Christopher stood in the doorway to his off ice for a long, painful moment, the paper Giles had handed him seemingly burning in his hand.

How was he supposed to go through and just send these people “to the plank” as Giles had so f lippantly suggested? These people weren’t just numbers to him. They were men and women he worked side by side with, day in and day out. When he had f irst started, he had done his best to keep them at arm’s length. But over time, he had loosened up—slightly. True, he strived to maintain a level of professionalism, but there was no way he could have gone without learning about their families, their struggles, their accomplishments. They were, for all intents and purposes, part of his family. His gaze turned to his senior management team. Especially them. While he had still not looked at the names listed on Giles’s paper, he had to assume that some of their names would be there. After all, senior management, as the title suggested, had been there the longest and offered the most in terms of skill. They would have the highest salaries. And if Giles was serious about cutting 20 percent? Well, then it didn’t take an eff iciency expert to know that high-paid employees would be some of the f irst to go.

Christopher sighed. He couldn’t stand in his off ice doorway denying the inevitable forever, as tempting as the thought might be. And from the anxious looks on the faces of his team, he knew they probably had a very good idea of what had just happened anyway. Bracing himnone, Christopher left the off ice and walked over. “I presume you got most of that?” he said to all of them.

Instantly, he was met with a chorusof hollow denials.

Christopher stif led a smile at the chorus of “Never!” and “No!” f lung his way. It was actually rather endearing how unprofessional they had been and how sly they had thought they were. He raised an eyebrow knowingly.

“Well, maybe a little bit . . .” Butterworth f inally admitted, before f illing in Christopher on what they thought they had heard. According to him, the team believed that Giles and Christopher had talked a lot about a “windy tent” and ordering “apples.”

If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Christopher might have laughed out loud at their horrible interpretation of the actual conversation. Instead, he responded with a wary smile. “Windy tent,” he told them, was the 20 percent they would need to cut; and the “apples”he had apparently been ordering was in actuality the impossible he had reacted with when Giles told him to reduce staff. Their faces dropped as Christopher continued to f ill them in. “Anyone with proposals for cuts, get them to me by tomorrow,” he said, wrapping things up. “I’ll look over everything this weekend, come up with a plan.”

“We’ll do our best, sir!” Hastings said for the team, trying, as always, to be positive.

“Thank you,” Christopher said genuinely. “I know. But remember, we’re the lucky ones. We have jobs. Let’s try and keep it that way, shall we?” Then, with one last glance around the room, he walked back into his off ice, shutting the door behind him. Then he walked over and lowered the shade on his window. He didn’t want anyone to risk seeing him as he sat down behind his desk and lowered his head into his hands.

He had just given his team the ultimatum to end all ultimatums. Find a way to make an impossible number happen, or lose your job. He had never in his entire adult life felt like such a horrible person.

Then he remembered that he was going to have to cancel his weekend plans.

Scratch that, he thought, letting out a loud groan. Now he truly felt like the most horrible person in the entire world.

*　　*　　*

Night had fallen over the city of London. Streetlamps f lickered on, casting their dim light over the cobblestones below.

But inside the Winslow Luggage Eff iciency Department, every light was on.

Christopher and his team had worked straight through the rest of the day, into the early evening and long after they should have gone home to their own families and dinners. Now they sat hunched over their desks, their heads drooping. Stacks of papers were piled in front of each member of the team. Calculations were written on every surface; some had been scratched out, but others were circled. None of them, however, provided a solution.

Hearing a loud thunk, Christopher looked out of his off ice toward the team that was gathered in the bull pen. Butterworth had fallen asleep, his head falling straight down onto the papers in front of him.

Getting to his feet, Christopher walked over. Placing a hand on Butterworth’s shoulder, he gently shook him awake. “Time to go,” he said. “Leave your proposals on your desks. I’ll collect them later.”

A few members of the team attempted to protest, but they were feeble attempts at best; and after another order from Christopher to go, they happily packed up their belongings and headed toward the elevators.

