Bloor Line, waiting for passenger assist.

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, with dark blonde hair pulled back in a clip, patterned sleeveless top, and white skirt. She holds the bar, triceps flashing a trim grin.

The Golden Spruce: a True Story of Myth, Madness and Greed, John Vaillant (Vintage)

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It is midday and the offering of salmon and halibut had been received; scent and substance have blown away in the shifting wind that hustles now, southbound down the sound. The feast of flesh is followed by an offering of the spirit, and it is delivered in a box made from a single plank of cedar that has been notched steamed, and bent into a perfect cube.

Long strides down Yonge. Little lunge off curb against red, clip of heels hopping up and down side street to back entrance. Dangling keys, swinging bag, catching elevator in time. Next door neighbour pressing out smiles, Hello. Fiddles two floors, finds edamame. Sucks it empty. Toes tap. Bing and through door, purse thrown down. Into pristine kitchen, white scrubbed whiter. Plastic undressed and lid popped. Silence. She cradles the sashimi, feels her palm raw, and releases.