Anika tried to turn around and look at us kids, but her seat belt locked so she could only look at Sam, who was still staring out the window. “Are you getting excited, babe?”

He ignored her question. “How high up are we?” he asked, his words fogging the window.

“You should ask Fred! Her class came here last year on a field trip, isn’t that right, Freddo?” Anika tried to look at me, but I just saw the side of her face and one of her cheeks bulging in a smile.

I hated the way Anika tried all my nicknames on for size. She still hadn’t settled on one yet, and part of me just wanted to tell her to call me Winifred, but Luca might think that was impolite.

I was named after my nan—Pop’s wife—who I never met. Fred is Pop’s nickname for me, Freddo is Luca’s, and Winnie was Mom’s. I once asked Pop why they couldn’t stick to one name for me, and he said he didn’t know, but maybe they all wanted to have little pieces of me, all to themselves. Lately I’d been wondering what piece Mom took with her when she died, and I’d been thinking about the Winnie I would have been if she hadn’t. It was something I wanted to talk about with Luca, when we were 314 meters above sea level.

Sam pulled me out of my thoughts by repeating his question. “So, how high up are we?” He turned away from the window to frown at me. “Do you even know?”

“I can’t remember,” I muttered, and went back to looking at the safe scenery of granite ahead.

Last year, Mr. Khouri had shown us a map of the area. It was full of lines and lines and lines wrapping around each other. He explained that it was a topographic map, and those lines were contours—a way to represent a three-dimensional surface on a flat piece of paper. He showed us how to read the lines to find valleys and hills, and how steep the slopes were; the smaller the circle, the greater the height. Around Arthurs Seat were all these tight circles and lines, and he asked our class what they reminded us of.

“Yes, Winifred?” Mr. Khouri had said, like he couldn’t believe how quickly I’d put up my hand.

“Like . . . fingerprints?”

“That’s exactly right!” And then Mr. Khouri smiled. Full-on, full-blown beamed. At me. “That’s correct, Winifred! Place is as much a part of your identity as your fingerprint or DNA. Little disturbances around where you live have these ripple effects that spread out and out and out into the lives of everyone, and everything around you.”