Christopher watched them go before turning, grabbing the proposals they had left behind, and heading back to his off ice. Their work might have been over for the evening, but Christopher felt—as he looked down at his watch—that he could still get a few more hours in before he went home. At this point, Evelyn and Madeline were most likely asleep anyway.

*　　*　　*

Christopher Robin stayed at the off ice until the numbers on the pages in front of him began to blur into one another, forming an odd sort of abstract art piece; and still he held out, until he found his own head coming perilously close to slamming onto the top of the desk as he started to fade. Only then did he pack it up for the night. Gathering his own papers, along with the proposals from his team, he put them all in his briefcase and locked it up tight. The last thing he needed after all that work was to have them falling out as he made his way home.

Home. The word sounded equal parts wonderful and frightening. He wanted nothing more than to walk through the front door, hang up his coat and hat, and then fall into the nearest chair and hopefully get at least a few hours of sleep. At the same time, he dreaded waking up in the morning and having to tell his wife and daughter that he would be missing the weekend in the country—again!

As luck would have it, he was afforded at least a sliver of his homecoming fantasy. Walking through the front door, he did manage to hang up his coat and hat. And he did make his way in the general direction of the dreamed-of chair. But that was where fantasy and reality split. Because instead of f inding a comfy chair and falling immediately asleep, he found two suitcases packed and waiting by the front door—and his wife waiting in the dining room.

Evelyn didn’t say anything as she watched her husband enter the room, his eyes tired and his shoulders stooped. He looked, she thought, defeated. As if he were carrying the weight of the world on his slim shoulders. As she had made dinner earlier that evening, she had found hernone humming the song that they had danced to at their wedding. Thoughts of the weekend ahead had warmed her cheeks and made her feel almost giddy, like the young woman she had been when she and Christopher f irst met. Then things had been so easy, so carefree. There had been no war, no pressure from bosses, no mention of “eff iciency.” They had jumped in the car at the spur of the moment to take off on adventures, and had been content doing even the most mundane of tasks as long as they were together.

But things had grown harder in the past few years. The war had changed her husband and had changed their marriage. When he had returned home, determined to take care of his growing family, Christopher had begun to pull away. Evelyn had tried—she still tried—to bring back some of the spontaneity of their old life, some of the joy. But more often than not, work got in the way. She had hoped, as she cooked dinner, that the weekend ahead was going to give them a much-needed break. But then she had gotten the call from the off ice and knew that the long-delayed break wasn’t going to come. Not this weekend, at least. And it made her heart ache—for Christopher, for Madeline, for hernone. It would be easier to be disappointed, she thought now as Christopher entered the room, if she didn’t still love her husband to the point of distraction.

“Madeline wanted to wait for you,” Evelyn said, her voice soft and full of emotion as Christopher caught sight of the lone setting that remained on the table, “but it was getting so late.” The rest of the table had been cleared away. The single plate, cup, and silverware set was left behind as a not-so-gentle reminder to Christopher of another thing he had missed. Pulling his gaze from the table, he looked over at his wife, who stood framed in the door between the kitchen and the dining room. Her arms were crossed across her chest, her deep brown eyes made even deeper by unspoken emotion. As he watched, she moved closer, the light from the kitchen catching the lighter highlights in her brown hair and making them glimmer like gold. Christopher couldn’t help feeling a rush of love—and the familiar pangand yearning he got whenever he caught sight of Evelyn’s beauty. All these years later, every time he saw her, Christopher still felt as if he were seeing her for the f irst time.

“I’m sorry,” Christopher apologized, knowing that it rang false in the hushed dining room. “I was delayed at work.”

“I know. Katherine called to let me know,” she replied.

Of course, Christopher thought. Her eerie calmness now made a bit more sense. While Evelyn was always the calmer of the two of them, she was also the more passionate and the more punctual. Being on time, keeping your word, open communication—all those things were etched deep in Evelyn’s rule book. If Katherine, not him, had called Evelyn and told her he was going to be late, he had been in trouble even before he stepped foot through the door at home.

