There were books in every nook and cranny of the Volkswagen. To the books the man had packed when he left Quebec City had been added those he had bought or the ones the girl had “borrowed” along the way. There were books in the compartment behind the driver’s seat; in the glove compartment where the cat slept; behind and under the passenger seat; on the second shelf in the medicine cabinet; in the compartment for saucepans and other kitchen utensils; at the back of the little cupboard where they hung their rain gear; and on the shelf overhanging the back seat. No matter where you were in the minibus, there was always a book within reach.

“I wish I were at the seaside,” said the man.

The girl gave him a long look. She had just come in and was sitting in the passenger seat. Taking care not to waken the cat, whom they’d christened Chop Suey, she took the big map of the United States from the glove compartment.

“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.