We were to follow the line — what could be simpler, right? But then which line, and if the white line what would we be circling and where and was there a way out?
The starting point seemed to matter most. The yellow line the safest, solidest, the angles sharpest. If we ended at the tip of opposite tines, staring across a cloudy abyss, shouting at each other's echoes, it wasn't like we couldn't go back, despite my rules, despite the rain, despite the lateness of the day.