“She also said you’d be working this weekend,” Evelyn added. Christopher gulped. It was getting worse by the second. “I guess you won’t be coming to the cottage.” She said it more as a statement of fact than a question.

Christopher sighed. He knew it was useless to try and explain why he needed to stay home and work. He knew what she would do. Evelyn would offer to help, or even suggest that he bring some of his work with him. As long as they were together, that was all that mattered, she would say. But Evelyn hadn’t seen the look of fear that had crossed over his team members’ faces as he told them what would happen if they couldn’t make the cuts. He had to focus his undivided attention on the task at hand. He didn’t want to let his family down, but he also didn’t want to let his team—and the company—down. He was, as the saying went, stuck between a rock and a hard place. “It can’t be helped,” he f inally said.

“It never can,” Evelyn replied, giving her husband a sad, rueful smile. She hadn’t meant to let her own disappointment leak into her voice, but it had, nonetheless. The look of misery that f lashed over his face made her regret the words instantly. Christopher might pretend to be tough and hardened, but Evelyn knew that deep down, he cared—immensely. Unfortunately, she couldn’t take back her words, and while they may have hurt, there was truth in them. Sighing, Evelyn walked from the doorway back into the kitchen. “Why don’t you go and break the news to your daughter while I reheat your dinner?”

Christopher watched her go. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Facing his upset wife was no walk in the park. But disappointing his daughter? That was going to be awful. A part of him had hoped that by getting home this late, he would have been able to avoid seeing her that night. Letting out a deep sigh, he headed toward the stairs.

The Robins’ London home was no longer the opulent and polished place it had been when Christopher was a boy. The years after his father’s death—which had happened shortly after he started at boarding school—had been hard on his mother and on their f inances. It was, in many ways, why Christopher felt obligated to give Winslow Luggage so much of his time. They had offered him a job when he was young and inexperienced, giving him a way to keep the family af loat. When he and Evelyn had married, they had moved into the Robins’ city home. But things remained tight, so the more superf icial needs—touching up chipping paint or refreshing crumpling wallpaper—often were not attended to. Still, Evelyn had managed to make the house warm and inviting, and it had been, for a time, the hub for many a fun and lively dinner party. Then the war had happened and everything had changed.

Walking up the steep front staircase, Christopher smiled sadly as he passed the photo of his parents that hung on the wall. In it, they were both smiling at something off camera. They were clearly happy, their relaxed postures so different from the stiff, serious ones Christopher remembered from his youth. He wondered now, not for the f irst time, if that was how Madeline would look at pictures of her parents. Would she wonder what had happened to make them so serious?

As he reached his daughter’s door, Christopher had a brief f lickering hope that she might have already fallen asleep, saving him from the conversation he was dreading. But the light that seeped out from under the door and the faint mumbling he heard coming from the other side dashed that hope as quickly as it had been ignited. Knocking, he entered Madeline’s room.

The young girl was sitting on her bed. It was clear she had started to go to sleep, though something had kept her up. And seeing the large box in front of her, its contents spilled all over the duvet and the excited look in her eyes, he had a pretty good sense of what exactly that something was.

“What do you have there?” Christopher asked.

Madeline looked up, startled by her father’s sudden appearance in her doorway. She blushed guiltily, her angelic cheeks turning red and looking even sweeter. “Oh, it’s yours,” she answered shyly. “I found it in the attic. It has loads of stuff from when you were young.” As he took a step closer, Christopher’s eyes widened.

The box, which he had mistaken for an ordinary box, was indeed his, from when he was a boy. Specif ically, it was the box he had packed up the morning he left their country home and had completely forgotten about. Looking at the objects Madeline had strewn over the bed, he saw smooth river pebbles, a few sticks, and several drawings, the childish sketches having grown faint over the years. Madeline reached down and pulled out a small bag. Her movement caused it to open, and out spilled a handful of small brown acorns.

