PETIT-MAI, BAIE-TRINITÉ. First night on the road, the vacation’s last lapse. There’s not yet any- one to tame, there’s no village to discover. Just the sound of the sea from the open windows. Behind my bed and breakfast are boulders over which I have long walked. And there, juni- per bushes, soggy-footed irises, and the almost-full moon over the Saint Lawrence. The air is so soft I could lie in the moss at the foot of the little wooden cross and sleep ‘til morning.

On the road, I lived a hundred lives in a few hours. Until Quebec City I ruminated over beginnings, leave-takings, breakups. In silence. From the stanch cockpit of my too-new car. The car’s far too lavish for a trip to the reservation. It’s not just new; it doesn’t even exist yet. It’s next year’s model. I know nothing ...