WHILE Nora got dinner, Jacob wrestled with his daughters on the bed—one of them in the biteable chub of infancy, the other a hungry sapling. He made exaggerated sounds of effort and strain as he rolled them, flipped them, twisted them. As if extensions of himself, he knew intuitively where their bodies were in space and how they’d land. Desperately often, as if gorging before a famine he knew would one day come, he’d steal kisses, give raspberries and tickle armpits. Nora was cross and dinner lukewarm by the time they got to the table: dishevelled, ruddy, radiant.