pulling in to port. a sort of gnawing sensation slips under my navel, and grows over the evening that ensues. The first night, we take a bus along an edge of the island, skirting the mountains, which shoot up menacingly besides us. My mind ranges from the soft-soled running shoes in the butt of my backpack to the ominous clouds squatting over the mountainous mounds. No one speaks much, and the question is hanging about all of us. Can we do this?

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