Burning Down George Orwell's House

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Even standing still, finally, Ray Welter’s body remained in motion and subject to inner tidal forces beyond his control. The rain felt more like the idea of wetness than anything resembling drops and it made its way inside his coat and new boots. Everything ached. He struggled to recall with any certainty what the word dry referred to. The rain fell upward. He wanted to cry.

The journey had been a thirty-six-hour nightmare spent suffocating in an airplane seat, riding in a bus on the wrong side of the road, sailing, and hitchhiking — and he still had to wait for what looked like a five-minute ride over to the Isle of Jura. A talkative, red-faced woman had dropped him off at the ferry terminal. “You might as well give me that fancy wristwatch of yours,” she had said. “You certainly won’t be needing it out here.” At least that was what he thought she said. The accent would take some getting used to. “And you just wait till you get ahold of these paps.”

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