Where are we going?” Neville asks again, his glasses crooked in his haste.
“Where are we going?” Owen repeats. “What do you mean? We’re on our way to Iceland. Remember?”
But Owen’s granddad continues to look baffled. Then he abruptly stands up to scan the airplane, front and back.
“Iceland?!” Neville repeats at a high volume. “That can’t be right!”
A freight train whistles forcefully in the distance. Owen’s granddad doesn’t flinch; the sound is so familiar.
But the enormity of what his granddad might have done hits Owen as shockingly as if the freight train has derailed and slammed through the walls into their kitchen.
“Pops. Did you send the wrong notebook?”
“I suppose I did,” Neville says, staring at Gunnar’s notebook as if it had somehow tricked him.
Owen can barely swallow. His notebook! The things he wrote! Oh no!
“Where? Where did you send it?”
“To the archive in northern Iceland. By courier. It will arrive this weekend.”