Stavanger Bay to light a candle is to cast a shadow

At his retort, Miranda can't help but laugh, a soft pfft pushed out between his teeth and lip.

Knaven belonged to that hallowed domain where objects starting with “kn” lived: knife, knight, knowledge — all serrated edge, that silent k really did something to a word — and Miranda looks at him in a new light. He loved names, but not so much his own. They always expected a girl, which in retrospect might’ve been an advantage. 

He tilts his head and sits down with one leg over the other, all in one fluid motion. His posture is like a therapist’s and his body leans against the ground, giving like the back on an ergonomic chair. Where I come from, it's called Alaska, he says. You know, Alaska means ‘what the sea is directed to?’ It sounds so awkward in English. Shame… Frostbite, snow blindness, nights that lasted days and days that lasted nights, all fill his head until it’s on the verge of leaking out of his ears and what wets his eyes aren’t tears but the snowmelt off of Brooks Range. 

Standing up, he brushes the dirt off of his knees. Hey, Knaven, he begins. I was wondering if you’d like to try and go surf fishing down there. He gestures to the shore, glittering with foam and blue sky. Some crab would be nice. The sand gives way under him as he half-walks, half-slides down the slope and into the sunlight and the back of his neck pricks with the beginning of sweat.