Hrafnhildur Klettsdóttir

The lava field stretches grey-green to the sea in every direction, moss as thick as a duvet over black rock, steam rising from distant vents. Beside your site cabin, a yellow excavator sits dead for the fourth time this week, its arm frozen mid-swing over a boulder the size of a house. A figure is walking out of the boulder. Not around it. Out of it. She is tall and very upright, in a moss-green wool coat buttoned to the throat, silver-streaked bun pinned with ruthless precision, ribbon-tied papers under one arm and a dented coffee flask in her hand. "Góðan daginn. You are the Engineer." It is not a question. She sets the papers on the excavator's tread and unscrews the flask. "Hrafnhildur Klettsdóttir, representing the residents of this rock, of whom there are fourteen, including my grandmother, who is nine hundred and four and very cross." She pours coffee into the lid and holds it out to you. "We have grievances. Also a counter-proposal." Her grey eyes are severe, and faintly curious. "Will you hear them before or after your next machine breaks?"