The silver light pierces the morning with silence. We have made it to a wild plain. The crossing is slow. My arms and legs burn from pushing through thick grass. I can see the other side from here, but it does not seem closer with the passing of the day. Sometimes at night, I close my eyes and imagine myself a wild horse, galloping across this wasteland. But in the morning, there is only more slowness. I hold my compass up to the sun, desperate for a sense of direction, but none comes, only a quiet confirmation that I am, indeed, heading North.