“You know,” Maika said, “I am having a really stupid sense of foreboding…”
We were standing by the glider; she was looking down at her feet and kept hitting the frozen sand with the heel of her boot.
I couldn’t think of anything to say in response. I wasn’t having any sense of foreboding, but overall, I didn’t like it here, either. I squinted and looked at the iceberg. It was sticking out above the horizon like a huge pile of sugar, like a blindingly white jagged fang, very cold, very static, very much in one piece, with none of those beautiful reflections and color gradations; you could see that it collided with this flat defenseless shore a hundred thousand years ago and intends to stick around for another hundred thousand, to the envy of all its siblings drifting in the open ocean.
