You approach the city from the south.

The two turbofan engines of the plane have been guzzling kerosene for 100 minutes as you crossed the sea from there to the imminent here, the airport perched on a cliff, precarious from your vantage point on the right side behind the wing.

It’s still a shock when the flaps and slats open up. For a moment you think the wing is coming apart, a whimper of an end after 24 roaring hours of escape.

It’s raining down there. You’re unprepared. Overnight, as things fall into place behind you, a matrix that will last longer than you imagined when you set it in motion, the rain will change to snow. In the morning you’ll stand out in the circular driveway of the hotel in your boots stuffed with newspaper, blinking up into weather you have experienced before but have forgotten how to process.

Three suitcases stuffed with books wrapped in clothing. Six rolls of ISO 400 film. Nine tenths of a carton of black cigarettes with gold filter tips.

You’re flatfooted again. You’re running plays that won’t work anymore. You’ll catch on eventually.

The cold seeps under your collar.