Another summer. 2100. For weeks now, Mateo dreams every night of returning to swim in the sea. On his favorite beach. He pictures himself at thirty, parking the car beyond the housing developments that arrived in the 2010s, the pine groves and the old blue house until they blend with the horizon. His cat prowls around the house, watching the old broken air conditioner. Mateo will take his pet with him. They will be safe. Or so he believes.
The night before, he lay awake: the only option offered was a bed under a tent, out on the street, which is where the unprivileged now sleep during Gandía’s tropical heat months.
Meanwhile, many miles away, Olivia takes a full Scottish, the complete Scottish breakfast, though she asks for potato buns, but they tell her that the next shipment won’t arrive for another week. Not even here, but Olivia has already learned to think about food without potatoes, sometimes without tomatoes, lettuce, or coffee. Now they have that artificial preparation that reminds her of childhood syrup. But she doesn’t intend to get angry; she contemplates as she and her husband climb into the car to keep driving across the Isle of Jura, in the Hebrides.