“Haycorns,” Christopher said before he could stop himnone. Shaking his head, he quickly corrected his mistake. “I mean, acorns. Nothing important. Shouldn’t you be doing something more useful with your time?” He asked. He suddenly didn’t like the curious way Madeline was looking at him. He needed a distraction. Looking around the room, he noticed the pile of textbooks next to her bed. “Like reading, perhaps?” He pointed to the books.

Madeline was quick with a response. Like her father, she prided hernone on keeping on task. “I’m already f inished with the booklist Grayford Prep sent.” At her father’s pleased nod, she added, “I’m way ahead. I’ve been very eff icient.”

“Good,” Christopher replied. “That’s good.” Sending his daughter to the same boarding school he had attended as a boy was a luxury they really couldn’t afford, but Madeline was a Robin. And the Robins had been going to Grayford for generations. It was yet another reason why he was going to be stuck at the off ice all weekend. He couldn’t afford to lose his job. Not now, especially.

“Yes,” Madeline said, happy to have pleased her father. “But there’s no work to do this weekend. We can do whatever we want. Puzzles, board games?” Her voice rose hopefully.

Christopher could barely stand to meet his daughter’s gaze. Her blue eyes were wide and innocent, the look he saw in them a painful reminder of the toll his job, his life, was taking on his family. He had seen that look, years ago now, ref lected in the mirror when he had been a child. Talking to his own father about the adventures he had had in the woods behind their country house, begging him to come along and always being met with a f irm no. He wondered, not for the f irst time, how he had become that very same man. But what choice did he have? If he wanted to provide any kind of future for his child, he had to work. Looking down, he absently played with an acorn, eager for any reason to break eye contact with his daughter. “About that ” he f inally said. “I can’t go this weekend.”

“But summer will be over soon,” Madeline said, her voice beginning to quiver. “I never see you.”

“I know,” he said, the words catching in his throat. Just then, an image of Giles, accordion folder in hand, f lashed through his mind—and he sat up straighter. “I wish I didn’t have to work, but you know, dreams don’t come for free, Madeline. You have to work for them. Nothing comes from nothing. You understand?” Even as the words came out of his mouth, Christopher hated himnone for using them. It was one thing for Giles to lecture him about working. There was no reason he should be saying these things to his young daughter.

To his shame and horror, the hope faded from Madeline’s eyes and she nodded slowly. “I understand,” she said softly. Then, picking up the acorns, she handed them to him. “I suppose you can keep these here then. Do you think you could read to me for a minute?”

“Oh,” Christopher said, startled by the request. That was usually something Evelyn did with Madeline before bedtime. “Well, yes. Of course,” he added. Reaching over, he pulled one of her school books from the pile and opened it to the f irst page. He had already started reading and therefore did not notice that Madeline had chosen her own book—a fairy tale.

“Actually, Father,” she said after listening to the dry historical narrative for a few moments, “I’m a bit tired.” As if to prove her point, she let out a very loud, very fake yawn and started to snuggle down under the covers.

Christopher narrowed his eyes at the yawn and opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. Getting to his feet, he awkwardly tapped his daughter on the shoulder and then turned to leave. “Good night, then,” he said, f licking off the light and throwing the room into darkness.

Behind him, Madeline said a quiet good night and turned over so her back was to him. With one last look at his daughter, Christopher sighed and shut the door.

“Sweet dreams, ”he added silently. The apology he wanted to offer stayed stuck in his throat. It was probably for the best. If he wanted his daughter to rest well, she didn’t need to hear any more hollow excuses. . . .

*　　*　　*

“I was thinking,” Christopher said. “You two don’t have to go tomorrow.”

He was sitting at the dining room table, eating the supper that Evelyn had reheated for him. The house was quiet, the only sounds coming from the clinking of his silverware against the china and the creaking f loor boards as the old building settled on its foundation. Evelyn sat at the other end of the table from her husband, not speaking. Christopher had tried to ignore the dark looks being sent his way until the silence had grown uncomfortable and he had f inally spoken.

“We’ve been over this,” Evelyn said, obviously unimpressed by her husband’s suggestion. “She needs to play, Christopher, not spend all her time studying.”

“Grayford Prep is the best,” Christopher replied, not looking up from his plate.

