SEVENTY-FOUR
From the cable-car platform at the top of the volcano, Magdalene watches the carriage sway powerlessly far below, the fog climbing towards it.
She returns her stare to the junction box.
‘I don’t know what a loose connection looks like,’ she says, pleading with me.
‘It’s just a wire that’s not connected to anything,’ I say. ‘Prod everything, until the wheels start to move again.’
Frazzled, she does as I say.