Luuk’s hands stretched around the gift-wrapped flower pot, the orange flower heads bouncing as he strode along the sterile corridor behind his father.  He raised the pot to show his dad how his fingertips almost touched on the other side. ‘Look,’ he said, as the dancing orange heads caught his attention again. ‘Merry Gods!’ ‘Marigolds.’ Luuk held the pot close his chest.  ‘… and in Vlaams?’ ‘Goudsbloem,’ Nick replied, and stopped to face his son. He brushed at Luuk’s sandy hair with his fingers, tidying it as best he could. It still amazed him how scruffy a six-year-old could get after a few hours, even on the last day of…