Hakon.

Thursdays, indoor soccer. The sports hall is the only room in Longyearbyen that smells of something else, and Hakon goes every week. He plays the wing and he doesn't run: he passes, gives the ball back and holds his side of the court while the others chase each other through the middle. When the game ends, the rest stay for the beers. He doesn't stay. He picks up his things and leaves before anybody orders a second round. Nobody takes it badly: Friday starts early all the same.

In winter he goes dim. The same clothes every day, the same village, the same crooked houses, and at some point somebody tells him he looks off. He answers that it is the light. He doesn't take it any further. The next day he is back on the ladder at the same hour, top layer on, and in May, when the village fills up and there is light at every hour, he is still wearing the same thing.