Lumpy clouds scud across the sun as the ferry chugs toward Bremerton. We've decided to ride the boat even though we have no good reason. The wind and the morning and fill us, and Sevario wraps his arms around me while the gulls sail alongside, looking for old French fries and other trash. The day is delicious, and I try to forget that we have only three left.
Then Sevario will return, fly to another continent--and that leaves me where?
"Misha, you need to do what's best for you. You need to make the decision," he said to me last night, and I thought about what's best for me. Kirkenes, and this constant hopping? Santiago, a sort of medium? Or here, in my old home? The rooms don't fit quite right, like a coat outgrown since last winter that still has a lucky tupence in the pocket.
What if I had only one permanent address, and a real job, with a paycheck and that bank account?
I'm not ready to do it. If Mom's still doing well, I'll book my flight to Norway.