The smell of sleep is in her hair, tinged with smoke from the campfire. It summons sweet thoughts of the nights just passed. I close my eyes; feel her soft curves of her body nestled against mine. My chest and buttocks molded into my lap, her icy feet cradled in mine. I imagine her smooth mocha skin and supple flesh underneath her clothes. I shiver. She stirs, carving deeper into my spoon, seeking refuge from the unforgiving cold of the taiga. I wrap her arm around her more tightly. Her fingers against mine.

My neck aches from staring too long at the night sky, waiting for shooting stars. The stars were like frozen firecrackers set against the deep dark blue of the manitoulin sky. The moon teased us with its fullness. And below, we mortals were contemplating the meaning of life over glasses of vodka soda and rum cola, with very little soda and very little cola. How foolish and contrived we must have seemed to immortal beings in the Heavens above.

The smell of wet grass seeps through the tent walls. Moisture has been formed on the sloping side of the tent, dripping in pockets. A cold drop falls upon my eyelid, crossing the bridges of my nose, sliding sown my check, an unexpected tear. I remember mornings like this back at China, waking up as if in a dream, a sense of displacement washing over me, far away from home, on a writing assignment in the countryside to uncover some truth buried beneath the violence, the broken bodies, and the blanket of lies. I remember how I’d quickly gather my wits about me forced by the urgency of my mission.

But here, everything is predictable. The campsite was cleared long before we came, the toilet bowls are neatly hidden by walls of hard plastic, and the sound of tires screeching belies the sense of isolation. Here, there are no hard truths to uncover; only those that lie follow inside our hearts. I allowed myself to linger in this state of stupor. There is time and space to think about how to make life more reluctant to humanity.