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to a guide named Einar Magnusson, who was going to take me to the interior.
    I peered around nervously. What if this Brynja and I didn’t connect? I realized—too late—that I didn’t have a phone number for the guide. I wasn’t even sure where he lived, except that it was near some place that sounded like Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland, but wasn’t.
    It turned out that I had nothing to worry about. As soon as the customs hall doors swooshed shut behind me, I saw a big cardboard sign with my name printed on it in block letters. I walked toward it—and the girl who was holding it.
    â€œI’m Rennie,” I said, looking over her shoulder for the guy named Brynja.
    â€œI’m Brynja,” she said. I guess the surprise must have showed on my face because she said, “Didn’t you get my email?”
    â€œSure. But…” Some thoughts are better left unfinished. At least, that’s what they said at the camp, usually when some guy—usually me—started to say something he wasn’t supposed to. Like, say, calling some other guy one of the names that were officially banned.
    â€œBut what?”
    â€œNever mind,” I mumbled.
    â€œYou seem disappointed.”
    â€œNo.” I looked into Brynja’s clear blue eyes. She was a little shorter than me, slender, with thick blond hair that hung down over her shoulders. “No, I’m not disappointed. Really.”
    â€œSurprised perhaps?” she persisted.
    â€œWell…” I glanced down at the toes of my sneakers. “Maybe a little. I was expecting…”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI thought you’d be a guy.”
    Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding,” she said.
    I shook my head.
    â€œBut I signed the email with my patronymic.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œMy whole name.”
    â€œYeah, but I’ve never heard of anyone called Brynja before. I thought it was like Bernie, you know? That’s a guy’s name.”
    â€œBut it’s Brynja Einarsdottir ,” she said, emphasizing the last name as if it was supposed to mean something to me. It didn’t. I must have looked pretty blank, because she said, “ Dottir means daughter.”
    I thought about that for a second. “So your last name means something like Einar’s daughter?”
    â€œThat’s exactly what it means.”
    â€œWow. What are the chances?” I mean, what were the chances?
    â€œChances?”
    â€œIt’s like meeting a guy named Luke Robertson who is taking me to meet a guy named Robert. You’re Brynja Einarsdottir and you’re taking me to meet a guy named Einar.”
    She let out a long sigh. “You don’t know much about Iceland, do you?”
    I tried to hold my anger in check. “I did my homework.”
    â€œWell, you obviously missed a few things. Most Icelanders don’t have last names the way you do in America.”
    â€œI’m Canadian,” I pointed out.
    â€œWhatever. My name is Brynja. My father’s name is Einar. So I am Brynja Einarsdottir. If I had a brother, he would be Einars son . My father’s father’s name was Magnus, so my father is Einar Magnus son . His father’s name was Olaf, so my great-grandfather’s name was Tor—”
    â€œOlafsson. I get it,” I said. What I thought was, Whatever. “And I’m from Canada, not America.”
    She shrugged. The look in her eyes said that she either made no distinction or didn’t care to make one.
    â€œIs that your only luggage?” she asked, glancing at my duffel bag.
    I nodded. Before I could move, she grabbed it and headed for the terminal doors, leaving me with no choice but to trot after her. When the doors swooshed open and a blast of icy wind hit me, I wished I was wearing my parka.
    The duffel bag was heavy. I knew that for a fact because I had toted it from the Major’s car to the check-in at the airport