Driving warily, through a shrivelling skin of mist. High piercing whine. Red flare of siren.

Ian tears his eye away from the rearview mirror and turns on the radio. "And the legislative committee investigating patient deaths at the Institute ..." Reflexively, he changes the channel. "Devastated parts of the southern coast ..."

He pushes the cassette in. Immediate wail of blues guitar. And a deep voice singing "Bluueseheala ... All over the world ... Blues heal me blues heal you. Congas - the sound of the heart, healing.

As he drives by the river, he slows down, takes it in. Then along a winding road up a long hill and through two granite pillars. The Institute, a dungeon, a massive stone tomb, a monument to optimism and irony, leaks out of the fog. Ian locks his truck and walks through a small park, past a pond filled with water lilies, and stops at a bench that faces a fountain. Kim is sitting there.

"Hi. How're you doing today?"

Kim glances at Ian, looks back at the fountain. "Hi. This fountain is so beautiful ... so peaceful ... Have you noticed the little frog? Over there, half under the leaf ... He's quite careful. Hasn't moved since I've been watching him ... It helps if you camouflage what you feel."

A quickening of Ian's pulse. Muscles in the back of his neck tighten. He watches a patch of blue emerge like a butterfly from the chrysalis of mist.

"Lots of frogs have a stripe which runs through their eyes and down their back. It's to hide their eyes. Look, this frog has it too."

He looks. The black band thinned as it ran frontward from the eye and down; the rest of the band was hidden by the leaf and a greenish water.

Michael marches up the slate steps to where they sit. He drops his knapsack aganist a clump of white birch trees, nods toward Ian, then embraces Kim.

"It's always nice to see you."

Kim's lips part in a smile. Michael squats and rests on his heels. He runs his hands across the still wet grass, pulls a few blades out, and tastes the dew.

The smile dies. "I'm leaving."

Michael stands and takes Kim's hands in his. "When?"

"Soon, tomorrow I think. I'm worried about my kids."

"What about you?" Ian's concern is drowned in the dazzle of water voices.

Lets go of her hands, "What about them?"

"They're losing their sense of home ... I'm not getting better ... My husband dumped them onto my parents two weeks ago. He says he's had it. I don't blame him. It's me."

A swarm of gnats is scattered before a wind gust. The following air feels soft, almost floating. Ian

drifts. Gurgle, drip and splash of water. Gurgle, drip and splash: voices.

'Now.'

'No. Let's wait.'

'Wait?'

'For a better time.'

'You know that won't happen.'

'It will.'

'This is unfortunate.'

'What?'

'Let's wait.'

And a zephyr.

"Ian would you like to join us? We're heading down to the studio."

"No. Thanks. I can't, I'm late." Holding her eyes, "Kim, I'll miss you. I hope it all works out this time."

Vigilance and hope: the lidless eye of the sun.

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