A border is a line on a map, until it opens beneath you like a trapdoor.
Before dawn in the port of Trieste, a cargo vessel glides into the harbor, a phantom moving without a pilot. On deck, lights hum against the gloom. In the galley, a forgotten cup of coffee still steams, its taste as briny as the wind. But there are no footsteps on the ladder, no voice on the radio. By morning, the papers ...
