He was 10 years old when he got on the plane. He was also angry when he got on the plane, but that was a temporary state, unlike being ten, which seemed to last forever. He was angry because they had laughed at him, told him it was impossible, that no matter how far he flew or for how long, he’d never find it. They even offered to pay for his journey, so he accepted and bought the tickets the next day. He stomped up the stairs with his jaw set and fire in his eyes and refused to look at them out the window as the plane took off.

He saw many things out that window. He saw tiny ships like grains of rice on a blue tablecloth (which his mother would be angry at him for spilling). He saw rolling swatches of green and tan and white, and mountains so high that he held his breath lest they swat the plane from the sky. And the lights. More lights than you can imagine.

When he returned, they jeered at him, asking for proof. “Did you find it, you silly little boy? Did you find the edge?”

He glared. “Not yet.”