There’s nothing to say that she’s on a sunny beach in Italy, sipping a cocktail and dancing, wearing a colourful summer dress.

There’s nothing to say she’s in Canada, starting a new life with Björn, free of debt and trouble.

There’s also nothing to say that she’s in someone’s spare cosy bedroom, watching TV and waiting for the right moment to make an appearance.

There’s nothing that suggests she’s alive anywhere.

Blood on the door and piss in the back of the car tell us that she’s dead. My little big sister, the one I was supposed to look after, is dead.

I’m feeling even more faint, feet off the ground, no balance. I feel like I’m falling.

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Áróra could only admire her mother’s strength as she watched her go up the escalator at the airport. Violet had called her early that morning, saying that she had booked herself a flight home, that she needed to be in her own space to regain her bearings. She wanted to be where she could sleep in her own bed and get a decent cup of tea. Endless Icelandic coffee wasn’t doing her any good. Back home she had her sister and a friend next door who would look out for her.

She had seemed relaxed when Áróra picked her up, sad but composed; much more collected than when Áróra’s father had died. This had to be something that came with age, a kind of resilience, and a certainty that the passage of life and death would not be controlled.

Áróra’s own feelings were different. An insatiable restlessness fizzed inside her, desperate to be unleashed. She felt an intense need to know what had become of her sister, a need to do something, to deal with things herself. She had bought a map of the south-west of the country, divided it into squares and numbered all the rarely used tracks and pathways. If she were to drive along every one, a few every week, as she looked around, she would at least be doing something. It wasn’t that she expected to drive past her sister’s body, her thoughts weren’t that far removed from reality. But as long as she rattled along the twisting gravel roads at least she would not be sitting idle.

Áróra wept as she hugged her mother, who asked why she wasn’t coming as well. Áróra felt that she wasn’t able to. She simply couldn’t consider going. It felt as if the country itself was holding on to her, the country that somewhere already held on to Ísafold.