The mountains will ground him, he thinks. Root him somehow.

At Deerfoot Trail, he turns south then exits westbound onto the Trans-Canada Highway, a single road laid across the country, connecting the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, like an artery across a massive body. Behind him, the city recedes and ahead, the fields of snow spread themselves open on either side. The mountains are still hundreds of kilometres away, but he feels as though he could reach out and touch them from here.

He keeps his eyes focused on the solid white line that divides the highway in two. Soon, speed turns to stillness. He feels as if he isn’t moving at all, as if he’s suspended in the landscape. He reaches into the dry-cleaning bag and his hand falls on a CD. He lifts it out and glances at the cover. Kenny Rogers & Dolly Parton, Greatest Hits. He rubs the disc on his chest, slips it into the stereo’s socket, and presses play.

Chapter 22

MANSOOR HEARS THE CRACK first. Like a gunshot that ricochets across the open field. The back of his foot plunges down. His body falls backward and then straight down as if the earth opened its jaws and swallowed him whole. He flails his arms frantically, gasping, instinctively trying to hold his briefcase out of the water as if it were filled with valuable documents instead of useless items. Ice crackles and breaks. His clothes balloon with water. When he touches the bottom of the pond, he tries to stand up and steady himself. His feet slide on rocks. He slips and falls several times. When he finally stands up, he is waist-deep in icy water. He pushes through the slush, portaging his briefcase above him like a canoe. He finds his way to the edge of the pond. He crawls out. He beaches himself on the snow and tries to catch his breath.

As he lies there, an airplane arcs across the sky like a firefly across a dark field. For a moment, this shift in perspective gives him immense pleasure. A large machine made so small. But then it occurs to him that he too has been reduced. He is just a dot in this darkness. How easy it would be to disappear. He quickly replaces these thoughts with facts. An airplane is massive. It weighs several tonnes, yet it flies, carries hundreds of passengers, circumnavigates the earth thousands of times. A tireless explorer.

Mansoor stands up. His legs feel heavy. His clothes and mukluks have begun to freeze. He turns back to the road. The car’s hazard lights still blink in the distance. Should he return to the car? Or continue to the farmhouse? They are equidistant apart from here, he thinks, though he cannot be sure. But the chances of someone driving by at this hour, he reminds himself, are slim. He picks up his briefcase and continues toward the farmhouse.

A few minutes later, his breath turns shallow and he begins to shiver. His briefcase slips from his hand into the snow. “Leave it, Visram. You can come back and get it in the morning when it’s light out….No, take it now.” He bends down to pick it up, but stumbles. He falls to his knees. He pushes up and starts again. “Just a little longer,” he tells himself, willing his body to cooperate. He keeps his gaze on the farmhouse and marches forward.