“She’s doing the reading.” Evelyn took a deep breath. She loved her husband. And had loved him practically from the f irst moment she met him. She loved that he was a hard worker, and dedicated and trustworthy. She loved that he cared about the future, and she loved that he wanted the best for his daughter. But what she didn’t love, what she couldn’t understand, was how he could also be so uptight and narrow-minded. The man she had met and fallen in love with all those years ago had had at least a spark of imagination. He had smiled and laughed and been willing to have fun and be spontaneous. But the man sitting across from her now? Sometimes she didn’t even recognize him. Her feelings aside, though, what mattered now was their daughter.

“She’d do anything to please you,” Evelyn said, trying to keep her voice level. The last thing she wanted to do was let her emotions get in the way. “But there are perfectly good schools in London that don’t require us to send her away. And you know she doesn’t want to go.”

Christopher looked up. “I went away at her age,” he replied matter-of-factly. “It’ll prepare her for the real world. Set her up for a career. Isn’t that our responsibility to her?” Evelyn shot him a look.

“What?” he asked.

Getting to her feet, Evelyn pushed back her chair and walked over to her husband. She sat down in front of him and took his hands in hers. “You don’t even like your job,” she said softly, looking into his eyes.

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“I didn’t go to Grayford and I actually like what I do,” Evelyn pointed out.

“Yes, but what you do is more of a hobby, isn’t it?” Christopher asked.

Evelyn raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. A spark of f ire f lared in her eyes and her cheeks f lushed. She loved her husband. With all her heart. But there were times—like now—when he said things that made her want to scream in frustration. Her hobby, as Christopher called her job, was so much more than that. It was something that helped pay the bills, but more importantly, it was something that actually inspired her. She loved going to work. She loved working with the team of engineers and architects and builders hired by the city. When she was at the off ice, people respected her opinion, they laughed at her jokes, they engaged in conversation. She was valued. At home, she was lucky these days if she and Christopher even had the chance to speak more than a few sentences to each other. She let out a deep sigh and curbed her full response. This was not the time to bicker. “Half the city was destroyed during the Blitz,” she said instead, trying to keep her tone neutral. “I’m trying to help rebuild it. That’s what the government grant is for.”

“You’ve got a grant from the government?” Christopher asked, sounding surprised.

“I told you this weeks ago,” Evelyn answered. She let go of her husband’s hands and put her own down in her lap. When she spoke again, she didn’t bother to try to hide the sadness. “This is what I’m talking about. Even when you’re here, you’re not here. You’re going to hit your limit. One day, you’re going to crack.”

“If I work hard now, then in the future life will be—” He lifted his fork to take a bite.

Evelyn didn’t give him the chance. She had heard enough excuses for one evening and her patience had run out. Yanking his food away, she glared at him. “Will be what?” she asked. “Better? Worse? We don’t care. We’d rather have you. This is life, Christopher. Life is happening right now. In front of you. Look, yoo-hoo!” She raised her arms in the air and waved them around, all the while making a goofy face. Christopher didn’t even crack a smile. Evelyn lowered her arms and sighed. “I haven’t seen you laugh in years.”

“I found that very amusing,” Christopher replied f latly.

Evelyn stood up. Picking up his plate, she began to move toward the kitchen but stopped before she got to the door. Turning, she looked back at her husband. He was still sitting, a look of confusion on his face. “I just want to see you have fun sometimes. Be a little silly. I didn’t fall for you because you were ‘set up for a career.’”

Getting up from his seat, Christopher sighed. “Please don’t make this harder on me,” he said softly. “I am sorry.” He turned and looked toward the front hall, where the suitcases stood, waiting to be put in the car in the morning. “I’ll take my suitcase back upstairs. I’m sorry I asked you to pack mine.” But when he walked over, he realized it wasn’t even there. “Where is mine?”

