Hakon.

From the room where he lives to the workshop it is three hundred meters. He drives them. Also on the days when the ground is dry, and also when somebody walking down the same street gets there before him. The vinyl on the passenger seat came loose a long time ago and he has it patched with electrical tape: whoever rides along takes the snag on their pant leg on the way out, and nobody remarks on it anymore. The van stays parked in front of the door until the next job.

His mother, Solveig, works the light season in the dining hall at the base. Her own reach the coast in May and leave in August, and she goes with them. The day before, she leaves Hakon the key to her house and the fridge full. The first two winters she used to ask him if he was coming; not anymore. Last August the only thing she said on her way out was that the freezer was making a noise. He checks it every year before she goes: it is the gasket. He tells her every time, and the next August she tells him again.