Story by Joanna McLeod Where do I start to tell this story? Five minutes to five thirty p.m.? That morning? The night before? Maybe I should start it on the midnight ferry, where we sat in a corner, near a mob of bikers, and I lowered my voice to read Douglas Coupland aloud. The bikers still listened in, some laughing, others annoyed at my encroachment on their territory. Later I laid down on the floor, the boat gently rocking, engines vibrating and humming beneath me, my head on my bag, and I slept.