The father was speaking English. Jack could just hear him, gesturing to his daughter—little girl, end of day, any chance? The guard hesitated, then held up a single finger and began to confer with the walkie-talkie on her shoulder. You could see the man and child take each other’s hands to silently tell each other, Hold still. It might happen. It could happen. We only had to ask.

No.

Jack said it aloud—“No”—and then he stood. If it were possible, if exceptions were to be made—

The guard glanced up and saw Jack and turned to the father. With great regret, she shook her head.

“I’m sorry.” She gestured at the encroaching Jack. “You understand.”

“Oh no!” said the little girl. Already she was assembling a stoic expression, the sort that takes muscle, to hold back her tears. She was a well-brought-up child. She straightened her crooked cardigan, took off her hat, and examined the inside. For God’s sake, she even had a notebook under her arm.

“Thanks for ruining it,” the father said to Jack.

“I didn’t ruin it!” said Jack.

“You ruined it,” the man said darkly. “You did. You ruined it.”

Sadie and Jack crossed the garbage bridge in silence. He fidgeted with the key on its wooden block. “You did ruin it,” said Sadie quietly.

The liquor store was shut up. The Cheese Museum was in full swing.

“Let’s go out to dinner,” said Jack.

“I want to read my book.”

“You hate that book.”

“That’s right, I do.”

“We can try again tomorrow. You have to see it.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Hand to God, the way you want me to see the Anne Frank House is starting to feel anti-Semitic.” She regretted saying it instantly, which was how she knew it was true. Not his feeling, but hers.

“That’s not funny,” he said.

“I know,” she said, with a dreadful smile on her face.

“Sadie,” said Jack, “I want to have a child.”

At first she thought he meant, I am leaving you. But it was more preposterous and heartbreaking than that. He’d always been more bourgeois than she was.

“Let’s do it,” he said. “Let’s just—let’s get carried away on our honeymoon.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Why not?”

“Human biology doesn’t work that way. It’s not—I’m about to get my period.”

“So let’s stop it,” he said.

“Do you know anything about women’s bodies?”

“You’re mean,” he said. “It’s not too late. For a child. We are at a fork in the road.”

They began to walk toward their boat. They were holding hands. She felt, with great certainty, that the road had already forked. She could not back up. Two roads diverged in a wood, and she had missed the divergence, gone bumbling on, and that was fine.