“Be that as it may,” she went on, “my son is about to deliver telegrams on his way to school, and that route just might take him near the Jansen residence. As a new visitor, perhaps you should ride along, become familiar with the area.” Her lips didn’t quite form a smile, but a telling warmth emanated from her eyes.

My Dutch descent, it seemed, had created a fast connection. I wasn’t accustomed to such a thing.

I had only just thanked her when she called toward a back room. “Hendrik, hurry along or you’ll be late!”

A lanky boy in a peacoat and knickers shuffled out, finishing off an apricot. Around my age, he had a blunt nose and caramel-colored hair, mostly covered by his cap. She leaned toward him and whispered by his ear.

He responded by snatching two telegrams from the counter, using his nonsticky hand, and asked me brightly, “You okay riding handlebars?”

I nodded with vigor, thrilled for the help, before fully digesting his question.

***

As we cycled through a neighborhood, jostling over potholes and around corners, I watched through squinted eyes. I would have enjoyed, even reciprocated, the friendly waves of residents who stepped out for work or morning papers. But clutching the handlebar tight as a vise, all I could think about was preventing a ghastly sprawl—until we skidded to a halt.

“Here you are, kid. Front-door service.”

My legs, under the canopy of my coat, quivered from pinning my dress between my knees. The ripped seam at my side had become a full-blown hole, near as I could tell.

I climbed down, out of sorts. “Thanks, Erik. For the ride.”

He smiled. “Anytime.”

It hit me that I’d blundered his name. Hendrik—not Erik. But since he was already pedaling away, I focused on the finish line before me.

I could hardly believe it. Arie lived in an actual house. Sure, the single-story bungalow was small and heavily weathered, with peeling white paint and some roof tiles missing, but it had a charming L-shaped porch and plaid curtains tied off in the window. Touches of a home.

I scurried up the steps, avoiding a broken plank, and knocked on the frame of the screen door. At the sound of footsteps, elation fluttered through me. Not like a few pairs of butterfly wings but a hundred.

When the front door opened, there was Arie, dressed in a brown corduroy coat and patched trousers. Despite our four months apart, I couldn’t imagine a closer friend.

This truth had never penetrated as fully as it did in that instant—nor receded as swiftly. Through a lock of his tousled hair, he stared with none of the joy I’d expected.

“Arie, it’s me?” The statement absurdly came out a question.