The next morning, at breakfast, they didn’t argue, they ate, as usual, drank their coffee. Daddy slurped a little, the way he usually did, as if nothing had happened.

“The water ouzel’s babies are going to die,” I said suddenly. I looked at Mommy, addressing her.

“What?” she said.

“The freshwater pearl mussels too. Some of them are more than a hundred years old.”

“Signe?”

“And Sønstebø, do you know how he feels? His summer farm will be underwater, where will the sheep graze now? His place is 150 years old. For 150 years his family has had animals up there. Where are they supposed to go now?”

Nobody answered, so I shouted: “WHERE ARE THEY SUPPOSED TO GO NOW?”

They sat there, gaping, both Mommy and Daddy.

Finally Mommy started talking. She made the same excuses—better schools, a new old folks’ home, a swimming pool.

“A swimming pool,” I said. “I would rather swim in Lake Eide.”

She tried again. She talked about the hotel, Hauger Hotel, which could barely make ends meet, how good it would be for us, for the hotel, and for the family.

But I interrupted her then and now I didn’t stop, I spewed it out, as if I still hadn’t finished vomiting. The river, I said. People have come here to see the river, see the rainbow, which is always there, to go fishing for salmon, and watch the snow melting in the spring. And the fish in the river, where are they supposed to go, and what about the water that’s released out into the fjord, it will be cold as ice, are you aware of that? And the water ouzel, what will happen to the water ouzel when there is no longer any waterfall—its nest, where will it build it, and all the stone you will dig up, it will take over, huge boulders. It used to be green, now it’s a scree. All the animals here and all the plants, they live around the river, around the River Breio, and you think you can just take over and do what you want with it? It’s a river, it’s nature, it’s birds, insects, plants—now there will just be scree and pipes and tunnels there, stone and steel, stone and steel.

“Everything will disappear,” I said. “Everything we love will disappear. And it’s your fault.” I almost couldn’t talk now. I leaned forward. “You destroy everything.”

Daddy said nothing, just looked at me across the breakfast table, over the hard-boiled eggs and smoked salmon—now he would have to say something soon, I thought, he would certainly have to finish what he’d started.