Stavanger Bay "-- you look like somebody just walked over your grave.”

As the sun sank it cast a red glow to the horizon, and the sky around it was banded with bruising color like the settling layers of a drink. It was clear why they called it the magic hour.

Pier was a philistine and paid no mind to the sunset - his eyes glazed over as if he was in a cubicle instead, watching the minutes spill through his hands like water.

But the dim figure of a stranger on the shore caught his attention. He made his way closer, stumbling in the sand of the shallow downwards slope. The ground beneath him was scalloped and dimpled with footprints and wind.

He barked once, low and restrained, to announce his approach.