The Cartographer's Apology

The map arrived on her desk via courier with no sender address. It was printed on paper that predated paper. The country it depicted had no name — only borders.

Every river on the map moved when she looked away. When she caught one mid-shift, it froze, embarrassed, then slowly resumed its new course.

She packed only what the map showed she would need: a compass that pointed south-southwest instead of north, a canteen, and a pencil that had run out of eraser.

The border crossing was a stone arch in the middle of a field. On her side: grey sky. Through the arch: a blue she didn't have a word for.