In the morning there are crackly fish skins like shoe soles lying on the table in a fine dust of ammonia-smelling shards. A divot has also been carved into the butter and a bottle of lager emptied. She must have gotten up in the middle of the night and gone tearing through the freezer in search of harðfiskur, possessed by some weird mix of Þorgunna and the nameless, ox-tailed creature heard munching the dried fish in Eyrbyggja 53.
She shrugs, sweeps up the mess, and heads out for the local café. They are playing Björk.
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