The cargo ship bobs in the water, the ice lying within. Tomorrow it will be shipped away, tomorrow it will disappear.

Magnus is behind it. He doesn’t have to be, yet he is, he is behind it and nobody cares.

I’m the only one who cares.

The cargo ship is right over there, no one is guarding it.

Magnus is responsible, and I am alone in this—but I am the only one who can destroy it.

I am nearly invisible—a small, gray woman wearing a knitted cap covered with fuzz balls, I am old, old as stone, like Blåfonna.

I can’t destroy everything, but I can destroy this.

I can’t shout about everything, but I can shout about this.

I can dump the ice in the ocean and disappear.

Chapter Four

David

Lou clung to me tightly as we walked from the Red Cross to Hall 4. Her sticky little hand did not let go of me. It felt like she had not let go of me since we left home. She never objected to anything, did everything I said and didn’t let go.

Being alone with a child is like being a person and a half. It is completely different from being alone with a girlfriend. A girlfriend is just as old as you are, or almost, anyway. She can satisfy her hunger pangs on her own. Make sure she’s hydrated. Change her underwear. She can hold you, hold you tightly, so she holds you up. She can carry half the burden. When you’re alone with a child you are always the one doing the holding.

The hall was located right behind the sanitary facilities. A huge, run-down factory, divided up into long corridors and small cubicles by old awning cloth that had been hung from the ceiling—striped yellow, blue, and red fabrics, cheerful colors.

There were beds in all the cubicles. Most of them were empty. The floor was clean and the doors were open—a refreshing draft cooled off the hall.

“Look,” I said. “Number thirty-two. That’s ours.”

Our own little nook, with two military-green cots, a metal cupboard, and a plastic box for storage. There were sheets on the beds and a bottle of antibacterial hand wash for both of us. Maybe there wasn’t enough water for handwashing.

“The walls are made of cloth,” Lou said, touching the striped awning cloth with her hand.

“Isn’t it nice? Like a theater,” I said.

“No. Like a tent. It’s like we’re on a camping trip,” Lou said as she finally let go of me. “This can be our camping table.” She pulled the plastic box out between the beds. “And this is the tablecloth.” She pulled her dirty handkerchief out of her pocket and placed it on the box.

I tossed our bag into the cupboard. It occupied only half the space.

Everything we owned in half a cupboard. I used to own an apartment, a small flat-screen television, a cell phone, easily fifteen T-shirts, at least seven pairs of pants, eight pairs of shoes, a heap of socks that were never matched and folded in pairs, a table, four chairs, a couch, curtains, cutlery, two good knives, a cutting board, a bed, two children’s beds, an entire shelf of books, a calfskin wallet, two potted plants that Anna took care of, three flower vases, bedding for four, a solid heap of towels, most of them faded from the wash, two warm jackets, three scarves, four hats, five caps, two half-empty bottles of sunblock, shampoo, dishwashing liquid, a dishwashing brush, a toilet paper rack, cleaning bucket, mop, seven washrags, a changing table, diapers, moist towelettes, two floor mats, a poster with a picture of Manhattan before the last rounds of spring flooding, a wife, two children . . .