prelude
calais, maine
It was nothing like the southern border towns; to begin, the air bore a fragrant chill even in July and the people were fatter and paler, though no less toughened at the edges, beards and frowns violently ground with sandpaper.
From the waterfront, deserted at this time of morning, Anna could see the other side: matching church, brick storefronts, only the Canadian flag serving as distinction. Part of her wanted to take her passport and cross, run to it with her arms outstretched and her lungs bursting for air, in fact, never turn back to her birthright and the still-blank papers on her dashboard.
It took all of her willpower to stay on that side of the river, to disappear back into the small-town anonymity - the precious gift only granted to outsiders - and stumble back into her car, drive on to whatever gesture of grand Americana followed this - stay on that side of the border and drown, allow her chest to swell up with saltwater as the sea levels rose: to swallow first New York City and finally her.
