over loudspeakers; weekend shoppers scurried about with bags and children in tow. Mr. McDaniels steered Max down the escalator toward the exits. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still threatening and newspapers eddied about the street in sudden fits of flight. Arriving at a line of yellow taxis, Mr. McDaniels opened the door to one and stood aside to let Max scoot across the long vinyl seat.

“The Art Institute, please,” said his father.

Max craned his neck, straining to glimpse the tops of the skyscrapers as the cab headed east toward the lake.

“Dad,” said Max. “Did you see that man on the train?”

“Which man?”

“He was sitting across the aisle in the row behind us,” Max said, shuddering.

“No, I don’t think so,” said his father, flicking some lint off his raincoat. “What was so special about him?”

“I don’t know. He was scary-looking and he was staring at me. He looked like he was going to say something or come over right before we went into the tunnel.”

“Well, if he was staring at you, it’s probably because you were staring at him,” said Mr. McDaniels. “You’ll see more kinds of people in the city, Max.”

“I know, Dad, but—”

“You can’t judge a book by its cover, you know.”

“I know, Dad, but—”

“Now, there’s this guy at my office. Young kid, still wet behind the ears. Well, my first day I see this kid at the coffee machine with makeup on his eyes, a harpoon through his nose, and music blaring out of his headphones…”

Max looked out the taxi’s window while his father retold a familiar tale. Finally, Max caught a glimpse of what he had been looking for: two bronze lions standing tall and proud as they flanked the museum entrance.

“Dad, there’s the Art Institute.”

“Right you are, right you are. Oh, before I forget,” Mr. McDaniels said, turning to Max with a sad little smile on his broad face. “Thanks for coming with me today, Max. I appreciate it. Your mom appreciates it, too.”

Max offered a solemn nod and gave his dad’s hand a fierce squeeze. The McDanielses had always celebrated Bryn McDaniels’s birthday with a visit to her favorite museum. Despite his mother’s disappearance over two years ago, Max and his father continued the tradition.

Once inside, they asked a young woman with a nametag where they could find some of Bryn McDaniels’s favorite artists. Max listened as his father rattled off the names from a slip of paper: Picasso, Matisse, and van Gogh came handily enough, but he paused when he came to the last.

“Gaw-gin?” he asked, twisting up his face and frowning at the paper. “Gauguin. He’s a wonderful artist. I think you’ll enjoy his work.” The woman smiled and directed them to a large marble staircase leading to the second floor.

“Your mom sure knows all the names. I’ve got no head for this stuff no matter how many times I come here.” Mr. McDaniels chuckled and smacked Max on the shoulder with the map.

The galleries upstairs were filled with color—great swirls of paint layered thickly on canvas and board. Mr. McDaniels pointed to a large painting of pedestrians on a rainy Paris street.

“That looks a bit like today, eh?”

“The rain does, but to look like him you’d have to add a mustache and top hat,” Max mused, squinting at a figure in the foreground.

“Ugh! I used to have a mustache. Your mother made me shave it when we started dating.”

Some images dominated whole walls, while others nestled in small gilded frames. They spent an hour or so moving from painting to painting, careful to spend extra time at Mrs. McDaniels’s favorites. Max particularly liked a Picasso in which a weathered old man cradled a guitar. He was studying the painting when he heard his father exclaim behind him.

“Bob? Bob Lukens! How are you?”

Max turned to see his father pumping the arm of a thin, middle-aged man in a black sweater. A woman accompanied him, and the two were offering hesitant smiles as Mr. McDaniels cornered them.

“Hello, Scott. Nice to see you,” the man said politely. “Honey, this is Scott McDaniels. He works on the Bedford Bros. account….”

“Oh, what a nice surprise. Pleased to meet you, Scott.”

“They’ll change the way you think about soup!” Mr. McDaniels boomed, shooting a finger toward the ceiling.

Mrs. Lukens gave a start and dropped her purse.

“Imagine a wintry day,” Mr. McDaniels continued, bending over to retrieve her things while she retreated a step behind her husband. “Your nose is running, the wind is blowing, and all