The Unknown: The Red Line.
  So we were released from prison, finally, and we were given back our confiscated possessions—mostly 1500 copies of The Unknown and some cassettes. Marla, who had paid our bail in Anchorage with an Illinois Arts Council grant, had lined up some gigs in Seattle.

The drive back through Canada was solemn, meditative, indeed, if we had we observed Dirk more carefully, we might have called it religious. Dirk’s head had been shaved while he was in jail, he rode cross-legged, even while driving, and he spoke little. Our passage to Seattle had the aura of a pilgrimage, and Dirk seemed to regard our jail time not as a nuisance, but as a sort of confessional after which he was now absolved of all sin and part of his critical faculties.

We got across the border without incident.

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