Of Fire and Dogs, continued

5:00 a.m. I’m the only person roaming the streets. Something tickles the back of my neck. I pray that it’s my hair—unkempt and greasy after a 22-hour-walk. A pillar of fire dazzles me from the left. The flares lace the night sky with a purplish glow. The column supporting the flare looms blacker than the deep ocean waters behind it. It’s a fantastic sight. But I may have tacked glory onto an ordinary factory chimney due to my exhaustion.
I’ve been circling this town, Cee for the last two hours, trying to find the way out to Finisterre. Previous sections of the Santiago Trail, Europe’s oldest pilgrimage route, had had bright yellow arrows marking the way. But Cee is a polished beach suburb full of fancy bungalows. I suppose the residents found the arrows too rough. Instead, there are subtle blue and white signs that blend in perfectly with the darkness. I don’t have a flashlight.
Most pilgrims don’t attempt to walk the 100km between Santiago and Finisterre in one day. After all, the purpose of the trail is spiritual fulfillment, not speed. Other pilgrims walking a reasonable distance in the daylight would find the lack of yellow arrows disappointing at most. As for me, I’m left utterly lost. I wish the guys I had planned the 100km attack with were here, so we could swap lies about how chipper we still feel. Yet, my solitude isn’t unpleasant; I bask in the melancholy. If only I could feel my ankles.
I had thought that the cosmos was on my side when I escaped a pack of dogs by hurling a pack of sausages, and then running away in the opposite direction. But I suppose the heaven rightly hates the unprepared. I give up looking for signs. I’m walking along a low white wall that separates the beach from the town, my phone held out at my sides as if I’m still hoping that its light will catch something. I’ve already searched this section five times.
I kick the wall, and see a sign: Finisterre, 10km.
It’s 5:30 a.m. Soon, the sun will rise, and my phone won’t be my only source of light. I’ll be able to find the way. Finisterre is only three hours away. Perhaps the universe is on my side. Unfortunately, the universe has a terrible sense of timing. I can’t take another step. I hobble off for the bus stop, vowing to bring a flashlight next time.