‘Is everyone coming tonight?’ Rob asked me as we headed down the hill on one of those rare nights in Wellington, warm and still. ‘Yep, everyone’s coming,’ I replied.
“You’d better cross that out,” said my bossy dormitory mate. After all, she was older than me—nearly twelve—and much more knowledgeable about the etiquette of writing letters home.
There’s an absence of sound, the absolute quiet of a misty morning. It’s an education in physics, really—that sound can travel differently when the air is heavy with moisture.