Lia asked for the timewalk in mid-March, herself.
She came to me in the kitchen in the evening, on Monday, with the notebook open to a clean page on which in advance, at the top in pencil, in her hand, was written one word “conversation” (since age ten she had developed the habit of writing on the page the title of a serious conversation before it began — like a heading in a lab journal, before the experiment, so that later, if the conversation began to drift, one could go back and check). Sat opposite, placed the notebook on the table, the pencil beside it. Looked at me.
— Dad.
— Yes.
— I want to ask Noma to lead me through the timewalk.