Frederik returned soaking wet. Below his jacket, his cowl stuck to his legs. I opened the car door and pointed at the puddle. He leaned over the driver’s seat. “How did that get in here?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” I said. “All of a sudden it was just there. I thought it was better to get out of the car, because of the electricity.”

We stood on the shoulder in the November cold, completely drenched, and I thought of a passage the optician had read to Selma and me about finding beauty in every single moment. I tapped Frederik’s arm and pointed at the asphalt. “Look at the beautiful colors in that puddle.”

“I’m afraid that’s oil,” he said.

The mechanic came and was in a very good mood. “Is it carnival already?” he said with a laugh, pointing at Frederik’s cowl.

“It seems so,” Frederik retorted, pointing at the mechanic’s white raincoat, which looked like the gear of a forensics officer.

The mechanic examined the motor. “She’s done for,” he said. “Piston’s galled.”

“There’s water in the footwell, too, even though the car is watertight,” I said.

The mechanic raised his eyebrows and circled the car with a slowness that was not at all suited to the weather. He checked the windows, the roof, the doors. Then he slid under the car. Because I was thinking of the optician’s Buddhist sayings, I didn’t ask if he could hurry it up at all.

“Well?” Frederik asked when the mechanic slid out from under the car.

“To be honest, I can’t figure how the water is getting in,” he said in dismay. Apparently there usually wasn’t much he couldn’t figure out.

Alaska was shivering. I was shivering even more, and Frederik put his arm around me. He was shivering, too. Finally the mechanic shrugged. “Water finds a way,” he said.

“Very true,” Frederik agreed. “And now?”

“Now I’ll tow you,” he said, and attached my car to his truck.

Frederik got into my car, Alaska and I rode with the mechanic to show him the way. He had spread a tarp out for us to sit on so we wouldn’t drip over everything.

“Water finds a way, no matter how well sealed something is,” he said. The tree air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror was called Green Apple but smelled exactly like Mr. Rödder’s Blue Ocean Breeze. It struggled against the smell of wet dog as assiduously and ineffectively as the wipers struggled against the rain.

I turned and waved at Frederik. He waved back.

“Humans are sixty-five percent water,” the mechanic said.

I wiped the wet hair from my face. “Especially today,” I said.

The village sign appeared. The mechanic and Frederik stopped at the bottom of the hill. Selma and the optician were standing in front of the house under an umbrella.

ONE THOUSAND YEARS AT SEA