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“Oh?” Clare smiles expectantly, politely, but I imagine that whatever I was about to say next pales in comparison to her lived experience, as though I am a Cub Scout boasting to a Purple Heart veteran, and I falter.

Alba interjects, “I was just telling him about all those times I disappeared, when I was little, and how panicked you and Dad would be until you found me.”

“Yeah, that’s the hard part,” Clare says. “Not the weirdness, but the waiting. Not knowing. I calmed down considerably once we’d seen Alba as an adult.”

“When was that?” I ask.

“Alba was four. We were at Montrose Beach with Charisse and the kids, and I turned around and she was gone—not time-traveling-no-clothes gone, she’d just run off—so we followed her footprints and in a few minutes we found her with her older self. You must have been in your sixties,” Clare says to Alba. “It was like seeing Henry’s doppelgänger, you looked so much like him.”

“Something to look forward to,” Alba says fondly.

“Your dad was ecstatic.” Clare turns to me. “It was impossible to keep track of her, and when she was tiny she couldn’t explain where she’d been. She kept babbling about water—” Alba frowns and shakes her head slightly at her mother. Clare says, “Well, anyway, we managed, and here we are.”

“Some of us,” Alba says. I wonder what she didn’t want her mother to tell me? How long do I have to stick around before I’m considered an insider? Maybe this family is like one of those small towns where you can live for generations and still be the new people?

A few minutes later, Alba gets up to use the restroom. Once she’s out of sight, Clare says, “If it gets too difficult—if there’s an emergency—this is my cell number.” She passes me a slip of paper, written out beforehand.

I glance at it and tuck it into my wallet. “A time-travel emergency?”

“Any kind of emergency. But especially one that takes a lot of explaining.”

“Does that happen a lot? Inexplicable emergencies?”

“Not lately. But when something comes up, you have to be prepared. Alba told me you write fiction? You’re good at inventing plausible stories?” Clare smiles encouragingly.

“Are you asking me if I’m a good liar? I dunno. I’ve been accused of being too earnest.”

“‘In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity is the vital thing.’”

“Sorry? Oh—Oscar Wilde.”

“Of course. He’s right, though; you have to be able to carry it off. Lying to help someone is different than being a fraudster, but the technique is the same, I believe. Don’t be too prissy about it, Zach. And if I can help you and Alba, call me.”

“Are you a good liar?” It’s a bold thing to ask someone, but she doesn’t seem offended. Clare considers. “Yes. I think so. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“And Alba?

“Well, I’m her mother, so I assume there’s a lot she doesn’t tell me. I’m not asking you to tell me, either. Just call if you’re in trouble, that’s all.”

“Caralora said you were a big help to her. When she and Alba were together.”

“Did she?” Clare looks wistful. “I’m glad. How’s she doing?”

“Yeah, okay, I think? I haven’t seen her since the semester started.”

“It’s funny, I just realized that I’ve stopped worrying about her,” Clare says.

“Worrying about who?” Alba reappears just as the server brings the check. Clare takes it and plops her credit card down without even glancing at the amount. “Caralora,” she replies.

“She’s always telling us not to worry about her,” Alba says. “I’ll let her know that you are officially Not Worried.”

“It’s not as though worrying is going to help,” Clare says.

“That’s what I tell her, but she never listens,” Alba says to me, indicating her mother.

“It’s my job to worry about you,” Clare says. “I still worry about Henry, even though you’d think he doesn’t need it anymore. I hope I don’t need to worry about you, Zach? I think you’re like me: one of the steady people who make sure things don’t get too crazy.”

“Yes? I hope so?” I’m not sure that’s a compliment; I think Alba’s mom just told me I’m boring.