My island seemed to be a sort of cloud-dump. All the hemisphere’s left-over clouds arrived and hung above the craters—their parched throats were hot to touch. Was that why it rained so much? And why sometimes the whole place hissed? The turtles lumbered by, high-domed, hissing like teakettles. (And I’d have given years, or taken a few, for any sort of kettle of course.) The folds of lava, running out to sea, would hiss. I’d turn. And they’d prove to be more turtles.