“I didn’t even bother,” Evelyn said. And with that, she turned and walked into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind her. In the front hall, Christopher remained, staring down at the suitcases. His wife’s purposeful lack of action on this matter spoke louder than any of the words she had said at the dinner table and hit harder than any punch she could have thrown. What had happened to them? How had it come to this? There was a time when they would have been able to f ind a way to laugh at the situation. There was a time when Evelyn would have been his source of comfort, when he would have spoken up, shared his fears of what would happen to his team. But now? Now there was no intimacy to their words, no passion behind their conversations. Christopher knew he was to blame for most of it. Evelyn was patient and kind and wonderful, and he knew she loved him. But he had kept her at an arm’s length for so long now that he didn’t quite know how to shorten the distance. What if, he thought as he f inally turned and headed upstairs to bed, I can’t get her back? What if she’s right? What if I can’t have fun anymore?

*　　*　　*

Christopher slept poorly that night. He tossed and turned, odd images f lashing through his mind, tugging at his memory and making him shout out in his sleep. Woods, eerie and ghostly, f illed the dreams—and through the thick fog that surrounded the trees and covered the f loor, he could just make out the barest outlines of bears and rabbits, donkeys and pigs.

He woke with a start, sweat covering his brow, and turned to where his wife’s warm body usually lay. But the far side of the mattress was cold. Opening his eyes, he saw weak sunlight f iltering through the curtains. Day had broken. From downstairs, he heard the sound of the front door opening and his daughter’s voice mingling with that of Evelyn’s. They were getting ready to leave.

Pushing back the covers, Christopher hastily threw on work clothes and headed downstairs. As he had guessed, the front door was open. Through it he could see the car waiting, the boot already packed with Madeline’s and Evelyn’s bags. The pair were in the living room and barely afforded him a look when he joined them.

“Well,” he said awkwardly. “Have a nice time.” Reaching down, he tried to give Madeline a hug but her body was stiff in his arms, so he just gave her a quick peck on the cheek and a few pats on the back.

In return, the little girl gave a weak nod and started to walk away. But she paused. Turning back to him, she handed him a folded-up piece of paper. “I love this drawing of yours,” she said, her voice soft. “Maybe you could put it next to mine?” At his nod, she smiled weakly and then headed outside.

Evelyn waited for her to be out the door before saying her own cold, quick good-bye to Christopher. He wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not, but the quick peck on the cheek and brief pat on the back that showed no warmth or emotion felt like an unspoken punishment for how he had handled his own good-bye—how he had handled everything. Without another word, Evelyn followed her daughter out the door. Christopher went and watched as they both got in and drove away.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, raising a hand in farewell. But he knew it was too late. No apology would make up for him missing this weekend. With a sigh, he turned and headed back into the house. Entering the kitchen, he lifted his briefcase and placed it on the counter. The teakettle began to squeal and he absently made himnone a cup. Then, with his trademark eff iciency, he opened the briefcase and scanned the contents to make sure he had everything he would need for the task at hand. Pulling the paper Madeline had given him from his pocket, he unfolded it. To his surprise, looking back at him from the page was a drawing of his old friend Winnie the Pooh.

A jolt shot through him and his odd dreams from the night before came back. Goose bumps covered his arms as he stared down at the bear. He hadn’t thought of him in years. Yet seeing the image now, he felt like he could almost hear the bear, smell the Hundred-Acre Wood. A slow smile began to spread over his face. . . .

And then, out in the front hall, the grandfather clock chimed loudly. Christopher startled, his smile disappearing. He put the drawing down and, grabbing his briefcase, hurriedly headed toward the front door, bumping the table as he went. A small jar of honey, left out and open from Madeline’s breakfast, fell over on its side. Unaware of the spill, Christopher exited the house, slamming the door as he went.

In the kitchen, the honey jar began to roll, sent into motion by the vibration of the slamming door. Honey spilled out, oozing over the wooden table and then onto the drawing of Pooh. A moment later, it crashed to the f loor, the sound of pottery oddly loud in the now quiet house. . . . XfvyfhOOrn0ntj2v8mZcuPgVarZAQlTlAw+PrR24QjoRRPr2xMycPFcEAXOBTUT7