We are sitting in Juliet's room. Juliet is spinning the globe on the desk, quickly enough to blur the land into the blue, the world spinning at terrible speed and in the wrong direction. With her eyes closed, she reaches out with a fingertip and brings it slowly to a stop under pressure. She does not open her eyes.

"We could go here," she says.

Her finger is leveled at the gentle blue of the Pacific, touching down in the middle of that wilderness. I imagine a small isle there, the simple foods of fish and fruit, the quiet when the winds are low, the lashing rains when they are not.

"I do not know if I can swim," I tell her.

Her eyes open, and she frowns at her finger. She sits down quickly into the chair, angry at the globe. "Too much water," she says. "We could head into the mountains."

"I could take a horse, perhaps," I tell her. "We don't know how to drive."

"Marco has been teaching me a little," she says. It is new to me. "I can't do so well enough to know when I am wrong."

We look at the globe for some time. All the world is there, so small upon her desk. On that little ball, everything is so close to us. So much is in reach.

Jacobo has gone.