That’s where I’m headed, but before I leave I have to check my suitcase, which is by my feet, make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. I try to open it, but the lid is stuck; the suitcase is held together by two straps. I fiddle with them. The leather of the straps is stiff between my fingers, I can’t get them undone, and I know the plane is departing soon, that there is only this one flight. And then I notice that I’m not wearing shoes. I can’t go all the way from here to the airport without shoes on—maybe there are shoes in the suitcase I can’t open. I lift it, take it with me, walk slowly across the bridge, continue across the haul road. It is full of sharp stones, big, hard stones that cut the skin on the soles of my feet. I balance my way forward, trying to find spots to put my feet, but my progress is slow, I am walking too slowly.

I wake up, look around me, the 360-degree gaze. The coast is clear, but I don’t close my eyes to sleep again; instead I sit up. I am here, but also still there, by the river.

I remember a walk, I was maybe nine or ten years old, Daddy and I were on a walk early on a Sunday morning along the River Breio. At first I was so happy, it had been months since we’d spent time together—he didn’t have the time any longer, or the desire. He was too busy arguing with Mommy, yelling at Mommy. Daddy had told me to stop shouting because you can damage your hearing, but now he was the one shouting and screaming.

But this morning I was allowed to accompany him. I woke up early and he was already on his way out. He was planning to go alone, he said, but when I pestered him, he gave in and let me come along. It was just the two of us. I think I talked a lot, tried to ask about things we saw, animals and plants, but he gave me single-word answers and I didn’t understand until later that it was because he really didn’t want me with him.

We followed the road along the fjord until we reached a fork. There hadn’t been a fork in the road there before, there had only been a single road, but now it forked into two roads. One of them, the old part, continued along the fjord, while the other followed the River Breio up the mountain.

The road up the mountain was rough and rocky, with deep ruts from heavy vehicles. It was a temporary road for construction. I hadn’t seen it before, only heard them talk of it, especially my father. The haul road. He used to spit the words out, as if they had an unpleasant flavor.

And it was an ugly road. I could see that now: an ugly stony road, which ruined the landscape it passed through, lined with hard stones. It was dirty and muddy—it tore the landscape in two.