Moomer believed that happiness came in small things. If you couldn’t lift it yourself, then it was too unwieldy, too weighty. You should be able to pack happiness into a rucksack. But happiness was also infinite. The hills were happiness and you couldn’t lift them.
Moomer packed his tent into a rucksack and walked for miles. When he set up the tent he would look at the ground: at the grass, the earth. Inside the tent was a warm, orange glow. The breeze whispered through the canvas. He fell asleep. Surely their world could not touch him – not now, there.