Predators will find them. They will be killed.”

“Bjørn, if you know something, you must tell me.”

“Daddy doesn’t know anything,” I said.

Maybe it’s not worth the risk.

“What did you say?” She whirled around to face me, as if she had only just realized that I was there.

“Daddy doesn’t know anything.”

“Signe, you don’t understand this.”

“But he doesn’t know anything.”

“Of course I don’t,” Daddy said. “What would I know?”

Mommy was silent, looking at Daddy. Then she turned toward me and tried to smile. “Are you hungry? Have you had dinner? Have the two of you eaten yet?”

“I just want dessert,” I said.

“I see,” she said.

“I said that I don’t want dinner. Just dessert.”

“Yes,” she said.

Chapter Ten

David

It was not until we approached the camp that Lou calmed down. Drawn-out sniffles, but no tears.

Summoning my resolve, I attempted once again to distract her from the splinter in her hand. “Dolphins are really smart, you know,” I said.

She didn’t reply, but I could tell from her eyes that she was interested. “A lot of people claim they are just as smart as people,” I added.

“Smarter than the sailor, at least,” Lou replied, sniffling one last time.

“The sailor?”

“You, Daddy!”

“Yes, smarter than the sailor.”

She walked in silence for a while. I could see that a question was brewing inside her.

“Where do dolphins come from?” she asked. “Do they lay eggs like birds? Huge blue eggs?”

“No. They give birth to living babies,” I said.

“Just like people?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

She slowed her steps, looking disappointed.

“But huge blue eggs would have been nice,” I hastened to say.

She nodded. “Yes. That would have been nicer.”

The sun disappeared behind the trees—it would be dark soon. I walked faster.

“How big are dolphins’ children?” she asked.

“Um . . .”

“How do they swim?”

“They kind of slide forward.”

“But how? How do they move? Do they flap, like birds do?”

“No, they just slide.”

“But how?”

“They wiggle their tails, like other fish.”

“Like wiggling your bum?”

“Yes.”

I kept trying to answer the best I could. I didn’t do especially well.