“Look,” she said, unfolding the map. “Come here and see something.”

He set his book on the table and came over to her.

“Look —” she pointed to Kansas City “— there’s where we are. Almost in the middle of America!”

“Still,” he said, “I’d like to be by the ocean. I miss the ocean.”

“Which one?” asked the girl.

“What?” he asked.

“Atlantic or Pacific? Which do you prefer? Where the sun rises or where it sets?”

She undid her braid, took a brush from the wash stand and began to untangle her hair.

The man reflected for a moment.

“At my age, a sea with a setting sun would be most appropriate,” he said. “But you, at your age . . .”

“When do we set out on the Oregon Trail?” she asked abruptly.

“You don’t want us to go our separate ways?” said the man by way of response.

“No,” she said.

“Why?”

She got the leatherette stool, handed the man her hairbrush, and sat with her back to him.

“Because I feel attached to the old Volkswagen,” she said.

The man began by brushing her hair lightly, using short strokes, as he had often seen her do.

“The old Volks could fall apart anytime,” he said.

“We’ll see,” said the girl.

“Your hair is soft. It’s as black as a stove, but I’ve never seen hair so soft.”

“Thank you. When do we leave?”

“Do you really think Théo took the Oregon Trail?” asked the man.

“Yes, I do,” she said.

“Have you done any more research in The Examiner?”

“No, but I saw the reporter again. He gave me a book.”

“Oh, yes? How come?”

He had finished untangling the girl’s long hair, and now he could brush it with long strokes, over and under.

“Don’t you think it’s normal?” she asked.

He made no reply.

She turned to him.

“You may be right,” she said. “Now that you mention it, I remember he had a weird look on his face.”

“Oh, yes?”

“His eyes in particular. I remember very clearly. His eyes were dark and every now and then there was a sort of flash . . . and in the light of those flashes you could see, as if it was at the very back of his eyes, you could see all sorts of things like daggers and swords and rifles and snakes and tigers and crocodiles and rhinoceroses and dinosaurs and dragons and . . .”

“Okay! I get it!” said the man.

When he had finished brushing the girl’s hair and redoing her braid, she showed him the book the reporter had given her. She had already started to read it. It was The Oregon Trail Revisited, by Gregory M. Franzwa, and the title reminded Jack of something. He had the impression that he’d seen it somewhere, but where? And suddenly he remembered: the police file in Toronto! It was one of the books Théo had in his belongings! He opened his mouth to tell the girl, but she was grinning at him and he saw at once that she had got the point before him and that he was late, as usual. Then to make up for it, he announced, “We’re going to leave as soon as possible.”