Stephie’s suitcase feels as heavy as lead. She sets it on the ground and drags it behind her for a while, then tries shoving it in front of her, kicking it along with one foot.

The sound of the suitcase on the gravel makes Auntie Alma turn around. She stops, piles Stephie’s case onto her bicycle seat, and shows Stephie how to walk alongside holding one hand on it to keep it steady. It’s not easy, but much better than having to carry it.

“Stephie,” Nellie whines, “where are the sandy beaches? Where’s the bandstand?”

Stephie ignores her sister’s questions.

“What if there’s no hotel? And no palm trees, and no dog, and no piano?” Nellie goes on, her voice tense and anxious.

“Shush now,” Stephie hisses impatiently. “We’re not there yet.”

At that very moment they stop outside a yellow wooden house with a glass-enclosed veranda. The flower beds on either side of the doorway are full of bright flowers, red, yellow, and blue. Two blond-headed children rush out the door and into Auntie Alma’s arms.

“They have children!” says Nellie, her voice happy. “And they’re younger than me!”

Stephie and Nellie leave their coats and suitcases in the vestibule and go into the kitchen. At the table sits a woman with a thin, stern-looking face. Her salt-and-pepper hair is twisted into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her pale eyes inspect Stephie and Nellie from head to toe.

“What scrawny little things,” the woman says to Auntie Alma. “Pitifully thin. Let us hope we can make something of them.”

“Aunt Märta,” Auntie Alma says, gesturing toward the older woman. Stephie shakes her hand and curtseys. Aunt Märta’s hand is cold and rough.